The Ways of the World (20 page)

‘Who might know?’

‘If I were you, I’d start with Masataka Kuroda at the Japanese delegation.’

Of course. Kuroda. All roads seemed to lead to him. ‘I already know about Kuroda, Appleby. He knew my father. And he blames Lemmer for an assassination attempt against the late Tsar when he visited Japan in 1891.’

‘Good. No need for me to fill you in, then.’

‘If you think he’s such a promising source …’

‘Why haven’t I sounded him out about Lemmer myself? It’s a
fair question. The truth is there are limits to what I can do here in Paris. The French are a touchy lot and Downing Street doesn’t want anything done that might put their backs up. Openly mounting inquiries about Lemmer would soon have me treading on
le Deuxième Bureau
’s toes, I’m afraid.’

So, that was it. First Ireton. Now Appleby. They both wanted Lemmer. And they both wanted Max to do the finding.

‘There’s another issue,’ Appleby went on. ‘Kuroda plays his cards close to his chest. He’d tell me nothing, however nicely I asked. But you’re the son of Sir Henry Maxted, a man he admired and respected. As a matter of honour, he might be more forthcoming with you. If he proves to be, I could give you my expert advice on how to use any information you glean.’

‘You seem to be doing what you accused Ireton of, Appleby: arranging for someone else to do your dirty work.’

‘Ah, but, unlike Ireton, it’s because circumstances oblige me to.’

‘All right. I’ll see Kuroda. And I’ll report back to you. But I also want to see Corinne. Think you can arrange that for me?’

Appleby took a reflective puff on his pipe, then said, ‘I think I probably can, yes.’ His gaze drifted round the studio before returning to Max. ‘One thing.’

‘What?’

‘Go carefully, won’t you? I don’t want to have to escort Sir Ashley round the scene of your murder.’

‘No need to worry on that score. Ashley will think it’s suicide.’

TO ANY NEUTRAL
observer, along with almost all of the mourners, the funeral of Sir Henry Maxted would have appeared to pass as a textbook example of such ceremonies: dignified, orderly and respectful. The hymns and readings were well-chosen, the graveside observances well-handled. The old diplomat was seen off as diplomatically as he might have wished, with no mention of the circumstances of his death beyond their sudden and tragic nature.

Appearances, however, as so often, were deceptive. The presence of one of those attending gave George Clissold, as soon as he saw him, a sobering jolt. He communicated the news to his sister as they followed Sir Henry’s coffin out of the church at the end of the service.

‘Brigham’s here, Win,’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘Brigham. He’s among the mourners.’ George did not warn her against looking around to confirm the point. He knew she would never betray herself in such a way.

A nod of acknowledgement and a frown of puzzlement were the only visible reactions Lady Maxted allowed herself. But George was aware that she would be displeased, if not alarmed, by the turn of events. And already she would be considering how to deal with it.

Lionel Brigham remained, in his sixtieth year, a handsome figure of a man, perhaps, in fact, more handsome than he had ever been.
Greying hair and heavier smile lines suited his rugged features. He had not run to fat in middle age, thanks to indulging in a range of energetic pursuits when not pacing the corridors of power in Whitehall. Fencing, swimming and real tennis were three of those. Rumour would have added womanizing as a fourth. He had never married nor seemed inclined to. He was not the marrying kind.

He was acquainted with many of those attending the funeral, drawn as they mostly were from the retired ranks of the diplomatic service. He told them he had been sent from Paris to represent the F.O. and would be hurrying back to attend to his duties at the peace conference. He was a busy and important man. No one could have doubted that. He was not the retiring kind.

He had been four years ahead of George at Eton and George marvelled that what the fellow had been then he essentially still was: arrogant and easy to admire. George would ordinarily have enjoyed the company of such a man. But he was a protective brother for all his other faults. He did not intend to allow Brigham to upset Winifred any more than she was bound to be upset on such a day. He found a moment as the mourners moved away from the graveside after the committal to have a quick and quiet word with him.

‘Surprised to see you here, Brigham.’

‘Sorry I didn’t cable. Rather a last-minute decision as to who would come over.’

‘Odd you should be chosen, though.’

‘We go where we’re sent in the service, George. We’re not our own master.’

‘Strange. That’s exactly what I thought you were: your own master.’

‘How’s Winifred bearing up?’

‘As you’d expect.’

‘I’d like to speak to her before I return to Paris.’

‘You’ll see her at the house.’

‘I meant alone.’

‘That won’t—’

‘Tell her, George, there’s a good fellow.’ Brigham eyed him from close range. ‘And tell her it’s important.’

Max sat in a café in the Rue de Rivoli, his newly purchased fedora hanging with his coat on the nearby hat-stand, the knowledge heavy in his heart that at that very moment his father’s funeral was drawing to its sombre close in Surrey.

He sipped his coffee and drew on his cigarette as he worked his way carefully through the pages of his father’s diary. Appleby was right, damn him. It was merely a record of appointments which on their own revealed little. Corinne’s name appeared nowhere. The commonest entries related to meetings with either Ribeiro or Norris. Sir Henry had apparently met Ireton just twice. He had recorded and circled the tantalizing initials F.L. on Wednesday, 19th February, but nothing else that day to explain why. There might have been other meetings, of course – and with other people – he had not recorded. Many days were blank, especially in recent weeks. There was no clue as to what he had done in London earlier in the month, nor even confirmation that it was London he had gone to. With an irritated sigh, Max closed the diary and thrust it into his pocket. No wonder Appleby had been willing to return it.

He drained his coffee, stubbed out his cigarette, flung down some coins and went to fetch his coat and his brand-new hat. There was nothing he could do before the evening, when he and Morahan were due to pay an unannounced call on Kuroda, so hurrying was pointless. But he hurried nonetheless. Walking was better than sitting and thinking to no effect.

When he reached Place de la Concorde, he paused, waiting for a gap in the traffic before he crossed to the island in the middle of the square where the Egyptian obelisk stood. He became suddenly aware of a twitching at his sleeve and turned to find a young dark-skinned man dressed in various unmatching items of military uniform smiling at him and holding out his hand importunately.

Max guessed the man – hardly more than a boy, really, to judge by his build and complexion – was an Arab of some kind, most likely Algerian. He had seen more than a few like him begging on the streets, the residue of France’s colonial army. This one was
different, though: less downcast, less beaten. His smile was not so much ingratiating as interrogative.

It was cold and Max had no wish to linger. He doled out a few coins and moved on, receiving no thanks beyond a faint and somehow condescending inclination of the young man’s head.

Had he looked back, which he did not, he would have seen that the young man continued to watch him as he made his way to the far side of the square. And the ingratiating smile faded slowly from his face as he did so.

Halfway along the Champs-Elysées towards the Rond Point, Max tugged down the brim of his hat and turned up the collar of his coat to ward off the chill wind. As he thrust his hands into his pockets, he felt an unfamiliar object in one of them. He stopped, took off his glove and fished it out. It was a piece of paper wrapped around a small pebble. He had no knowledge of how it had got there, but immediately suspected the young Arab. He moved to the side of the pavement and carefully flattened it out.

When it lay open in his palm, he saw the message that someone had written on it in pencilled capitals: LEAVE PARIS OR DIE.

Max raced back to the Place de la Concorde, but the young Arab was nowhere to be seen. He scoured the square and the terrace of the Jardin des Tuileries in vain. The messenger had gone. But his message remained.

WINIFRED, LADY MAXTED,
seldom had occasion to visit the billiard-room at Gresscombe Place. It was reserved for gentlemen’s after-dinner entertainment, of which there had been little since before the war. Lionel Brigham had contested a few frames there in the days when he had been a frequent visitor to the house and perhaps it was for old times’ sake that he had suggested it as a rendezvous.

Most of the mourners still sipping sherry and swapping memories of Sir Henry Maxted in the drawing-room charitably assumed Lady Maxted had slipped away in order to compose herself after the stress and strain of the funeral. This was certainly what George led Ashley and Lydia to believe. ‘Give her ten minutes and she’ll be right as rain,’ he assured them, before heading off in search of some whisky. And he fervently hoped it would be so.

But George, of course, had no idea what Brigham wanted to discuss with Winifred in private. Neither did Winifred, though various disturbing possibilities did occur to her as she made her way along the corridor that led to the billiard-room. She regarded his presence at the funeral as both suspicious and insensitive, which sadly did not conflict with what she knew of his character.

He was leaning over the table with his long, supple fingers steadying the cue for some ambitious snooker shot when she entered the room. As he pulled away and stood upright to greet her, she was reminded of all the reasons she had been drawn to him in the first place. He was a handsome devil and was well aware of it.
He was the kind of man women were attracted to, in part because they knew they could not trust him.

‘Winifred,’ he said, bestowing upon her his rakish smile. ‘It’s good of you to spare me a little of your time.’

‘Why are you here, Lionel?’

‘To tender the Foreign Secretary’s official condolences on the passing of a distinguished diplomat. Along with my personal condolences, of course. Henry’s death must have been a shock for you.’

‘A letter would have sufficed.’

‘That would have seemed cold and unfeeling in view of our …’ his eyes twinkled beneath his bushy eyebrows as he selected a suitable phrase ‘… old association.’

‘It would have seemed appropriate to me.’

‘Then I’m sorry to have disappointed you.’

‘Really? I find it hard to believe you’ve ever been truly sorry for anything.’

‘A word of advice, Winifred, now you’ve embarked on widowhood. Don’t burden yourself with regrets.’

He laid the cue on the table and took a few steps towards her. She stiffened, though she did not retreat. She could recall only too well the thrill of his touch – the electric tremor that had coursed through her body when he had folded her in his arms. But there were other sensations to recall as well. And ultimately they were stronger.

‘Do you remember that day—’

‘I remember every day,’ she cut in. ‘From the beginning to the end.’

‘Ah, but perhaps we haven’t yet reached the end.’

‘What do you want, Lionel?’

‘A word … about James.’

‘He couldn’t be with us today.’

‘For his father’s funeral? That’s shabby by any standards. Someone said he was ill. I didn’t disabuse them of the notion, which I thought was good of me. Considering I know he’s in Paris, digging into the circumstances of Henry’s death.’

‘If you know where he is, why did you ask?’

‘I didn’t.’ Brigham treated her to a superior smile. ‘What I said was that I wanted to talk to you about him.’

Winifred gave him a look that spoke of her impatience and her distaste in equal measure. ‘Please come to the point, Lionel. I must rejoin the mourning party soon or it will look odd.’

‘And we can’t have that, can we? Very well. I’m concerned James may blunder into danger while he goes looking for a murderer who doesn’t exist. Word has it Henry kept sinister company in Paris. The sort of people who don’t take kindly to being cross-questioned.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Call him off. In his own best interests.’

‘You surely don’t think he’d come home at my bidding? He risked his life every day in the Royal Flying Corps. I honestly believe he enjoyed it. The more perilous a situation is, the more he seems to relish it.’

‘James isn’t up against the likes of the Red Baron in Paris, Winifred. These people don’t play by gentlemanly rules of combat.’

‘You speak as if you’re personally acquainted with them.’

‘I keep my ear to the ground. It’s what I’m paid to do.’

‘You’re not paid to be concerned for James’s welfare, though. So, why are you?’

‘You know why.’

The old scandalous whisperings were almost audible in Winifred’s ears. Brigham had always seemed indifferent as to whether they were accurate. He had left it late – far too late, she was tempted to say – to confront the issue. ‘You are not James’s father, Lionel.’

‘Is that so? My arithmetic must be defective, then. But I don’t think it is. I took the trouble to check his date of birth in RFC records, you see. The fifth of May, 1891. He must have been conceived in late July or early August, 1890. Henry was in Tokyo all summer. But you—’

‘I know where I was.’

‘Yes. And I know where I was too.’

‘You’re not his father.’

‘There was no one else, Winifred. You didn’t have the spirit for that kind of game.’

‘You make that sound like an insult.’

‘The only insult here is to my intelligence. I’d hoped for better from you than a blank and illogical denial, I must admit.’

‘Why would it matter to you even if it were true? I doubt you’ve ever faced a responsibility in your life unless you were forced to. Certainly not a paternal one.’