Kendalls hand trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette. He was in the grip of an unfamiliar emotion: it took him a moment to realize that it was hope.
Two
After church on Sundays, the Kendalls called on Aunt Vida. Stephen said it was just like their father to pay his respects to God and Mammon on the same morning.
Aunt Vida lived in Richmond. The Kendalls went there by train from Twickenham. Mr and Mrs Kendall walked together from the station, together but never arm in arm. The children trailed behind. Hugh always walked the short distance to Richmond Green with his head held unnaturally high. This was because his mother considered that a clean Eton collar was pleasing in the sight of the Lord and Aunt Vida; it chafed his neck mercilessly until it wilted.
Wilmot House was in a small street near Maid of Honour Row. Prim black railings and a narrow strip of flowerbed separated the pavement from the redbrick Georgian façade. A brass knocker shaped like a mermaid twinkled incongruously on the chaste, olive-green front door.
Hugh always enjoyed the change of atmosphere when he stepped into the house. Outside, everything was bright and regular; but the interior was dark and full of secrets. The hall was nearly a foot below ground level outside. It was stone-flagged and panelled in dark oak. The glass in the fanlight was green with age, which gave the hall the appearance of being under water.
Mrs Bunnings, the housekeeper, answered Alfred Kendalls knock. She gave a nod and held the door open as the family trooped into the hall.
Mrs Kendall said, with an apologetic twitter, And how is Mrs Lane today?
As well as can be expected, madam, Mrs Bunnings said grimly. The mistress is in the drawing room.
She disposed of the Kendalls hats and coats and announced them ceremoniously. In the unimaginably far-off days of her youth, Mrs Bunnings had been a parlour maid in the household of a baronet; an Edwardian stateliness still distinguished her public manner.
Aunt Vida awoke with a start as they filed into the drawing room. As usual, she was wearing a shapeless grey dress beneath a thick grey cardigan. Around her neck were three gold lockets, each with its own chain. Each contained a photograph and a lock of hair: one was a shrine to the late Mr Lane, the others to their sons, George and Harry, both of whom had been killed at Passchendaele.
Alfred Kendall shook her hand and mumbled a vague enquiry about her health into his moustache. She didnt bother to reply. The rest of the family kissed her cheek; it smelled of lavender water and felt like tissue paper.
Run along to the kitchen, Aunt Vida said to Hugh and Meg. Give them a glass of milk, Bunnings, and then you can bring in the sherry.
Meg and Hugh followed Mrs Bunnings out of the room. Until last year, Stephen would have gone with them. But when he left school, Mrs Bunnings started to call him Mr Stephen rather than Master Stephen; she made it quite plain that he was now too grown-up to have the freedom of her kitchen.
In her own domain, Mrs Bunnings became a different person. She told jokes; she gossiped; she pried indefatigably into their lives. She also gave the children scones, which was contrary to Mr Kendalls strict instructions that their appetites should not be spoiled.
She left them for a moment to take the sherry and biscuits into the parlour. When she got back, she tapped Hugh on the shoulder.
Whats all this, young man? I heard your dad saying youd been expelled from that school of yours.
Hugh flushed. I have. Someone stole some money and they thought it was me. But it wasnt I promise.
Meg dabbed at the rim of milk around her lips with a handkerchief. Father gave him eight of the best, she said ghoulishly. He had nothing to eat on Friday night and he was only allowed bread and water yesterday.
Mrs Bunnings snorted. I know who Id beat if I had half a chance. Have another scone, you poor lamb.
When alone with the children, the housekeeper never made any secret of her dislike of their father. Miss Muriel, Mrs Lanes niece, had been as happy as the day was long before she married him: and look at her now. Their father only bothered with these weekly visits because he wanted to get his hands on Mrs Lanes money. Mrs Bunnings didnt know why he troubled to come since, when he got here, he just sat there and grunted.
What will he do with you now? Has he found you another school?
I dont know. Hugh avoided Mrs Bunningss eyes. His fingers traced the reassuring shape of Hiawatha in his trouser pocket.
Father says that if Hugh was a few years older hed pack him off to Australia and have done with him. Under the table, Meg put her hand on Hughs knee; it made him shiver. He really means it.
Hugh shifted uneasily. Sitting down was still uncomfortable and he wished Meg would remove her hand. Mrs Bunnings might see. The long, low kitchen was like a hothouse; Mrs Bunnings had insisted on keeping the old-fashioned range. The heat, the food and even the sympathy combined to make him feel drowsy.
A bell jangled over the door. It was precisely twenty minutes after they had entered the house. Mr Kendall always timed their visits with meticulous care. At the end of the twenty minutes, he would stand up and announce they had to be going, usually when his wife was in mid-sentence.
Mrs Bunnings escorted the children back to the drawing room to say goodbye. Mr Kendall was waiting impatiently by the door. Hugh had often wondered why his father seemed always to be in a hurry to be somewhere else; when he reached the somewhere else, he was always in a hurry to leave there as well.
For once, Aunt Vida seemed reluctant to let them go. She made Mr Kendall make up the fire for her. She suddenly remembered that she wanted her niece to get her some wool; the commission involved a great deal of explanation, during which Mr Kendall jabbed angrily at the fire with the poker. He consulted his watch.
We shall miss the train if we dont hurry.
Off you go then. Aunt Vida paused. Hugh, come over here. I want a word with you.
Alfred Kendall turned in the doorway.
Hugh can run after you, Aunt Vida said firmly, before he could protest. Please close the door behind you.
Kendall gnawed his lower lip but said nothing. He shut the door behind him; with a little more force, it would have been a slam.
Aunt Vida beckoned Hugh towards her. I hear youve been in hot water again.
Hugh nodded. There was nothing he could say.
Bring me my handbag. Its on the bureau.
Like his father, Aunt Vida was always giving orders; Hugh found it odd that he wasnt afraid of her. His parents and Meg were afraid of her even Stephen was wary of what he said and did in her company. He fetched her the battered black bag and stood patiently while she rummaged in it. He watched her face with fascination: her skin was a maze of wrinkles; there were more cracks than surface.
Suddenly she glanced up at him. Dont you know its rude to stare at a lady? Hey?
Hugh grinned. He heard the front door closing with a bang; Mrs Bunnings was glad to see the back of her visitors.
Aunt Vida nodded in the direction of the sound. Dont let it get on top of you, she said gruffly. These things pass. Worse things happen at sea, not that thats much consolation. When your father asks why I kept you, say I was telling you to be a better boy in future. Here, hold out your hand.
Hugh looked down. On his palm was a half-crown.
Kendall? Colonel Dansey stared with distaste at his plate; it was difficult to tell whether it was the omelette or the name of Kendall that was responsible for the irritation in his voice. Who the devils he?
Hes a glass importer, sir. Michael Stanhope-Smith sipped his burgundy appreciatively. Early in their acquaintance, he had learned that it was a mistake to deluge Uncle Claude with information; Dansey himself never made that mistake and he expected those who worked for him to be equally sparing.
Michael glanced over his shoulder to make sure that no one was in earshot of their table. The dining room at the Savoy was still moderately crowded, but it had definitely passed the Sunday lunchtime peak.
Dansey arranged his knife and fork neatly on his empty plate. He adjusted the dark-rimmed pebble glasses on his large, curved nose. You know that I dont encourage people to indulge in recruiting off their own bat. Recruit in haste and repent at leisure.
Michael flushed. He was twenty-five; he was two stone heavier and six inches taller; but Uncle Claude could still make him feel like a schoolboy who hadnt washed behind the ears.
I havent actually interviewed him yet. I telephoned him yesterday; weve arranged to meet tomorrow.
I see. And why this unseemly haste, may I ask?
You havent heard? Farrars dead. Apparently he killed himself sealed the draughts and turned on the gas in his hotel room. The signal came in from Vienna on Friday night.
Dansey said nothing. He appeared to be concentrating on adjusting the red carnation in the buttonhole of his dark blue suit.
Michael swallowed. William McQueen talked to a waiter at the hotel. He said that Farrar might have had a couple of visitors in his room the evening before he died. Probably Gestapo, though weve had no confirmation of that. You know how difficult it is to get hard information out of Austria these days.
Dansey gave a scarcely perceptible shrug. Its immaterial. Farrar couldnt have told them anything. He hadnt been briefed.
In the pause which followed, Michael sipped his wine to cover his confusion. It was brutally obvious to him that Dansey didnt care that Farrar had in all likelihood been killed. It was at most an inconvenience. A newly-recruited courier was of little weight in Uncle Claudes professional scale of values. If this was professionalism, Michael thought bitterly, he wished he was an amateur.
Do go on, Dansey suggested. You were about to explain why you found it necessary to circumvent the standard recruitment procedure.
Farrar was due to return to London and then go on to Prague at the end of the week. You said the Prague trip was vital, sir. I would have contacted you, but you were on a train somewhere between Zurich and London. I thought Id better act on my own initiative.
And how did your initiative lead you to this man Kendall?
We need someone with a bona fide reason to go to Prague preferably a commercial one. I thought Prague Bohemia glass; and then I remembered Sir Basil Cohen.
You know Basil? Dansey said sharply. How did that come about?
I was at Cambridge with his younger son. I stayed with his people down in Gloucestershire once or twice.
I see. For once Dansey sounded almost amiable.
Michaels mind immediately made a connection. Cohen had been very helpful, right from the start. Dansey had been cultivating the friendship of the wealthy and the powerful for nearly half a century. Many of them were now unobtrusively helping Danseys Z Organization in a variety of ways. It was not inconceivable that Cohen was among them. In that case, Sir Basil must have derived a great deal of private amusement from Michaels claim that he was working for the Foreign Office trade section.
A muscle twitched in Danseys cheek. In a lesser man, it might have been a grin.
I telephoned him luckily he was in town. He was dining at Whites, but he said he could spare me a few minutes there after dinner. Michael glanced quickly at Dansey and hurriedly continued: I well implied I had some sort of FO connection. I said we needed an unofficial trade representative in Prague someone who made regular trips there and could combine his own work with a little confidential work for us. Sir Basil asked a few questions, of course, but I was as discreet as possible.
A waiter moved tentatively towards the table. Dansey waved him away. What do you know about Kendall?
He works from an office in the City. He buys mainly from Czechoslovakia. His main customers in this country are provincial department stores. Its an old-fashioned firm, run on pre-war lines. Apparently Kendalls in a bad way financially Sir Basil reckons he must be on his last legs.
Does Basil know him personally?
Theyve met, sir, but thats about all. I rather gathered that Kendall isnt quite Michaels voice trailed away. He believed that all men were equal but had long since discovered that most of his friends and colleagues paid only lip-service to the notion. He despised snobbery; but he was intelligent enough to realize that it couldnt be ignored.
Dansey nodded understandingly. Any war record?
Yes, sir; I checked with the War Office. Enlisted in the Pay Corps in 1915 as a private. Commissioned in 1918. He ended the war as an acting captain, after four years behind a desk in Whitehall. Michael made his voice as neutral as possible. It seems that he likes to be called Captain Kendall.
Danseys eyebrows rose. Despite the fact he never held a regular commission?
Yes, sir.
The eyebrows fell back into place. Dansey poured out the last of the burgundy and signalled to the waiter to bring their coffee. He was not in the mood for pudding or cheese and he assumed, correctly, that Michael would be content to follow his lead. By now they were almost alone in the big dining room, except for tail-coated waiters who swooped like swallows among the empty tables, clearing them with deft, darting movements. Michael could feel the hard edges of his sketchbook in the pocket of his jacket. He had a sudden urge to draw what he could see, to record an instant in the life of the Savoy in black and white. He would use lots of heavy shading and soften the outlines as much as possible.
He grinned into his burgundy at the thought of what Dansey would say if he started to draw. It was well known that Dansey considered that the chief purpose of art was to be a tool of espionage: it was a convenient means of creating a visual record of enemy installations. The old man knew that Michael had once wanted to be an artist. What he didnt know was that Michael still did.
The waiter brought their coffee and withdrew. Dansey produced a cigarette case and offered it to Michael. As Michael lit their cigarettes, he noticed that Danseys hand was speckled with brown liver spots and trembled slightly. The hand reminded him that Dansey had already reached the age when most men were thinking of retirement.
Im dining with your godfather tonight, Dansey said abruptly.
It was not a social observation. Michaels godfather, Admiral Sinclair, was head of SIS, the sponsor of Z Organization. If it hadnt been for Sinclair, it was unlikely that Michael would now be at the Savoy with a decent suit on his back. In all probability he would have been teaching history, art and games at some godforsaken little prep school. Sometimes Michael wished he was.