hung in the air until eventually Mrs Grey spoke again. ‘I imagine it will be awkward, but I fear you will have to do it all the same. She has almost certainly gone there and no proper search can begin until you have at least eliminated that possibility.’
James could hardly fault her logic; but the thought of making such a call filled him with dread. What would he say? If he announced that Florence had gone missing, he would be admitting that she had left him. If Mrs Grey was right, that would make no odds: the Walsinghams would know already. But if she was wrong, well, then he would be making an entirely needless confession. And before he knew it, Sir George Bloody Walsingham would be taking charge, alerting his contacts in the Oxford constabulary until they had tracked down his daughter and grandson, while Lady Walsingham would be giving him that withering look of hers, a woman’s look that said ‘No wonder she’s left you: you’re not a proper man any more.’
They already blamed him anyway. He was the reason why Florence had stormed out of that dinner in London with her parents, back in April (or was it February?). He could scarcely remember what the row had been about, probably something trivial about the menu or the taxi home. But the underlying cause was obvious. The Walsinghams believed their daughter had married beneath herself: she, whose pedigree breeding would have secured the richest, most desirable man in the kingdom, married to this son of provincial schoolteachers who was crippled to boot. To announce that he could not find Florence or Harry, that he had been discarded, would be to confirm their verdict on him: he was not good enough.
A voice called out from the hallway. ‘They live in Norfolk, don’t they?’ As good as her word, Virginia Grey was standing by the telephone table, about to make the call.
James ran out and grabbed the phone from her. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said quietly. This was how the Greys operated, bending everyone to their will.
Virginia hovered as he heard his own breathing through the heavy, Bakelite receiver and then a click as the operator came on the line. ‘The name is Walsingham, please,’ he said. ‘In Langham in Norfolk. Thank you.’ He waited, listening to the clicks and switching sounds, picturing the exchanges as they plugged in the series of cables that would send his voice eastward across England.
Eventually there was the ringing sound, followed after four rings by a female voice: middle-aged and aristocratic. ‘Wells 452.’
‘Lady Walsingham? It’s James. Florence’s husband.’
‘Good afternoon, James. I’m afraid Sir George is out.’ Ite. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, there’s nothing wrong.’ The echo on the line was confusing him, making him trip over his words as they bounced back to him two seconds later. ‘I just wondered if I might speak to Florence.’
‘Florence? I don’t understand.’
‘Florence and Harry. They’re not with you?’
‘No. Why ever would they be with us? You always come in August.’
He listened closely to the voice, trying to detect a lie. They were polished, people of her class, he had learned that much after more than a decade in Oxford, whether as undergraduate or fellow. She and Sir George – a powerful figure in the City and a decorated officer in the Great War – were as elegant in their manner as in their looks. They were a handsome couple: Florence’s mother, once a society beauty, had her daughter’s piercing eyes and perfect bone structure. Was Florence standing nearby, mouthing answers to her? If she were, he would never know it. And yet, he had to confess it did not sound like that at all.
‘James? Are you still there? Has something happened?’
‘No, no. Not at all.’ Hearing his own voice played back to him, even he did not believe it. ‘Just some confusion on my part.’
‘Is Florence unwell? Is Harry all right?’ The concern was genuine, he was certain of it.
‘Yes, yes. Everyone’s well. I just thought they might have … perhaps …’ He mumbled a farewell and hung up.
Virginia Grey did not say anything. She bit her lip and headed towards the kitchen. ‘Time for a pot of tea, I think.’
While she was fussing over cups and spoons, she asked, her tone as casual as if she were inquiring where she might find the sugar, ‘How have things been between you? Recently I mean.’
He hesitated, reluctant to confide in her. But it was clear she was keen to help and it was somehow comforting not to be conducting this search entirely alone. ‘We’re not newlyweds any more, Mrs Grey. But I believe our marriage is strong.’
She stopped her tea preparations and gazed at him.
‘You’re not convinced,’ he said.
‘It does not matter a jot whether I am convinced, my dear. That is not at issue here.’
‘Did she say something to you?’
Grey stared out into the garden and her hair caught the sunlight, turning the silver to bright white.
‘I don’t think it was anything specif—’
‘So she did say something! What the hell was it?’ Now he stood up, looming over her. He could feel his veins engorging, the rage stirred and beginning to surge.
Grey’s expression looked more pitying than alarmed, which only fuelled James’s ire. ‘Come on,’ he said loudly, ‘answer me!’
In a voice that was studiedly calmer and quieter than before, she said, ‘This.’ She gestured towards him. ‘She told me about this. Your aggression. She told me about your fights, James.’
‘We have had disagreements. Every couple has dis—’
‘She was not referring to disagreements, James. She was referring to violent displays of temper. I can see for myself the broken crockery here today.’
‘Today is hardly typical.’
‘She told me that there was a constant tension in the house.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Her exact words were, “I feel as if the ground is covered with eggshells. And I’m tiptoeing my way through them.”’
‘Eggshells? I know what that’s about. That’s my punishment for demanding quiet when I work. Any scholar would be the same. It’s impossible to do serious reading with an infernal racket going on.’
‘What infernal racket?’
‘Harry shouting and shrieking when he’s playing. I lost my temper a few times.’ He could picture the tears trickling down his son’s cheeks, the little boy standing in the garden crying after James had exploded again, Florence holding Harry tight, explaining that it was not his fault, not his fault at all, James standing apart from them, too ashamed to step forward and hug Harry himself – a shame whose sting he felt again now. But what he said stiffly was, ‘I’m sure the Master would have been the same in my position.’
The silver-haired author of half a dozen books and a couple of hundred learned articles eyed him coolly. ‘Yes. Even I might struggle to do my needlepoint with that distraction.’
James
