that, unlike the rest of his family, she had a good idea that his apparently idle life wasn’t entirely what it seemed.
Max paid the bill after a mild protest from Pritchard, and the two men walked out into the pale sunlight which was just filtering through scudding clouds. They stood on the corner of Kettle Street, watching the traffic in Holborn rushing past, red buses the only patches of colour among the cars and wagons and drably coated pedestrians.
‘I may call in Lazarus,’ Max said, as they parted.
Pritchard, about to head for a bus stop, paused. ‘You take it that seriously?’
‘Yes,’ said Max, and watched his companion dive through the traffic and board his bus just as it was drawing away. Yes, he took it that seriously.
SEVEN
Every time she walked up the gangway of an ocean liner, crossing the symbolic boundary between land and sea, Cynthia Harkness felt she could happily spend all her days on board ship. Although in truth, it was the limited number of days that made a voyage so appealing. Five days lay ahead of her, five days when she wasn’t in England or in America, but caught in a floating world that had no existence beyond its railings, a ship that might, it seemed, sail for ever on the surging grey ocean.
‘Perhaps we all have a bit of the Flying Dutchman in us,’ she said to her neighbour at dinner on the first night out.
The man, a stolid American, looked at her in some surprise, and then smiled. ‘I know you English people are renowned for your sense of humour,’ he said. ‘My business would surely fail if I were trapped on a vessel doomed to sail the seas for ever. And I guess the company on board wasn’t any too good, didn’t the guy lead a solitary life? For myself, I prefer company.’
The Aquitania, the Ship Beautiful as she was known, on account of the sumptuousness and extravagance of her fittings, was Cynthia’s favourite ship on the Atlantic run. This trip, she had made the booking herself, which meant that she could travel in a pleasant stateroom instead of in a suite, which would have been far too large for her needs, and which would have drawn the attention of everyone on board, exactly what she didn’t want. Mrs Harkness, with a stateroom on B deck, was an anonymous creature. Whereas if Walter had made the booking, she would be sitting at the Captain’s table, not where she was on the other side of the huge dining room, again quite anonymous, among less favoured passengers at a table hosted by a much more lowly officer. An attractive young man, dark and well groomed, but then the Cunard officers were in general a very creditable lot.
The man sitting beside her introduced himself as one Myron Watson, travelling to England on holiday with his wife, Lois. A woman of about her own age, with a smooth helmet of dark hair, and wearing a pale pink silk frock, smiled at Cynthia across the table
‘I do like the way you make friends on board,’ she said, her voice unexpectedly husky for one who had chosen pink. She wasn’t pretty, nor even handsome, but she had sex appeal, Cynthia decided. There was something about the tilt of her head and her mouth that would interest more men than Myron, her big, bland, genial husband. No doubt a rich man; no doubt one of those who had been lucky enough not to see his business wiped out in the Depression.
A courteous enquiry brought a flood of information about ball bearings. Apparently, the world couldn’t get enough of ball bearings, even in these sadly hard times.
‘There are those, ma’am, I regret to say, who see War on the horizon.’ Mr Watson was the kind of man who spoke in capital letters. ‘And where’s there’s War, or threat of War, or even suspicion that one day there might be War, why, there is Opportunity.’
The dining room on the Aquitania was a glittering sea of mirrors and pillars and white napery and silver and crystal. It was an absurd great room, with its panelling and decorated ceiling and Louis-Seize furniture and paintings. The decor of the vessel always made Cynthia smile, the mad medley of English and French architectural styles: Grinling Gibbons carvings here, Palladian pillar there, Louise-Quinze sofas and mirrors, Elizabethan and Jacobean and Georgian features and fittings all represented in the public rooms.
‘It’s all so Olde Englande,’ said Lois with enthusiasm. ‘I just love everything old, and here on board, I feel I get an extra five days’ worth of all the sights I’ll be visiting when we get to London. The Tower of London, Tower Bridge, St Paul’s Abbey …’
‘Cathedral,’ Cynthia couldn’t help murmuring.
‘Cathedral? Oh, yes. It’s Westminster Abbey, and St Paul’s Cathedral.’
‘There is a Westminster Cathedral as well,’ Cynthia said.
‘Is that so?’ Lois pursed her vivid lips. ‘That wasn’t on the list the travel bureau gave us.’
‘It isn’t very old. A lot of people think it’s ugly, it’s built of red brick. Victorian, you see, and then there are the smells and bells inside.’
‘Pardon me?’ said Lois, looking affronted.
‘Incense and so on. It’s a Roman Catholic cathedral. The others are Protestant. Anglican.’
‘That’s our Episcopalian, Lois,’ said Myron. ‘We’re Baptists ourselves, Mrs Harkness, but I confess I’m looking forward to seeing some of your great English churches, which people say are most impressive edifices.’
Cynthia was beginning to feel that a little of Lois and Myron Watson would go a long way, but that was the joy of shipboard company; it was only five days, you could endure a lot worse than the Watsons for five days, and then, when you stepped ashore, you need never set eyes on them again.
She escaped from them after dinner, with some difficulty, and retreated to the garden lounge. It was deserted, not being a popular spot at this time of day on a winter crossing, with the glass flinging back dark reflections instead of the light that shone through to the trellis work and imitation stone in the daytime to give the illusion of being in a garden.
Cynthia sat in one of the wicker chairs, and an attentive steward appeared to offer more coffee, liqueurs, brandy.
Cynthia asked for another coffee, she was feeling so sleepy that it wouldn’t keep her awake. It had been a busy couple of days, packing, paying farewell visits, writing letters. She had been in the States since the beginning of September, and she found she was looking forward to getting back to England. She hoped the fuss would have died down, it was ridiculous the interest the press and that amorphous thing, the public, took in divorce cases. At least they hadn’t had the pleasure of any sensational details, indeed, her divorce would hardly have been noticed if it hadn’t been bungled so that the first judge had thrown out the evidence from the hotel, knowing the lady in question and the chambermaid far too well. The next time, her husband had managed it better, paying more for a less well-known woman willing to spend the night in a hotel room with him. ‘Playing cards all damn night,’ he had told Cynthia irritably. ‘And hopeless with it. When she suggested a round or two of snap, I nearly lost my temper. However, we came out of it all right, and thank God I wasn’t up in front of that sarky old number of a judge like the one I had first time.’
Then it had been Cynthia who had put the divorce in jeopardy, when an eager press photographer, who had no business being at a private dance, had snapped her dancing very closely with Sir Walter Malreward — a man much in the news for his wealth and influence, a Member of Parliament, a man who didn’t care to have scandal associated with his name. Whispers of collusion were heard.
Sir
