Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

“Chiara!” the guests repeated lustily.

Violet resumed her seat and, next to her, Chiara kissed her lightly on the cheek. Edward saw her mouth thanks into her ear.

Joseph excused himself from the table. McVitie reached across the table and swiped a full bottle of wine. He gestured towards Edward’s empty glass. “Refill, Doc?” Edward had started to feel quite drunk but his half-hearted resistance was ignored. McVitie poured so much that it spilled over the rim. “Cheers.”

“Seems like yesterday we were here for Chiara’s eighteenth,” Falco said.

McVitie nodded. “She’s something else now, eh?”

“She always was a good-looking girl.”

“I’d give her a lovely birthday present and no mistake,” Billy said.

McVitie and Falco both laughed derisively. “Like she’d have anything to do with you.”

“Piss off, Jack. I’d stand a better chance than you.”

The conversation moved on to Joseph’s family. Edward was pleased. He had plenty of questions, and the information would be valuable. “What happened to Joseph’s father?” he asked.

“He hasn’t mentioned it?”

“Not a word.”

McVitie frowned. “Best you ask him about that,” he said.

“And his mother?”

“Nothing about her, neither?”

“No.”

“That ain’t surprising,” said Falco.

“What about her?”

He winced. “Best let him bring that up, too. It’s–what would you call it, Tommy?”

“Delicate, Jack.”

“That’s right. A bit delicate.”

“Is she alive?”

“Far as I know.”

“Where is she, then?”

“Honestly, Doc–best you let him talk about her.”

Edward took the hint and didn’t pursue it any further. Whatever it was, it was something that both McVitie and Falco were awkward about discussing. They didn’t appear to be shy about anything else, and so, whatever it was about Joseph’s parents, it could wait until he was ready to talk about it himself.

17

THE MEAL FINISHED and, as the waiters started to clear the debris from the tables, the guests moved back to the drawing room. A gramophone had been uncovered and records were being played, a few of the younger guests dancing to the music unselfconsciously. Edward had been persuaded by the others to move onto spirits, and after two glasses of a very good–and very potent–single malt, he was feeling quite light-headed.

He was standing by the fireplace when Violet Costello came alongside. She was with a heavy-set man who bore the scar from a razor across his right cheek.

Violet smiled pleasantly at him. “Mr. Fabian,” she said.

“Please–call me Edward.”

“This is Lennie Masters,” she said, indicating the man. “He works with the family, too. Lennie–this is Edward Fabian.”

“How do you do?” Edward said.

The man regarded him dubiously but took his hand nonetheless.

“This is the one who’s working with Ruby?”

“That’s right,” she said. “And how are you finding the automobile business, Edward?”

“I’m enjoying it,” he lied. “Thank you for your help. I’m very grateful.”

It was a chore, and he knew he was destined for much better, but the job was serving its purpose well enough. He had made some money, at least. Most of it he had passed to his uncle, who had in turn used it to pay some of the outstanding bills for his father’s care. The risk of his being refused treatment, or removed from the sanatorium, had been deferred, and that was a relief.

Violet waved her hand dismissively at his thanks although Edward could tell that she enjoyed it. She was, he concluded, one of those people who took pleasure not so much from being in a position to do another a favour, but from that other person knowing that they are in that position. The perception of status was clearly of importance to her, and being able to dispense favours–so that others might benefit from her munificence–was pleasing to her. Edward was very happy to let her think he was grateful, and, more importantly, impressed.

Lennie Masters excused himself, leaning down so that she could kiss him on his scarred cheek.

Violet explained that the garage was one of several businesses that the family owned and that she was happy to be able to help a returning soldier. “I was thinking about that,” she went on. “The family has a connection with a journalist. He’s freelance, I believe, but he often has his pieces in the national newspapers. I saw him for lunch yesterday and he said that he was interested in a piece about soldiers returning from the war–how they find things back home, that sort of thing. I think it’s disgraceful the way the government is treating you men. You, especially, with the Victoria Cross, it’s shocking that even someone like you should find themselves in such difficult circumstances. I happened to mention that to him and he thought it would be a capital idea to write a piece about your experiences.”

Edward’s stomach turned with panic. “I don’t know, Ms Costello,” he said. “I’m not really one for publicity.”

“Nonsense, Edward. It’s shocking that men like you, men who have fought for their country–heroes, for goodness sake–are forgotten as soon as they get home. Shocking. Someone needs to say something about it.” She smiled at him. “I’d like you to do this, please. I think it’s very important.”

Edward knew that he was not being given a choice and he knew that this was nothing about politics or the welfare of soldiers. This was a chance for Violet to be publically lauded for her charity. A terrible, jangling fright went over his shoulders and down his legs. For a moment he felt helpless and weak, too weak to move. He imagined his picture on the front page of the Daily Graphic or the Picture Post. A puff piece article, declaiming the way he had been treated and–no doubt–heralding the charity of Violet Costello. The headline would be “Local Businesswoman Helps War Hero,” and the article would be more about her that it would about him. But the damage would be done. From there, it was not difficult to imagine what might come next: a knock on the door in the middle of the night, policemen thrusting their way inside, throwing him in the back of a Black Mariah and tossing him into a cell. Or private detectives following him in the street, assembling their cases against him, drawing the net around him until it was so tight that he couldn’t move.

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow, then,” she said with a note of finality that said it was pointless to protest. “It’s important, isn’t it, Edward? Something needs to be said.”

Edward said that he agreed, of course, but when he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece he saw the pained, frightened expression on his face. Violet patted him on the arm, enjoined him to have fun, and made her way across the room to where her brother was talking with a couple of glowering toughs.

“Alright, old man?” Joseph put an arm around his shoulders. “What did she want?”

“She wants me to do some press,” he replied, setting his jaw in the hope that it would erase the look of vague fright that he felt must still have been on it.

“What for?”

“Something about offering me a job. She says it’s a disgrace that men like us come back to nothing.”

Joseph laughed knowingly. “That sounds just like her. Violet never misses a chance to get her name in the papers. You’ll do it?”

“I don’t think she was giving me very much of a choice.”

“No,” he said. “Probably not. Don’t worry, Doc, I sure it’ll be painless and she’ll be grateful for it. It’s always best to keep her happy. Fancy a breath of fresh air?”

The blaring, grating drunken voices pressed into his ears and Edward was pleased of the chance for a little quiet. The rain was still falling as they wandered outside into the formal gardens: low box hedges, ornamental ponds, a gravel path that wound down, eventually, to the lakeshore. It was a little cold and neither had a topcoat, sheltered from the rain by two large umbrellas. Edward enjoyed the fresh air in his lungs. Behind them, golden light spilled out from the French doors, and noise as another record played from the gramophone. They reached the water’s edge and, in the shelter of the boathouse, leant against the balustrade. The water beyond shifted and shimmied in the light of the moon, a gentle breeze ruffling across it.

Joseph took two cigars from his pocket and handed one to Edward.

“It’s good to see you smiling.”

Edward drew on the cigar and quickly felt even more light-headed. “Feels like I haven’t had much to smile about recently.”

“What do you mean?

“Life could be better.”

“Money?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t complain,” he said, “the job at the garage has been good, it’s made a difference, but I could certainly do with more. You always can, can’t you? And your Aunt is right–I can’t help thinking the government has forgotten about us–either that or it doesn’t care.”

Joseph looked dead straight at him. “What if I said I had a way you could lay your hands on some money? Decent money? More than you could make with Ruby.”

Edward’s interest kindled. “Then I’d say I was keen to hear it.”

Joseph regarded him. Edward wondered if it wasn’t with something that looked like apprehension. “Do you have an open mind?”

Edward inhaled from the cigar. “As much as the next man.”

“You wanted to know how I could afford clobber like this.” He indicated his suit with a downwards brush of his fingers. “Nice cigars, a decent motor, a nice place in town.”

“You said the horses–”

“What if it was something else?”

“Like what?”

“If I tell you, you mustn’t rush to conclusions.”

“What, Joseph?”

He paused. “Me and the lads have been turning over houses.”

“Very bloody funny,” he said, feigning disbelief, because he knew that was what Joseph would expect.

“I’m not messing about, Doc.”

“Come on–”

“I’m serious. We’ve been at it since I got back.”

Joseph stared at him: his eyes were flinty, sombre, emotionless.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Edward exclaimed with as much indignation as he could manage.

“Don’t be like that–all sanctimonious! No-one suffers. The places we go after, they’re all high end. Classy. Not people like us, struggling to make ends meet, it’s the big boys–bankers, lawyers, professionals–and they’re all insured up to the eyeballs. We take what we want, they make their claim, the insurance company makes sure everything gets replaced. We don’t threaten no-one, no-one loses out, no-one gets hurt.”

“Are you mad?” he said, playing the part as realistically as he could.

Joseph fell for Edward’s self-righteousness and pressed on, his conviction blending with anger. “What’s the alternative? Say you’re one of them poor beggars who finds a steady job. I pity them! Payments on the house, payments on the furniture, endowment policy, burial society. Burial society, Doc!–for fuck’s sake–they’re buried already.” He laughed with sudden cold derision. “Fucking burial society. I’ve got mates, blokes I know from The Hill, they’ve never had a house of their own, never had furniture of their own. They’ve got families, nippers, they can’t get credit, they get kicked out onto the street because they can’t pay their rent–a few pennies a week and they can’t even pay that. They’ve put everything in hock and now there’s nothing else, what the hell are they supposed to do?”

“That’s not the point, Joseph. It’s stealing.”

His tone hardened. “Fuck the law, Doc. Fuck it. We’re entitled. We gave this country years in that bloody jungle, we got eaten by leeches and shot up by the Tojos, and what do we get when we come home? A band playing God Save the bloody King, a cheap whistle that don’t even fit, a pat on the back and a quid. Thank you very much, boys, welcome home, now piss off. I ain’t having that. No, sir, I’m bloody well not–that just ain’t good enough. And if it means I have to spin a few drums to get what I reckon I deserve, that’s what I’m going to do.” He paused for a moment, the surge of annoyance subsiding. “I know you’re struggling, Doc. It’s obvious. I don’t like to see it, and there’s no need. And, to be honest, this ain’t what you’d call philanthropy. I could use your help–for planning and such like. That brain of yours–it could be a real asset. The better your plan, the less the chance that you’ll get your collar felt. What do you say?”

Edward assessed. “Who else is involved?”

Joseph nodded in the direction of the house. “The lads: Billy, Tommy and Jack.”

Edward chewed a nail as he stared out at the lake, the undulation as the wind brushed waves across the water, rain lashing into it. “I don’t know,” he said, pretending to hesitate.

Joseph took his arm urgently. “Come on, Doc,” he urged, “it’s easy–you force the door, you take what you want, you hop into a motor and you’re away. Hardly any risk if it’s done right. And we’re entitled.”

“Alright, Joseph. Don’t go on–I know.” He needed money. Why not this way? The money was as good as if he had earned it. How long could Jimmy keep the restaurant running without his help? A month? Maybe two? No longer than that, surely. What would happen afterwards? Jimmy would have to find something in another kitchen, a job working under someone else, but the loss would cripple him. And, more to the point, what about his father? What would they do if they asked him to leave the sanatorium? How could they cope? It would be the end of him, Edward was quite sure of that. It wasn’t what he had in mind but it could be a means to an end. It could be a start. A chance to bring himself closer to Joseph, to the family, and a way to identify and develop the real opportunities. The hesitation was all for Joseph’s benefit. Of course he was interested.

They stood there quietly, listening to the rain falling onto the water. Beneath them, a tethered rowing boat jostled against the jetty, a steady hollow thump. Edward rolled the cigar end against the balustrade.

“I’m thinking of doing one next week–Thursday or Friday,” Joseph said. “That gives us time to have a proper think about it. Sort out a plan.”

“I’d want to look at it. Look at the place, look at the area, make some suggestions.”

“That’s what I want,” he said enthusiastically. “Proper planning. That’s why I asked you.”

Edward stared into the night. He had started to think about how the job might be best carried out, how to minimise risk. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll have a look at it.”

* * *

THE VOICES OF PARTYGOERS who were smoking under his window drifted up distinctly as if they had been in the room with him, and the insistent, cackling laugh of one of them made Edward writhe and twitch. He imagined them talking about him, and how he had not fooled them, how he was different, how he did not fit in with the rest of the guests.

What was he doing here? However was he going to fit in with people like this?

He struggled out of bed, knowing he was going to be sick, the room wobbling as he negotiated it. He knelt before the toilet and brought up his dinner, spitting acrid-tasting phlegm into the bowl, his head hot and woozy. He went back to his bed and fell instantly asleep.

18

CHIARA COSTELLO DID NOT SLEEP WELL THAT NIGHT. She could not settle: her head throbbed from the drink, her mouth was dry and sticky and her mind spun with the memories of the party. She had known that her Aunt would insist that there was an event to mark her twenty-first birthday, and she had been dreading it. She was not an ostentatious girl and did she crave the spotlight. Quite the reverse, she would have been much happier to mark the milestone with a quiet meal with her family and a trip to the theatre. Violet would never have allowed that. She was her niece’s exact obverse. Everything was about image and appearance, and a birthday was all the excuse she needed to throw a lavish party. Chiara had protested when she learned how big the party was going to be but Violet had brushed her concerns aside. “Think of it as your coming out,” she had said, patting her on the hand. “If they do it in Chelsea, darling, we’re fucking well doing it here, too.”

Image, status, appearance: they were all that mattered to her. That had been the way of it since the day her Aunt had assumed responsibility for Chiara and her sisters when their father had died. The girls had been bred as socialites, glittering little trophies used to proclaim the family’s respectability. What a laugh! Violet obsessed about it. She subscribed to the Tatler and lived by the social diary written by “Jennifer”, plotting the key events of the season and doing everything she could to have the girls included. Chiara had witnessed it twice before, with her sisters, and knew it was coming for her, too. The season ran from late spring through to autumn, and included Ascot, the Queen Charlotte Ball and the Dublin horse show. Most mothers put their daughters through the ordeal in the hope of landing an eligible husband. Violet didn’t care about that. She toted the sisters as a means to ingratiate herself with high society.

Chiara thought about all of that until dawn broke. She gave up the pretence of sleep, pulled on a robe and went downstairs to find a glass of water. It was cold. Hargreaves always thriftily turned down the heating at night. She heard the sound of movement in the kitchen and tentatively pushed at the door. “Hello?”

Edward Fabian was at the sink, running himself a glass of water. He was wearing pyjamas and one of Joseph’s old robes, the yellow material thick and a little worn, full of military frogs and tassels. “Oh–hello,” she said. Her face broke into a smile. “Can’t sleep?”

“My head–it’s a little sore.”

“Mine too,” she laughed. Edward took a second glass, filled it and handed it to her. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Oh, yes. Very much.”

“I’m pleased. Thank you for coming. It’s lovely to see my family, and George and Violet’s friends are very kind, of course, but it’s nice to have people my own age.”

“That’s very kind, but I’m afraid I haven’t been twenty-one for rather a long time.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’m afraid not.”

He was standing in the light of the wide window above the sink. She looked him over: he did look rather the worse for wear, unshaven and with red-rimmed eyes, but he was tall and good-looking and he had looked rather dashing last night, even in his tired suit. The fact that he had obviously fallen upon hard times was quite romantic. She would have liked to have sat at the table with him and Joseph. They were the loudest and most raucous, and had obviously had the most fun.

“Do you like the house?”

“What I’ve seen of it is splendid.”

“You haven’t had the tour?”

“We arrived a little late for that.”

“Would you like to see the rest? I could give you a quick look around, if you have time?”

“That would be lovely.”

They started in the hall, with its long run of polished marble, scuffed near the skirting. Chiara led the way to a closed door and opened it, revealing a gloomy room that, once she pulled back the curtains that covered the window at the far end, was revealed as a modest library. The carpet was threadbare, disfigured by worn stretches that revealed the boards beneath. Ghostly pale markings revealed furniture that had once been there but had since been sold. Chiara had forgotten how tired and jaded the room looked and, for a moment, was a little embarrassed by it. Edward was gentlemanly enough not to comment; instead, he pulled aside the sheet that covered a shelf and took out a book. “Dickens,” he said. “Great Expectations. One of my favourites. This is a lovely room, Chiara.”

“It’s seen better days,” she said. “I remember, when I was a little girl, my father used to spend all of his time in here.” She didn’t mention that her father couldn’t read, but that he just liked to know–and, more importantly, for other people to know–that he owned a room full of books. She closed the curtains again and led the way into the neighbouring room, accessed through an interconnecting door. It was an office, panelled in oak and with ornately carved plasterwork on the ceiling. A large oak desk was set in one corner but it was unused, covered in dust and a confusion of papers that hadn’t been disturbed for months.

“The whole house has seen better days,” she admitted. “There used to be staff here. We’ve still got Wilson, just about, and there’s a woman who cooks for us and her husband keeps an eye on the gardens, as much as he can manage, but I can remember when we had half a dozen staff.”

“What’s happened so that you don’t?”

“Money. I don’t get involved in business but my aunt says that times are difficult. There’s a lot of competition–more than there used to be.”

Chiara didn’t tarry, exiting into the hallway again and leading the way through a curtained arch to a flight of stairs that led down to the basement. She pointed out the fusty-smelling boot-room, a lavatory, the large kitchen with an Aga and rickety wooden dressers.

They returned to the ground floor and Chiara directed them to the vaulted staircase. She pointed out the half dozen portraits that were hung from the wall on the sub-landing.

“Who are they?” Edward asked.

“The owners of the house. The paintings were left behind when my grandfather bought it.” That was a polite way of putting it. The Costellos had acquired the house in their usual aggressive fashion and there had been no opportunity for the seller to retrieve any of his furniture or other possessions. What they liked, they kept. The rest was sold or burnt. These paintings, which had appealed to her grandfather’s sense of history, had been reprieved from the bonfire.

She pointed to the first, a portrait of a severe-looking cleric. “This is the Bishop of Worcester. The house was built for him in the fourteen-hundreds. This one, I think, is Edmund Lawrence, who leased the house from the manor. This one is Robert Fielding, who married Lawrence’s daughter, and he left it to his eldest son, Charles, here. From the Fieldings it passed to the Roberston Family in the late eighteenth-century. Industrialists. My grandfather bought it from the second Robertson to own it.”

“This is him?”

“Yes, that’s grandfather.”

Edward pointed to the next one along. “Your father?”

“Yes.”

“My goodness,” Edward said. “Joseph looks like both of them.”

That much was indisputable. She looked at her father’s portrait and saw, quite clearly, the same thick black hair, cold eyes, the solid lines of the cheekbones and jaw, the same warm complexion. The resemblance was noticeable with their grandfather but it was clear and obvious with their father.

“And these two I recognise.”

“Ah,” Chiara said. “Yes.” The last portrait of the collection was the most recent. George and Violet had been painted together in the library a few months after her father had died and her aunt had moved in. They were sat next to each other, dressed in their Sunday best, both of them presenting stern expressions that came dangerously close to pomposity. The artist was a bit of a hack, despite the price that he had charged, but it wasn’t the lack of skill that was embarrassing. It was the presumption of the thing, the notion that, even after a couple of years, their picture should join the other owners of the house. The whole blessed thing was foolish from start to finish and Chiara hated it. She had forgotten it was there and now she was embarrassed to have drawn attention to it.

“Have you seen the gardens?” she said, eager for a chance to draw Edward away.

“Joseph and I took a stroll last night.”

“But it was dark then. You should have a look now–they’re lovely. Best part of the house if you ask me. Come on, I could do with the fresh air.”

A door at the end of the hall opened onto a set of flying stone steps that led down to a terrace. They stopped at the boot room and took a pair of Wellingtons each, pulling them on over the top of their pyjamas. Chiara led them on, down the steps and onto the south lawn. It was trimmed, bordered with shrubbery and low flowers and studded with croquet hoops. Two large English elms, barely under control, stood at the edge of the grass. To the east, around the corner of the house, was the large gravelled space where the cars had been parked. Beyond that were a collection of outbuildings: a barn, the garage and the stable block.

“It’s big.”

“I know–there are another fifty acres, too. Most of the valley belongs to the house.”

“Why is it called Halewell Close?”

“There’s a spring in the fields at the back of the house. It’s named after that.”

They walked on, Chiara looping her arm through Edward’s. They passed beneath the elms and onwards to a collection of kitchen gardens that were hemmed in by a low redbrick wall. A cinder path cut between neatly planted rows of vegetables: cauliflowers, potatoes, runner beans arrayed against a pine trellis.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked her.

“All my life–I was born here. My grandfather was still alive then.”

“Joseph said he was involved with the racecourses.”

“Is that what he said?” she chuckled. “I suppose that’s one way to describe it.” Edward looked as if he was going to ask her to elaborate, but she didn’t permit him the chance. She had no idea what he knew about the family business, and that was not a conversation that she wanted to have. She pressed on quickly. “My aunt moved in a couple of years ago.”

“And your uncle George?”

“He stays here a lot, but he doesn’t live here. He has an apartment in London. He likes to be right in the middle of things.”

“Well, it’s a wonderful place. I’ve never been anywhere like it before.”

“I know–we’re very lucky.” They walked on. “Do you live in London?”

“Yes,” he said, a little awkwardly. “I rent a flat.”

“What’s it like?”

“Oh, nothing special. But I’m getting some money together for a place of my own. Something nice.”

“Good for you. I’d love to live in London. We come into town a lot, of course, but it’s not the same.”

They reached the terrace again and made their way up the steps to the kitchen. Chiara closed the door and fastened the latch. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I don’t feel very well at all. I think I might go and lie down for another hour.”

“Really? You wouldn’t guess.”

“You’re very sweet, Edward.”

“Thank you for the tour. I enjoyed it.”

She reached across and gently squeezed his arm. “Joseph talks about you a lot, you know. It’s very nice to finally get to see what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

She looked at him a little shyly. “Will you promise me something?”

“What?”

“I love my brother, but be careful. I wouldn’t want you to get caught up in some of the things he does. I know what he’s like–he’s a rascal, like the rest of the family. I’d hate to see you get in a scrape with him.”

Edward started a reply but didn’t know what to say.

Chiara laid a hand on his arm and leaned closer. She kissed him gently on the cheek.

“I’ll see you again, I hope,” she said.