A stranger to herself, p.50
A Stranger to Herself, page 50
‘I understand,’ Henri Clos said. And it seemed to me that he did. He was silent, thinking. Suddenly he told me, ‘I’ll lend you Felix’s memoirs, if you write the book.’
I was startled. ‘That’s generous. But the book may not be published.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. We have clients here who are publishers. Sometimes I talk to them. What a scandal when your version is so different from the official story – someone might be interested. And Mr Snow himself comes to this restaurant. He’s an honest man. He may find himself unable to continue without asking difficult questions. I would think it by no means certain your Mr Littlebrown will get the book he wants. Shall we take the risk?’ And he pulled the old battered pages from his desk drawer. ‘So …?’ he asked.
I drew a deep breath and said, ‘I’ll do my best. If you lend me those pages I’ll continue, as I would if I’d still got a publisher. I’ll try to get a new one. And I’m very grateful to you …’
He stared at me and decided, I supposed, to tell me. ‘I’m Felix Lamier’s natural son,’ he said.
I nodded.
‘I was born while he was in France, before he went back to England in 1933 to give evidence in Mrs Levine’s divorce case – she rescued him from the dump where he was living, unable to find a job. He says this in the memoirs. My mother worked in a restaurant. I think she became the boss’s mistress; anyway, she was able to look after me. But she was shot by the Germans in 1941 and I was put in an orphanage run by nuns. You can imagine the life of a small boy, bereaved of his only real parent, in an orphanage during those years. But immediately after the war, as soon as it was possible to travel, Felix arrived to see me, unaware my mother was dead. He found me and took me first to his sister in Normandy, then, when I was old enough, he brought me to England and palmed me off on the household of Mrs Mackinnon. Remember that by then they were both mistress and servant and fellow-conspirators, an odd alliance, but it meant she trusted him, in her way, and he was allowed to do what he liked. He called me his nephew and he taught me his trade. Felix was a good man, in many ways. I loved him. Of course, my position was difficult when Mr Mackinnon defected. We were all suspected of being his accomplices, and I had no papers. The interrogation was tricky for me.
‘You see,’ said Henri, ‘Felix was loyal to Mrs Mackinnon, as he had been to me, but she used him, as she used everybody. She was a rich woman. She could have done so much, but he ended his days in a damp cottage. I was working as a waiter. I had a wife, and a baby. We were living in one room. When he died, Felix left me his savings, about two hundred pounds, and, learning from his experience, that loyalty is not repaid, I borrowed more money and started a small cafe, in a street off Tottenham Court Road. I prospered. I only wish I had prospered in his lifetime.’
I imagined, though I didn’t ask, that he had some kind of a share in this smart restaurant.
‘So …’ he said, and handed me Felix’s memoirs.
‘Mr Clos,’ I said, ‘thank you very much, for your explanation and for your help. I’ll do my best. I’ll have this copied, and return it to you.’
He stood up. ‘Good luck, Miss Higgins.’
‘Thank you again, Mr Clos.’
And with the pages in my bag I hurried off. I had two copies of Felix’s manuscript made, got to the Post Office at the last moment and registered one copy to Henri Clos and one to myself at Henry Thackery House. In case I lost the original. My experience on the bus, when my bag had been snatched, had made me cautious.
Then I sat in the park in the sunshine and read Felix’s story right through. Though there were questions to which he did not know the answers, the information he did produce was staggering. But as I finished reading I realised calmly that I had the key to Violet Levine. It answered half the questions I’d been asking myself all this time. It gave clues to the answering of the rest. Perhaps, above all, it gave me the first view of Violet’s whole personality I’d had so far. Not a pretty sight, Violet’s personality, but after so many lies, including her own distortions in I Affirm, the truth was refreshing.
Then I hurried off to meet Dave. I went to the bar we were meeting in and was grinning over my lager when he hobbled in on his crutches, looking more like an unmade bed than ever. I got him a drink. ‘It’s on me. So’s the film. I’ve just been given this.’ And I produced Felix Lamier’s memoirs, explaining how I’d come by them.
He had a quick look and said, ‘Phew – is all this true?’
‘Fairly true,’ I said. ‘If I described my day to you it wouldn’t be completely true. Like this.’ If I described my day to you, I thought, you’re one of the few people who’d believe it. You and the Metropolitan Police.
‘You’re cracking this case, Inspector Higgins,’ he said. ‘But, be careful.’
‘There’s more,’ I said and told him about the birth certificate.
Dave whistled. ‘Gordon Stone’s involved with nasty people,’ he said. ‘Neo-Nazis. Some are high-ups who see Communism, even Socialist regimes as a threat. The people who’re backing the rebels in Belize, for example – with many currencies, not just dollars. Pounds, for example. Stone looks like a silly little man but some of his supporters are true internationalists – their ideal world involves a few friends running countries with minimal involvement from the rest of the population. Those are Stone’s big supporters. Down at the bottom are the yobs, beating up Asians. He publishes a little magazine from his house in Rye, with news items about black crime and white supremacy and articles about how there weren’t any concentration camps. Nice pictures of tough young men, all in black uniforms, drilling on the estates of various sympathisers. There’s a regular Nazi get-together every year for Hitler’s birthday in Paris or Holland, usually. Stone always goes. He’s a bad man. If you’re really going to see him, would you like me to come too? As a witness. Just in case.’
‘Thanks, Dave,’ I said. I wasn’t sure how seriously to take all this. I told him, ‘I think I know who my anonymous caller is. I spoke to Jack Christian-Smith, Violet’s grandson, and he said he thought he knew but he didn’t want to tell me yet, if at all. Felix’s account makes it look as if it can only be one or two people.’
‘Who is it, then?’ he asked.
‘My money’s on Alice Crutchley. According to her great-niece Violet took her in during the First World War. She lived with the Levines for years. But significantly, I think, Violet doesn’t mention her. There’s no record of her death at St Catherine’s House. She’d be very old, but after all Violet’s not been dead long. She was ninety-three. It was a long-lived family. Felix says she married and went to Connecticut. Allie could be alive, and in the USA. One thing’s certain – all the mysterious calls come in the afternoons or evenings, Never the mornings. Perhaps because of the time difference. And she’s told me she promised someone to keep quiet. So who would this mysterious caller promise to be silent for, presumably out of loyalty? It could be her former in-laws, the Levines. She was very close to them, closer than Violet ever revealed. Where this baby comes in I don’t know.’
Dave said, ‘Kate, keep me informed about all this as you go on. I’m not trying to butt in but it’s like mountain walking. You have to tell someone where you’re going.’
‘In case you fall down a cliff.’
He nodded. ‘That’s right.’
We went off for a snack, then walked through Leicester Square, swarming as usual with pickpockets, and rough trade, beggars, prostitutes and plain-clothes men. We saw a film about the French revolution, all in soft focus and very nostalgic. Even the guillotine looked like a charming antique, beautifully carved. I held Dave’s hand. I got a taxi outside so he didn’t have to go down the underground with his bad leg, which might have made him a prey to thieves. People in side-streets were already settling down in doorways. Someone was lying on the pavement, spreadeagled, looking dead, but I didn’t dare get out of the cab to check. The driver, who had a gun in his pocket, wouldn’t have stopped anyway. The streets were infernal in that particular neighbourhood. Dave and I went on holding hands. I wondered what was going on, then I fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, Dave was getting out. ‘Do you want to come in and stay?’ he asked, but I said I’d go home. ‘Keep in touch,’ he said. He looked strained.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘Lizzie’s left me,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t take it any more. I don’t blame her.’
I thought tenderly of Dave for the rest of the journey but the moment I got back to the flat I lost my temper. There were Di and Rog merrily painting walls together. Rog, Di’s fellow terrorist, was someone I didn’t want to see much of ever again, especially in company with Di, especially removing the traces at 11D Henry Thackery House. No doubt there was something between them. No doubt they loved to be together, popping out for a quiet drink, or painting a flat, or when creeping through the streets with a bomb in a plastic bag. But I thought if we were being watched it was a mistake to stick together. I pointed this out. They told me more or less to mind my own business and I went nervously to bed with Felix’s manuscript in the bag on the floor beside me.
I felt no better in the morning. The events of the last few days since I’d got back from Brighton had caught up with me, but I’d have to get the decorating done, clean the flat of any traces, or there’d be no peace of mind. When I got up I found Di and Rog cooking breakfast and kissing each other in the kitchen. I felt like an intruder. I had to ask, ‘I’ve got a question. Have you and the rest of the guys ceased your activities? And, second part of the question, for ten points, if so, is this temporary or permanent?’
There was a silence. Guarded looks were exchanged.
In the end Di replied angrily, ‘All right. All right. Put it like this. Active Democracy has disbanded. Possibly for ever. There’ve been some arguments. We’re pretty sure one of us is being watched. The phone’s tapped here. It’s getting too risky so, as far as you’re concerned, it’s over. I’m going round this afternoon to make my peace with the print shop. They slung me out for being unreliable. But I think they got suspicious. Same applies to Rog. He’s looking for a job from now on.’ She looked at him. He nodded. ‘That’s it.’
No wonder they were united. They were in love. They’d faced danger together. Now they’d had to decide to pack it in, go back, I supposed, to local politics, agendas, meetings, resolutions, and in some ways they felt bad about it, as if they’d lost something. They also knew they’d killed an innocent man in the last explosion.
I said, ‘Right. That’s all I wanted to know.’ I made myself a cup of instant coffee, feeling like the wet liberal who knew nothing of the dedicated, dangerous life of the activist. You could see how it could take you over – the fear, the adrenalin, the feeling you were striking for the right, countering tyranny, the sheer practicalities of doing it and not getting caught.
Perhaps I should have gone to the nearest police station to turn Di and Rog in. All I can say is I was afraid of what would happen to them and possibly me. I was afraid of a forty-eight hour questioning, and all it might involve. I didn’t want my family dragged in.
We spent the morning pulling up the carpets and putting them in Roger’s van. We decided the safest thing to do was put them on the council dump. Driving them out of London and putting them in a hole in the woods, or over a cliff might arouse more suspicion, bearing in mind that in the country there’s always someone watching. The dump, on the other hand, was constantly raided, and within twenty-four hours our rugs and carpets would almost certainly be carried off and laid on floors elsewhere.
While Rog was off dumping the rugs, Di and I had a quick cup of tea, before starting to paint again. Then, as I approached the ladder in the hall, the phone rang. It was Jack Christian-Smith. I told him my story of how Askew and Askew had pushed me out so that they’d get full co-operation from his family for Violet’s authorised biography. I still wasn’t sure he wasn’t a spy within my camp, but he seemed genuinely shocked.
‘I haven’t heard anything about all this,’ he said. ‘It’s disgraceful. If they wanted to do it, they could at least have got hold of another publisher. That would have put you at a disadvantage. This is a deliberate attempt to silence you. Are you going to let it happen?’
I didn’t know what to tell him. All I said was, ‘There’s something you might be able to help about – is your great-aunt alive? And if so, can you give me her address and phone number?’
‘Oh – you worked it out. At least, I assume you have …’
‘The mystery caller is Alice, Violet’s sister,’ I stated.
‘I think so,’ he told me. ‘I wanted ‘to find out if there was any good reason why she’d be asked not to speak before I told you my guess. I asked my sister, Anna, but she went berserk when she heard I’d even spoken to you. There was a row – no proper answers. I say to hell with them. I don’t see why you shouldn’t talk to Alice, if she wants to talk to you. Truth’s usually better.’
So he gave me Alice Crutchley’s married name and an address in Connecticut. He said, ‘I haven’t got the phone number. We exchange Christmas cards with a little bit of news. Well, Jessica does it. Sends pictures of the children, and so forth. The last card Alice sent was perfectly sensible, in firm handwriting. It’s remarkable, though. She must be over ninety.’
‘So will you be, if you’ve got the Crutchley genes,’ I told him.
‘God forbid,’ he said. ‘Let me know how you get on; give her my love.’
‘I will.’ I went on to tell him about Felix’s memoirs, and something of the contents.
‘I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘You’ll let me see them, won’t you? How would it be if I talked to a publisher I know?’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I’d be glad.’
‘That near-miss at the TV centre makes me all the keener to get this story told,’ he said, ‘while I’ve got time to read it. Okay then – all the luck in the world,’ he said cheerfully, then paused and said, ‘I wonder if Violet’s own second lot of memoirs will ever turn up.’
‘What?’
‘After I Affirm, many years later, she said she’d embarked on a second lot of memoirs. I Committed Perjury, they sound like …’
‘Tell me,’ I said.
Jack Christian-Smith told me.
Fifteen
The Levines, 1990
The organ of the handsome eighteenth-century church in Trafalgar Square swelled out ‘Oh God Our Help In Ages Past’ as the men and women attending the memorial service of Violet Levine Mackinnon walked down the aisle to take their seats. It had been Anna Schreft who had suggested this compromise name for the woman known, during most of her adult life, as Violet Levine. Her daughter Pamela had opposed the idea, describing it as vulgar and American. ‘She had no right to the name Levine after her remarriage,’ said Pamela. ‘It was simply that there was no way of preventing her using it.’
Robert, appealed to by telephone, had said wearily from New York, ‘Look, we don’t want to hold this ceremony. I certainly resent having to come back to England just to attend it. But since the family’s stuck with arranging it, then Violet might as well use the family name, as she did in life, entitled or not. For God’s sake, Pamela, women these days call themselves anything they please.’
At the church door Robert Levine stood shaking hands with the guests as they came in while, opposite him, Jack Christian-Smith also welcomed those invited and helped people to their seats.
As the hymn went on Jack looked down the crowded church and estimated there were about a hundred and fifty people in the black pews. He glanced uneasily at his uncle, took the arm of a very old lady, accompanied by a woman, her daughter perhaps, who seemed scarcely any younger than she was, helped her to a seat. Robert’s face, when Jack returned to the door, was still as stiff as a poker. He wasn’t putting a very good face on the situation, thought Jack. The truth was that Violet’s will, when opened, had been inordinately long and complicated. Pamela had tried to suggest that her mother had been on the verge of senility when she’d composed it, but the document, though irritating to the family, made perfect sense. In it Violet had suggested her own memorial service (with an appended list of guests), to be held at St Clement Dane’s or St Martin-in-the-Fields, both churches connected with the arts and politics. Pamela, scanning the list, had thrown up her eyes. ‘They won’t come,’ she’d declared. Jack, having been at the door of the church, knew now that many of them had.
Violet had also left the bulk of her money, which totalled seventy thousand pounds, to her daughter Joanna. Robert, relaying this information to members of the family assembled at Cavendish Square, showed his anger. ‘Joanna’s sixty-nine,’ he’d said. ‘She’s childless and she’s been in a nursing home for nearly forty years. It’s highly doubtful if she’s competent to make a will herself. Why Joanna?’
‘It’s very wounding to Mother, who took care of Grandmother for so long,’ Anna Schreft declared.
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ Pamela had said.
‘Well, you should,’ Anna told her forcefully. ‘That’s true, isn’t it, Joe?’
Joe Schreft, her husband and second cousin, a stocky man with a thick black moustache, said, ‘It isn’t very pleasant.’
‘The whole thing’s a challenge,’ Robert had observed from the chair where he sat scanning the seven-page document, typed and correctly witnessed by a solicitor and Violet’s old maid, Dora Davis. He wished his sister had taken the will herself from Violet’s desk, and read it before his arrival from the States. Instead, he’d been forced into a family reading and, since the will was Violet’s, there was almost bound to be trouble. Pamela hadn’t dared face it on her own, he imagined. Her husband was in Jamaica, and showing no signs of rushing back to help. He, too, gave up. ‘I can’t face reading it all out. Would everyone like to look for themselves? Pamela?’
