War Damage (26 page)

twenty-seven

O
N HER WAY INTO TOWN
to see Edith Blake and then have lunch with Ian Roxburgh, Regine stopped off in Kentish Town to visit Mrs Havelock, who'd caught flu from Phil. She passed half-bombed terraces where the remaining houses were in a state of near-collapse. She wondered why everyone still looked so poor, when, according to Neville, they were getting so much money from the government. Of course Dinah and Alan saw it differently.

She found the shrunken Georgian cottage in Leighton Road, its windows curtained with dingy net. Mrs Havelock was wrapped in an old dressing gown and she'd bound up her head in a flannel scarf.

‘Oh my goodness, ma'am, you shouldn't have.' Her voice was croaky, her eyes red. ‘I've caught something shocking.' A bluish gaslight hissed in the corridor that was the hall. That must account for the strange smell. It was probably quite dangerous. ‘I brought you a few things.' Regine pulled the paper bags of fruit and the cough mixture and pills from the chemist out of her basket. ‘I just wanted to make sure you're all right. Have you seen the doctor?'

‘Oh, no, Mrs Milner – I'm not on the panel, nothing like that.' She was seized with a violent fit of coughing.

‘But that's all changed now – you just have to register with a doctor. Everybody can.'

‘I know. There was a leaflet and I heard on the radio, but I haven't had time.'

‘We'll sort it all out for you. I'll get the forms.' Neville had grudgingly done the paperwork for both of them, while protesting he intended to stay with his private Harley Street doctor.

At Crispin Drownes, Edith was extremely cordial and pleased to receive the French history translation ahead of time. Regine was invited to take coffee with Edith and Drownes senior. To meet Jonathan Drownes himself was, she knew, the confirmation of her appointment and an honour in itself. She would commence work after Christmas. William Drownes escorted her to the door and shook her hand warmly. ‘We're looking forward to your joining us, Mrs Milner.'

By the time she left Bloomsbury Square the morning mist was thickening into fog. The traffic had slowed, and lights only partly pierced the gloom.

It took Regine some time to find Roxburgh's office. The viscous fog had crept into the tiled hall and clung to the walls. She climbed the linoleum-covered stairs, surprised by the dinginess, and knocked at his door.

Roxburgh was cordial, but the room could have come straight out of an American film about some seedy detective. And who was Ian Roxburgh, anyway?

Across the desk, he swivelled his office chair, watching Regine all the time. ‘You found it all right? The fog seems to be getting worse.'

‘You wanted to see me about Freddie's will?' She loosened her coat, although the office was far from warm.

He opened his desk drawer, still looking intently at her. For a second she had the strangest sensation, as if he were about to whip out a revolver. ‘Probate will take months, of course.' He drew a sheet of paper from the drawer. ‘In the end I didn't bring anything with me, but I've drawn up a list of little things I thought you might like. You'll be familiar with them, won't you.'

‘He didn't actually leave me anything, then? It doesn't seem right, somehow, if he didn't intend it.' It was odd, because Freddie used to joke about what he'd leave her: the Regency desk and the Venetian mirror – not that it
mattered
, she didn't care that much about the things in themselves, although they were lovely, of course, it was just hurtful that he hadn't left her anything at all. In fact, it was downright odd.

‘Did Freddie ever tell you how we met?' His sly, knowing smile unnerved her. ‘You see, when I was in the Far East at the end of the war, I naturally – you can imagine in my line of business – came across a wide range of individuals.'

‘I've never quite understood exactly what your line of business was, Ian, in the war, that is.'

‘Especially out there – Shanghai was a magnet for any and every dubious character. Always had been – as you must have realised yourself. I was put in there to sort things out – along with others, of course. I met a chap in the Philippines, this was just after the end of the war. He was a crook if ever there was one – managed to get away from Shanghai with a couple of other notorious characters. I was in touch with British intelligence. They were keen to get hold of him too. An Irish nationalist – hated the British. He'd lain low in occupied Shanghai all through the war. He got by, working for the Germans or the Japs – ran a nightclub, something similar to what he'd been doing before the war. Much more dangerous of course. But to all intents and purposes, or at least so far as many of his pre-war friends were concerned, he simply disappeared. No doubt most of his old acquaintances – those that weren't scattered to the four winds, that is – assumed he was dead; if they thought about him at all. At the end he had a couple of narrow escapes – that's how he came to be in the Philippines. He was on his uppers, but he still had a few contacts – he still knew people who knew how to get hold of all sorts of items. He was helpful to me, put me in touch with some lucrative sources, so in return I helped him in getting away. He was desperate to get back to Ireland.'

Regine looked blankly at her own hands and twisted the emerald ring. ‘What are you saying, Ian?' Although she knew very well.

‘You didn't know your husband was involved with the Germans in Shanghai? Before the war, that is?'

‘Eugene never talked about politics – or Ireland. He knew some Germans, the Strausses, but then he knew everyone …' She tried to remember Hans and Lotte. She'd quite liked them … was he saying they were
Nazis
… ‘I don't think Eugene was a traitor.'

‘Not a traitor, an Irish patriot in his eyes, my dear. As you know, Ireland was neutral in the war. Many of the Irish fought with the Allies, but there were also nationalists who hoped Germany would win. Anyway, when I met him things were at a low ebb for him and I was able to help him. He talked a lot about Freddie. He was very bitter about him. I wonder how much you know – or knew – about what was going on under your nose out there. Did you know pre-war Shanghai was the absolute epicentre of intelligence and espionage in the Far East? And there were a lot of people like Freddie who passed bits and pieces of information to the British. To put it bluntly, Freddie informed on your husband. He told British intelligence your husband was involved with the Shanghai Nazis. Your husband at least was convinced of that. He told me a lot about Freddie, so I made it my business to look Freddie up when I came home. He confirmed the story. He had been involved in intelligence. He wasn't too pleased when I turned up with the news that Eugene was still alive. Like you, he assumed he'd died in the war, when the Japs invaded. Mind you, neither of us expected to see him again over here, where he risked being arrested for treason. Not very likely, perhaps, but anyway we thought he'd go straight back to Ireland.'

‘This is all rather a shock.' Regine stood up and took a few steps up and down the crowded, untidy office. ‘I had no idea Freddie was mixed up in anything like that. But why does it matter now?'

‘Freddie was worried for you, Regine. A dead husband turns up out of the blue – a crook and a traitor into the bargain – he wanted to protect you from that. That's why he changed his executor. He didn't want Neville to know.'

It sounded implausible. ‘But why should Neville have found out?' She didn't trust Roxburgh. She sat down again.

‘I can help you, Regine. He's been in touch with you, hasn't he. He's frightened. He's a desperate man – he thinks some of his former associates are after him. Perhaps they are, though I'd have thought it's more likely they're rotting in jails in Manila or Hong Kong, or at the bottom of the South China Sea, but he's afraid. He's afraid the British will catch up with him as well. He needs money. After all, we know there are plenty of ex-Nazis floating around the place, don't we. He also seems to think we all owe him money. He doesn't seem very grateful for the help I gave him.'

Regine looked past Roxburgh out of the window. Beyond it the air had turned thick white and solid.

‘I don't want to frighten you, Regine, but I'm afraid he's becoming a little unhinged. His nerves are shot to pieces. He's at the end of his tether. And you know yourself, he was always a bit of a wild card, wasn't he, a bit unpredictable.'

All the time Roxburgh was speaking, he was looking at Regine, a knowing, sardonic, insistent gaze.

‘Can we get back to Freddie's will? I don't see what this has to do with Freddie.'

‘What your husband had told me about Freddie – well, I made sure I got in touch with him when I got back to London. You see, there was this yarn about the jade necklace. Eugene claimed he'd got it from some gangster, it was supposed to have been stolen from a museum or … God knows. Valuable, anyway, very, very valuable. He insisted Freddie had stolen it. And Freddie
did
have it. He showed it to me. And his photographs. I saw those as well.'

Regine hated the way Roxburgh's pale blue eyes bored into her, full of meaning. He went on: ‘Only now the necklace isn't there. Nor are the photographs.' His smile never wavered as he scrutinised her. ‘And you and Neville were round there like a shot, weren't you, the minute you heard Freddie was dead. So …'

Regine sat very still, but her thoughts raced. Finally she said: ‘How dare you suggest we stole anything from Markham Square.'

Roxburgh stood up. He walked round the desk and stood behind her. His hands were on her shoulders. ‘Of course, my dear, I apologise. Insulting of me even to suggest it. And I wouldn't dream of mentioning anything to Neville either – about our friend from Shanghai. Only –' and he bent down and she felt the prick of his moustache against her neck, ‘I think I deserve a little gratitude, don't you, for my reticence.' He held her tightly from behind. She tried to break free. He held her more tightly for a moment, and then let her go. She stood up, untidy, flustered, cornered.

He walked over to the window. ‘The fog's getting worse. If we're going to have lunch I think we ought to get going.'

When they reached the street the fog was a pale pall out of which figures emerged eerily from a foot away, a sudden shock as they wafted forward out of the ectoplasm. Traffic was sparse and moved slowly, headlights barely piercing the murk. The dim, leaden light muffled sound as well as sight. The air tasted acrid and her throat began to feel sore.

Roxburgh took her arm. ‘I think the restaurant's this way.'

‘Perhaps we'd better try to flag down a taxi – and perhaps just get home, for now,' suggested Regine.

But there were no taxis that they could see.

‘Oh, I can find my way,' said Roxburgh smoothly. He held her closely, but there was nothing reassuring about his grip.

As they walked along the pavement the slabs gradually disappeared. The suffocating fog crept closer still. She could see barely a foot ahead. A white wall rolled towards them. They were alone in this suffocating, silent world. Sound, too, was deadened; no traffic, no footsteps. She stretched her free arm sideways groping for a wall or something solid to hold on to, and when she found it she edged her way along it. Roxburgh lit a match, but the feeble glow did nothing to disperse the miasma.

The wall fell away. Now they were unanchored, adrift in a blanket so thick it was like moving through veils. Roxburgh too seemed to have lost all sense of direction. He stopped. She was on the edge of panic.

‘There's no point in turning round,' he said. ‘We'll just have to walk on. We'll get to somewhere eventually.'

Their footsteps echoed dully … or perhaps what she heard were the footsteps of another being lost in the fog.

They edged forward in the white blindness and after a while the sound of their footsteps changed in timbre. A darker whiteness; she slipped, tottered and almost fell. He gripped her arm so tightly it hurt. ‘Easy does it.' The smell of the fog had a metallic edge to it now.

He stopped and lit another match. He stepped forward, stretched out his hand, gasped and lurched back against her. ‘A carcass, I banged up against a damn great side of beef. We're in Smithfield meat market, slipping on entrails and guts and blood.'

Carcasses! It was macabre, and yet half comical too.

He turned and caught her closely. His moustache scraped her lips. His hand thrust inside her coat, his fingers pinched her nipple, his leg was thrust between hers.

‘I'm going to have you, you know.'

‘For God's sake, Ian, are you mad!'

But her anger seemed only to amuse him. He laughed. ‘Not the most romantic location. You were right. We should have got a taxi. Me and you in the back of a taxi.' His hand roamed down her body.

She wasn't going to scream or fight. What use would screaming be in this empty world? She said between gritted teeth: ‘Let me go, Ian.'