shower of sparks.
Pritchard took a good draw on his pipe, then removed it from his mouth and let out a stream of smoke. ‘This comes close to home for you. Your sister, now…’
‘Yes.’ If Sir Walter were revealed to be up to anything dangerous or crooked, the repercussions for Cynthia would not be pleasant. She had suffered a certain amount of vilification over her divorce, coming as it did after her flagrant flaunting of herself in Sir Walter’s company, and among her set, her husband was very well liked.
He wasn’t going to pass judgement; he had wished Cynthia would be more discreet, but it wasn’t her way. On the other hand, it might turn out that Sir Walter was not up to anything illegal, let alone criminal. A man could choose to give money where he wanted, there was no law against handing over sums of money to any political movement that wasn’t actually banned. It could be a quirk in his character, there could be a dozen reasons for such behaviour, although Max felt in his bones that there was more to it than the whim of a rich man.
‘I took the liberty of mentioning the circumstances to my superiors,’ said Pritchard. ‘And — ’
‘If this is a job assigned to me, I’ll do it,’ said Max without hesitation. ‘If my sister ends up made uncomfortable by it, well, that’s too bad. One can’t let emotional and personal ties get in the way of what has to be done. I take it my brief is to find out if Sir Walter is making money on the side, if he has ties to any foreign political groups — that’s what your lot are really afraid of, isn’t it? — and what else he might be doing with his money.’
‘You’re very brutal about it. Mrs Harkness — ’
‘Is a grown-up. If she plays with fire, she may get burnt. What background information do you have on Sir Walter?’
‘I brought the file with me.’ Pritchard dug into his brown leather briefcase and pulled out a buff folder, stamped Secret. He passed it to Max. ‘Knighthood three years ago, member of the Conservative party, everything above board. He owns a house in London, another one in Wiltshire. There are gaps, however. He came to England before the war, from France, where he has another house.’
‘As does my sister,’ said Max. ‘In the same place as Malreward, that’s how they met. I wonder if she’s going to France for Christmas…’ His voice tailed off, and he was silent for a while, thinking about what Pritchard had told him, turning possible approaches over in his mind. ‘If she is, I can invite myself to spend Christmas with her there. Although she might, of course, be staying at Malreward’s villa.’
‘Isn’t that mixing your personal and professional lives rather too closely?’
‘No, I don’t think so. It could be useful in both ways.’ Max gave Pritchard a direct look. ‘I’m fond of my sister. She might not thank me for it, but if Malreward turns out to be a crook of some kind, the sooner she finds out the better.’ He didn’t add, preferably before she marries him and finds herself in God knows what kind of a mess.
‘Is it a very strong attachment?’ Pritchard asked. ‘With society ladies, it’s not always easy to tell.’
‘Is that a polite way of asking if she likes his wealth rather than the man?’
Pritchard looked taken aback by the coldness in Max’s voice. ‘It is not. It is only that women of her — of your — class live according to a different set of rules than those which apply where I come from.’
Max raised a hand to acknowledge the rebuke. ‘True enough. However, I believe women generally find Sir Walter an attractive man. He has a masculine energy about him, and the aura of success has its own appeal.’
‘A virile man,’ Pritchard agreed. ‘And a forceful one. I shouldn’t like to cross him.’
‘That’s exactly what you’re proposing I do, however.’
‘He won’t be aware that you have any interest in him, not the way you work. Your sister doesn’t know what you are, what you do?’
‘No,’ said Max.
Which was probably true inasmuch as he had never told her; on the other hand, he had a suspicion 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 decor — ated ceiling and Louis-Seize furniture