“Parish magazine?” said Berthea brightly. “I do love the amateur recipes one reads in such things. And they’re such lovely little publications. You know, the local cub scouts’ recipe book, that sort of thing – six pages, fifty pence. Vanilla sponge, upside-down-pudding, and so on. Absolutely charming. Not that one would care to attempt any of the recipes!” Fifteen-thirty.
Terence, who was unaware of the tension underlying this exchange, was busy with the placements. “I’d like Claire to sit on my right,” he said. “Here we are, Claire. Place of honour.”
Claire moved to her chair and sat down. She was rather overweight, and the chair creaked ominously.
“Terence, you are naughty,” said Berthea, with concern in her voice. “You really should have given Claire a stronger chair.” Fifteen-forty. “Let me take that one and I’ll give her mine. I’ll be fine on the weaker one.” Game, set and match.
Claire glowered. “It’s fine,” she muttered. “This chair’s perfectly adequate. Please don’t bother.”
“It’s Uncle Edgar’s fault,” said Terence. “He used to take that chair up to his room when he wanted to get something down from one of those high shelves of his. He stood right on the middle of the sitting-down bit. Mummy got jolly cross with him. She used to say, ‘Dining-room chairs are not ladders, Edgar.’ Do you remember her saying that, Berthy? Do you remember her ticking Uncle Edgar off?”
Berthea’s eyes glazed over. “Vaguely.”
“And he also used to drink in his room,” Terence went on. “Nobody said anything, of course, but I remember seeing a large bottle of Scotch up there more than once. Mummy said that he had a weak chest and needed to take a drink for his breathing, but I think it went further than that. Don’t you think, Berthy?”
Berthea unfolded her table napkin. “I’m not sure,” she said, “that Roger and Claire are all that interested in Uncle Edgar, Terence.”
“Oh, but we are,” said Roger. “Family stories are always very interesting, and …” he paused and looked coyly at Terence, “and, as Terence said, we think of ourselves as family now.”
Berthea’s lip curled. “Tell me,” she said, turning to Terence, “what are you giving us this evening, Terence?”
“Pea soup, to start with,” he replied proudly. “Followed by kedgeree. Then, to round off, we have Christmas pudding. Not that it’s Christmas, of course, but I put the leftover pudding in the freezer and I came across it the other day.”
Claire clapped her hands together. “What a lovely menu, Terence. It’s a terrific balance of …”
“Yin and yang?” offered Berthea.
There was a silence, eventually broken by Terence, who announced that he would go to fetch the soup and the wine. “We’re having Sauternes with the soup,” he said. “Then a very nice Rioja with the kedgeree. I saw it recommended in the paper. They said it was a jolly good bargain. Six pounds.”
“Terence, dear,” said Berthea, “kedgeree is a fishy dish. I would have thought that it would be better to serve a white wine with fish. And Sauternes is really a pudding wine, don’t you think?”
Roger looked up. “There’s no reason not to have red with fish and white with meat,” he said. “I do it myself. A good choice, Terence, and I for one look forward to it.”
“There,” said Terence to Berthea. “See?”
Terence went out of the room, and silence descended once again. Berthea occupied herself for a moment by rearranging her knife and fork; then she looked up and saw that both Roger and Claire were staring at her expectantly. “I hear that you’re writing a book,” she said to Roger. “Do tell me about it.”
Roger nodded – pompously, she thought. “It’s about how we know the world,” he said.
“That’s a very broad subject,” said Berthea. “Epistemology?”
“In a way,” said Roger. “But it’s by no means a work of conventional epistemology. I’m not concerned with perception and understanding in the way in which modern philosophy is. I’m interested in how the old knowledge helps us to understand the world. I want to put people in touch with this deep wisdom. It’s a cosmological work, really.”
Claire joined in. “This wisdom is mainly to be found in myths and archetypes,” she said. “The Green Man, for instance.”
Berthea smiled. “The man who appears at morris dances? Wearing leaves – the tree?”
“That’s only one of his guises,” said Roger. “The Green Man appears in all sorts of iconographical contexts. You see him on churches and cathedrals, for instance.”
“Chartres Cathedral,” said Claire. “You generally see his face peeping through the leaves. He represents—”
Roger took over. “He represents our connection with the life-giving earth. He is the forest. He is the growth principle. He is what Hildegard of Bingen called viriditas, the green force.”
Terence returned with the pea soup. It was green, but with traces of brown where some sort of oil had separated from the rest of the mixture. Small lumps, of pea, or possibly ham, floated on the surface. Viriditas, thought Berthea. The green force.
Terence served the Sauternes. “I hope this wine is sweet enough,” he said. “If not, we can all add a tiny bit of sugar.” He raised his glass. “But first, let me propose a toast to fellowship, friendship and … and what else, Berthy? Can you think of something beginning with an F?”
Fraud, thought Berthea, looking at Roger, but she did not say it, of course. Fat, she thought, looking at Claire, but did not say that either. “Felicity,” she offered.
Terence thought this a completely suitable third element for his toast. “To fellowship, friendship and felicity,” he said, with a flourish.
Glasses were raised. Claire did not look at Berthea; Berthea looked at neither Roger nor Claire; Terence looked at Claire, who returned his admiring gaze with a smile. Roger looked at his pea soup, perhaps divining on its oily surface the face of the Green Man himself.
Oh, Terence, thought Berthea. Oh, Terence, my dear, silly, but thoroughly kind brother. You are in dreadful danger, and you haven’t an inkling of it, not an inkling.
Chapter 45: A Question of Karma
Berthea had to save the little private word she intended to have with Terence until after Roger and Claire had gone to bed. It was a long wait, as the couple showed every sign of digging in and waiting until Berthea retired. But she would give them no quarter, and sat doggedly on until Roger started to nod off and Claire had no real alternative but to concede.
“I think we should all go off to Bedfordshire,” said Terence, looking at his watch.
“Not yet,” Berthea said quickly. “Roger and Claire, you go up. Terence and I will have a little walk in the garden. It’s such a nice evening. Just the two of us. Family chat, you know.”
The last sentence was accompanied by a warning look directed at Roger. Real family, it said, not ersatz family. Roger pretended not to notice. “Such an enjoyable evening,” he said, stifling a yawn.
Once Roger and Claire had left, Berthea crossed the room and took her brother by the arm. He was reluctant. “I’m terribly tired, Berthy,” he said. “I really don’t want to walk in the garden.”
“Come along,” she said briskly, and Terence, out of ancient habit, complied. His sister had told him to come along as a little boy, and he had meekly done as he was told. It was no different now.
They went out into the garden. “Look,” said Terence. “It’s almost a full moon. It looks close enough to touch, doesn’t it?”
“That’s as may be,” said Berthea. “But listen, Terence, what’s all this about a centre? What have you been hatching with those … with those two back there?”
Terence looked petulant. “How do you know about this? It’s meant to be a secret.”
“Never you mind. The fact is that I know. So you may as well tell me exactly what’s going on.”
Terence made a small sound of protest. “You’ll just ruin everything,” he said. “You’ve always spoiled my fun. Ev
en when we were young.”
Berthea was dismissive. “Nonsense,” she said. “What is it? A centre for what?”
Terence realised that resistance was futile; Berthea was such a bully, he thought. “It’s going to be a centre for cosmological studies,” he said. “And self-discovery. People will come and discover themselves. We’ll have courses in the old wisdom.”
“The Green Man and such stuff?”
“Exactly. The Green Man. And we’ll have morris dancing too. Roger promised me that.”
Berthea drew in her breath. “And this … this so-called centre will be run by them?” She nodded in the direction of the house. “By Roger and Claire?”
“Yes,” replied Terence. “I’m going to make the house over to a trust they run, and—”
She gripped his arm. “Make the house over! Are you mad? Where will you live?”
“Oh, they promised me that I’ll be able to live here the same as before. Only it’ll be a centre as well.”
Berthea looked up at the moon. She was going to have to be very careful. “Well, it all sounds such fun,” she said, forcing herself to utter the words.
“It will be,” Terence enthused. “It’ll be terrific fun, Berthy. And you can come too. You can come and listen to some of the lectures and maybe give a talk yourself.”
“That’ll be lovely,” said Berthea. “But I wonder whether it might not be a better idea to hold on to the house. Don’t make it over. You can let them run their centre here, but don’t sign anything. You never know …”
Terence nodded sagely. “I know what you mean. You have to be careful about these things. But I’m absolutely certain that Roger and Claire are trustworthy. You heard them – they said that they’re almost family.”
“Yes,” said Berthea. “That’s lovely, Terence. But you know that you shouldn’t give your house away – even to family. It’s just not wise.”
“It’s fine, Berthy. It really is. Roger’s promised me that everything will be all right. Nothing will change.”
She decided to change tack. “Don’t do it, Terence,” she said. She searched for language that might get through to her brother. “His karma, you see. It’s a question of karma.”
“But his karma’s fine,” said Terence. “You’re right to raise the issue, Berthy, but Roger’s karma is absolutely positive. No, there’s no problem there.”
She did not give up. “It’s just that I had this feeling about … about his aura. I felt that there was something negative there. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think we should trust our intuitions.”
“You’re right,” he said. “We must trust our intuitions, and my intuitions all say that Roger is the right person to have a centre here. I just know it, Berthy. I’m convinced.” He paused. ‘You know, I’m touched that you should take an interest in this. And I’m really pleased that you’re getting on so well with Rog and Claire. It means a lot to me that the whole family should be happy with the space that everybody’s in.”
Berthea gritted her teeth. “So you haven’t signed anything yet?”
Terence shook his head. “Not yet. But Roger has had a deed of some sort drawn up and it’s going to arrive next Wednesday. I’ll sign it then.”
“Don’t you think you should show it to Mr Worsfold?” Herbert Worsfold was the family solicitor; he might be able to stop this, thought Berthea. He had rescued Terence from a number of difficult situations before now, although none as potentially disastrous as this.
“Mr Worsfold’s terribly busy,” said Terence. “Lawyers always are – with all that law, you know. I don’t want to bother him.”
“But you must!” pleaded Berthea. “You really must, Terence. Mr Worsfold loves being bothered. He really does. It’s … it’s part of his karma.”
“No, Berthy. My mind is made up. If I start getting solicitors involved in all this, then the karma would certainly be wrong. This is a transaction based on love and respect, Berthy. Lawyers spoil all that with their ‘notwithstandings’ and their ‘hereins’ and all that nonsense. Not for me, Berthy. Not for me.”
Berthea looked back at the house. It meant a lot to her; she had spent her childhood there and it was rich in memories. She was perfectly content that it had been left to Terence rather than to her, as he was more vulnerable and would never have been able to find a place to live had he needed to. And with him living there, it felt for Berthea that it was still, in a way, her family home. She would not give it up without a fight. It did not matter if she had to resort to underhand techniques; she was prepared to do that. And she knew a thing or two about those, she reminded herself. After all, she was the mother of Oedipus Snark MP, which must make her in the eyes of some … well, not all that far removed from Lucrezia Borgia.
Very well, she thought. Gloves off. Roger and Claire: you’re toast. She pondered the expression, alien in her mouth though it seemed. It was so vindictive, so primitive, so unforgiving. She should not use it, because she was neither vindictive nor primitive, and she was always willing to forgive. Except, perhaps, in the case of Oedipus. He would be toast too, she thought. In time. In time.
Chapter 46: Blackmail
Freddie de la Hay had found a comfortable spot on the floor of the flat occupied by Tilly Curtain, a Senior Field Officer (Grade 2) in MI6. The salary of an MI6 field officer, though adequate, is not unduly generous and certainly was not enough to stretch to a flat in that particular street in Notting Hill. Even C himself, who was paid at the level of a senior civil service mandarin – plus a twelve thousand pound annual danger allowance, and an automatic C (“C’s C”), leading, of course, to a K – would barely have managed the inflated monthly rental on this flat without feeling the pinch. The reason for the expensive rental was that the landlord had realised just how keen his prospective lessee was for this particular flat. He had suggested a number of other places to the young woman but she had not seemed in the slightest bit interested in those. That was when he understood that there was something about this flat in particular that she wanted. He could not see what it was, frankly, but people had their little ways, and if these idiosyncrasies enabled him to ask for twenty-five per cent more rent than he could normally expect to command for a short-term let, then so be it. And bless the little ways of tenants.
It had not occurred to the landlord that the attraction of this otherwise mediocre flat might be the neighbours. In the rental market, neighbours were usually a drawback rather than a positive feature, the one exception to this rule being celebrity neighbours, who by their mere presence could cause surrounding rentals to shoot skywards. To live next to a flamboyant and egocentric actor or actress should surely be counted a misfortune, but so great is the public fixation with the cult of celebrity that to many, such neighbours were a positive attraction rather than a drawback. The landlord, in fact, wondered whether this might explain the young woman’s desire to secure the lease on the flat at all costs. He believed that an ill-mannered celebrity chef lived in the vicinity, as did a minor rock star. He quickly drew up the lease, with its exorbitant rental provisions, and the deal was struck.
He had no idea that it was the flat on the other side of the landing that was the draw. He had let that property six months ago to an East European company, which wanted it for its London employees. They paid the deposit immediately and appeared to be good tenants although they were reluctant to invite him over the threshold once they had moved in. “There is no need for you to come in,” he had been told by a burly Russian who answered the door when he had called to see whether all was well. “There is nothing wrong. Everything functions. We are very happy. Goodbye.”
The prosaically named firm seemed completely inoffensive; nobody would give such a business a second thought, and certainly not a second glance. It was obviously concerned with international trade, although not trade in anything interesting; it must deal in bearings, perhaps, or pork futures, or steel.
In reality, the firm was far from bland: it was entirely concerned with
blackmail, which it used as a means of securing the sensitive trade secrets of major companies and government departments. These were then sold on to Russian companies who found themselves in competition with western counterparts. The resulting revenues were divided equally between a shady and virtually unknown Russian security agency – which provided the London staff – and the commercial backers, a syndicate of wealthy St Petersburg investors with no sense of commercial propriety, or indeed any of other form of honesty and fair dealing.
The techniques of blackmail used by this organisation differed in few particulars from the blackmail that had been so widely practised by certain agencies of the former Soviet Union. The most common form was sexual: a target would be identified – a middle-ranking official in an appealing company – and his appetites assessed. Thereafter there would be a sustained and carefully planned attempt to compromise him. (The victims were entirely men; women, it appeared, were considered less prone to temptation.) Once an indiscretion had been made, it was extraordinary how cooperative the victim became. Even in a permissive society, where there were few limits to what one could do, people were still sensitive to a light being shone upon their private affairs and indiscretions, and they would risk everything – including their careers – to avoid exposure.