William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

“Do you know, I haven’t seen you for ages,” she said. “How are you? Fully recovered? I must say I do like you in your uniform.” She pointed. “What’re these?”

“Gaiters. Mother — I have to ask you a few rather pointed questions.”

“Me? ‘ Pointe d ?’ My goodness. On you go.”

He paused, feeling on the brink again, as if he were about to initiate a causal chain that could lead anywhere.

“Do you know an officer called Captain Christian Vandenbrook?”

“Yes. Very well. I deal with him all the time about Fund business.”

The Fund, Lysander thought, of course. The Claverleigh Hall War Fund. He relaxed ever so slightly — perhaps there was nothing in it after all.

“Did you see him at the Dene Hotel in Hythe three nights ago?”

“Yes. We had an appointment for dinner. Lysander, what’s all this —”

“Forgive me for being so blunt and horribly obtuse and impolite but…” he paused, feeling sick. “But — are you having an affair with Captain Vandenbrook?”

She laughed at that, genuinely, but her laughter died quickly.

“Of course not. How dare you suggest such a thing.”

He saw the real anger in her eyes and so closed his as he pressed on.

“You stayed in the same hotel as Captain Vandenbrook nine times in the past year.”

He heard her stand and he opened his eyes. She was looking out on the park through the high, many-paned window. It was drizzling, the light was fading — silvery, tarnished.

“Are you spying on me?”

“I’m spying on him . I was following him and I saw him meet you.”

“Why on earth are you spying on Captain Vandenbrook?”

“Because he’s a traitor. Because he’s been sending military secrets to Germany.”

This shocked her, he saw. She swivelled and stared at him alarmed.

“Captain Vandenbrook — I don’t believe it…Are you sure?”

“I have the evidence to hang him.”

“I can’t…How…” Her voice trailed off and then she said, incredulously, “All we talk about is blankets, ambulances, pots of honey, village fêtes and nurses — how to spend the money I raise. I can’t believe it.”

“Do you know that every time he meets you he leaves an envelope at the hotel to be collected?”

“No, of course not.”

“He’s never asked you to deliver one of these envelopes?”

“Never. Honestly. Look, I met him because the War Office appointed him as the officer to liaise with the Fund when I started everything up. He was incredibly helpful.”

“He’s a charming man.”

“He’s even been here. Two — no, three times. We’ve had meetings here. Crickmay met him. He dined with us.”

“Here? He never mentioned it to me.”

“Why would he? I never mentioned you to him. I assume he hasn’t the faintest idea that you’re my son. That the man with the evidence to hang him is my son,” she added, a little bitterly. “Or even that I have a son. For heaven’s sake — all we talked about was the Fund.”

Lysander supposed that if you are an attractive woman in your very early fifties you don’t advertise the fact that you have a son who is almost thirty. And it was true — nothing in Vandenbrook’s demeanour, no sly implication or hint, had ever given away that he knew his mother was Lady Faulkner.

“Do you think I might have a drink?” he asked.

“Excellent idea,” she said and rang the bell for the footman who duly brought them a tray with two glasses, a bottle of brandy and a soda siphon. Lysander made their drinks and gave his mother hers. He took big gulps of his. Despite all the denials and the plausible explanations he had a very bad feeling about this connection with Vandenbrook. It was not a coincidence, he knew — there would be consequences. Fucking consequences, again.

“May I smoke?”

“I’ll join you,” she said. Lysander took out his cigarette case, lighting his mother’s cigarette and then his own.

“Why are you spying on Vandenbrook?” she asked. “I mean, why you in particular.” She stubbed her cigarette out — she was never much of a smoker. “You’re a soldier, aren’t you?”

“I’m attached to this department in the War Office. We’re trying to find this traitor. He’s causing terrible damage.”

“Well, you’ve found him, haven’t you?”

“Vandenbrook is only handing over information because he’s being blackmailed, it seems. So he claims.”

“Blackmailed for what?”

“It’s very…unpleasant. Very shaming.” Lysander wondered how much to tell her. “He’d be ruined, totally, if it ever came out what he’d done — marriage, career, family. He’d go to prison.”

“Goodness.” He saw that the vagueness of his reply was more disturbing than anything explicit. She looked at him again. “So who’s blackmailing him?”

“That’s the problem — it looks very much as if you are.”

Perhaps I spoke too unthinkingly, too bluntly. She seemed very shaken all of a sudden — not incredulous, any more — as if the shocking but irrefutable logic of the set-up had struck her just as it had struck me. I made her another brandy and soda and told her to go over everything again for me, once more. It started with the first meeting with Vandenbrook at the War Office in September 1914 and subsequent regular contact followed as the Claverleigh Hall War Fund began to generate significant amounts of money. He first came to Claverleigh in early 1915 shortly after his transfer to the Directorate of Movements.

“Why didn’t he pass on the War Fund to someone else? The work in the Directorate is frantic.”

“He asked if he could stay on board if he could,” she said. “He was very impressed by what we were doing, he said, and very concerned that any hand-over to someone else would be detrimental. So I agreed without hesitation. I was very happy — we got on very well — he was extremely efficient. In fact I think I even suggested we meet when he came to Folkestone on business — just to make it easier for him. The first hotel I stayed in was at Sandwich. I offered to motor over.”

“Did you meet him in London?”

“Yes. Half a dozen times — when I went up to town.” She paused. “I won’t deny I enjoyed our meetings…Crickmay wasn’t well and for me these nights away were, you know, a little escape. Of course, he’s an attractive, amusing man, Captain Vandenbrook. And I think we both enjoyed the…The mild flirtation. The mildest. But nothing happened. Never. Not even after Crickmay died.”

“I completely understand,” I said. “I believe you. I’m just trying to see things from his point of view.”

“It’s because I’m Austrian, of course,” she said, flatly, almost sullenly. “I’ve just realized — that’s the key. That’s why they’ll suspect me. Instantly.” He felt the depression seize her, almost physically, as her shoulders seemed to bow. “When they connect me with him…The Austrian woman.”

“I’m half Austrian too, remember,” I said, worriedly. “Everything’s too neat, too pat…”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Nothing yet — I have to dig a little more.”

“What about me?”

“Carry on as if nothing has happened.”

She stood up, new anxiety written on her face. She seemed as troubled as I’d ever seen her.

“Have you told anyone about Vandenbrook and what you discovered?”

“No. Not yet. I don’t want the rest of them blundering in. I have to be very careful what I say.”

She went over to the window again — it was now quite dark and I could hear the nail-tap of steady rain on the glass.