Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

The other photograph, also far from recent, though less time-expired than Ferrand-Sénéschal’s, was more interesting. It was of Pamela Widmerpool. Her hair-do suggested the end of the war, or not long after. The picture could have dated from the year of her marriage to Widmerpool, possibly even taken at the moment of emergence from the ceremony. In spite of heavy touching-up on the part of the blockmaker, the expression was resentful enough for that. This touching-up had added a decidedly French air to her appearance. That could have been acquired not only from the cupid’s bow mouth, brutally superimposed on her own, but, more universally, from the manner in which photographic portraiture in the press automatically assumes the national characteristics of whatever country has processed the blocks, fabricated their ‘screen’; an extension of the law that makes the photographer impose his personal view of them on individuals photographed. Dr Brightman scrutinized carefully both pictures.

‘Lady Widmerpool? A very bedworthy gentlewoman, I understand. But Ferrand-Sénéschal? I am frankly surprised. I should never have guessed … assoiffé de plaisir… dévoré de désir … terrible obsession … How unchanged remains the French view of English life — phlegmatic, sadistic aristocrats, moving coldly and silently from one atrocity to another through the fogs of le Hyde Park and les Jardins de Kensington.’

I tried to peer over Dr Brightman’s shoulder at what was written. Clutching the paper obstinately, she refused to surrender an inch of its surface.

‘The implication is that Lady Widmerpool visited Ferrand-Sénéschal in his luxurious hotel suite — accommodation Sardanapalus would have found over-indulgent — only a few hours before the Reaper. Even that is chiefly my own assumption. Nothing definite is even hinted.’

Gwinnett laughed abruptly, rather uncomfortably. His laugh was high and nervous. He addressed me again.

‘Isn’t that the lady we talked about — Trapnel’s girl?’

‘Certainly.’

‘The implication is she was in bed with this Frenchman after he was dead.’

‘Is that how you read it?’

Dr Brightman disregarded our exchange, too engrossed to hear, or because Trapnel’s name meant nothing to her. From time to time she read out a phrase that took her fancy.

‘Fougueuse sensualité … étranges caprices … amitiés equivoques… We never seem to get anything solid. Odieux chantages… but of whom? Situation gênante.. Then why not tell us about it? Le scandale éclate… It never seems to have done so. I am still not at all sure what happened, scarcely wiser than after reading the headline.’

She handed the paper over at last. Reservations about its interest were more than justified. As usual in such journalism, promise was far short of performance. There was a hint that some scandal about Ferrand-Sénéschal had been hushed up in France fairly recently, no details given, only pious horror expressed. That social engagements since arrival in London sufficiently explained taking an afternoon’s rest, even between sheets, in the light of medical advice, was altogether ignored. References to Pamela — called ‘Lady Pamela Widmerpool’ — were even less specific. Indeed, they were written without serious attempt to fit her into the Ferrand-Sénéschal story, such as it was. Nothing whatever was alleged against her, except that she — apparently other persons too — had visited the hotel suite at one time or another. By implication, Ferrand-Sénéschal’s habits so notorious, that visit in itself was damaging enough. Her own pranks were touched on only vaguely, not very accurately, though more directly than the law of libel would have allowed an English paper. Widmerpool was treated simply as a great nobleman of the Old School.

‘One of my maiden aunts — a social category no longer extant — used to live permanently in that hotel,’ said Dr Brightman. ‘I’m sure she had no idea things like that were going on there. The place did not at all suggest gaiety. She would have been surprised. Rather thrilled too, I think.’

The respectable, unpretentious style of Ferrand-Sénéschal’s hotel disavowed the grand luxe attributed to his two-room suite. It was only a few streets away from the former Jeavons residence in South Kensington, converted by Ted Jeavons after the war into several small flats, one of which he inhabited himself. The fact that Ferrand-Sénéschal was on his way to the Conference later on found no place in the Détective story, probably regarded as a banal detail likely to prejudice inferences that he had come to London with the sole purpose of participating in an orgy. Dr Brightman reached out for the paper again. She examined the picture of Pamela.

‘I can add my own small contribution to the bulletin,’ she said. ‘The lady in question is in Venice at this moment.’

Gwinnett, who had been sitting silent, chewing at his thumbnail, shifted forward.

‘She is, Emily? You’ve seen her?’

This time he sounded quite excited. Dr Brightman made a gesture to indicate she had enjoyed no such luck.

‘I was so informed by a French colleague, who is also attending the Conference. We normally correspond about Gallo-Roman personal names, with special reference to Brittany. On this occasion I fear we descended to gossip. My friend must be unaware of the reference here to Lady Widmerpool, or I’m sure he would have mentioned it. He had witnessed what he described as an extraordinary incident at the French Embassy in London, where Lady Widmerpool, quite deliberately, broke the back of a small gilt chair during supper. That made such an impression, he immediately recognized her profile seen at Quadri’s.’

‘I’d give something to meet that lady.’

Gwinnett did not sound hopeful. Dr Brightman and I assured him there should be no difficulty in arranging that.

‘You’ve just got to sit in the Piazza long enough. You see everyone in the world, if you do that.’

‘But I don’t know Lady Widmerpool.’

‘I’ll introduce you.’

That was said in the heat of the moment. Afterwards, immediately afterwards, it was to be seen as a rash offer. I hoped she would not walk into the hotel at that moment. The very idea of her being in Venice made Gwinnett restless, a state alternating in him with a kind of torpor. He rose from the table, then paused for a moment, again unsure what he wanted to do. He came to a decision.

‘I’ll take a stroll in the Piazza right now. Do you mind if I retain this journal?’

That could not be refused, since it belonged to him, though I had not yet studied the piece thoroughly. He folded it again, stood in thought for a moment, said goodnight. We said goodnight to him in return. It was not impossible that he might see Pamela Widmerpool in St Mark’s Square. Perhaps he hoped to pick up someone there in any case. A girl? A man? One felt rather ashamed of these speculations, as earlier of wondering whether he was an ex-alcoholic. He had shown no sign whatever of seeking in Venice any sort of dissipation. The notion that he was bent on some such goal, no doubt quite unfounded, attached to his withdrawn mysterious air, a little uncommon in an American, anyway in Gwinnett’s form. As soon as he was gone, Dr Brightman, without any prompting, began to speak of him.

‘Let me tell you about Russell Gwinnett.’

‘Please do.’

‘He is a small fragment detached from the comparatively extensive and cavernous grottoes of gothic America. He is part of an Old America — the oldest — yet has become in some respects the New America. I hardly know how to put it.’

‘Halfway between Henry Adams and Charles Addams?’

‘Not bad. In fact alpha plus, insomuch as Henry Adams says that true eccentricity is in a tone, and only the conventional approach loves to assume unconventionality. Russell is unconventional by nature, not by choice. Even then, only in certain respects. He is good at such sports as racquets, skating, skiing. If there is a superfluity of Edgar Allan Poe brought up to date, there is also a touch of Edwin Arlington Robinson.’