Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Harriet would not let Edward travel in the ambulance. He watched it drive away, and turned to Dewint for an explanation. He mentioned the pills Mrs Barkley kept in her bedside cabinet, and Edward found them. Pierre Rochal’s name was on the label, but when he phoned Paris, he discovered that Pierre was away on holiday.

When Edward arrived at the hospital, he was told that without Harriet’s medical records they could not say exactly what was wrong with her at this stage. She was very dehydrated, and in an extremely tense condition. She was under sedation, and until they had obtained her medical history there was nothing anyone could do. They would contact him.

Edward couldn’t believe it was happening, just as things were going so well, the company riding high. But only Edward could turn such a sad circumstance to his benefit, however unintentionally. It came about because he contacted Allard Simpson, Harry’s brother. Allard lived in a shabby but still genteel area of Kensington. He had hardly changed since the days at Cambridge, apart from looking seedier and being obviously low on funds. It had been twenty years, but might have been a matter of months.

The same old mocking Allard looked Edward up and down. ‘My, my, the elusive Mr Barkley, my brother-in-law, no less. Well, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Barkley? Good God, couldn’t you have thought up something with a little more savvy? Do sit down, I’m sure I can find something to wet the whistle.’

Edward’s glance took in the threadbare carpet, the dirty ashtrays. Allard lit the gas fire and rummaged through a cupboard, bringing out a bottle of brandy and two misty-looking glasses. ‘How’s sis? She keeps well out of the family’s way, can’t say I blame her... Well, cheers.’

‘It’s Harriet I’ve come about.’

‘Well, I didn’t think you, Mr Celebrity, would be here without a reason. What’s she up to?’

Edward hedged, looking for the best way to broach the subject, then thought, ‘To hell with it,’ and blurted, ‘What’s the matter with Harriet?’

‘Good God, how should I know? I’ve not seen her since she rushed off to France with that Frog doctor...’ He looked at Edward speculatively, ‘Unless...’

‘Unless what?’

‘Well, there was a bit of drama, so long ago I can hardly remember it. But, well, she was very dodgy for a time.’

‘Dodgy? What do you mean, dodgy?’

‘You know she cracked up, the Aunt Sylvia syndrome... Christ, look, why don’t you ask her yourself, or Ma — she knows more about it than I do.’

‘Right now she’s in no condition to be asked anything. Sylvia? BB’s wife? Why did you mention her?’

Allard snorted and wagged a finger at Edward. ‘Come on, old chap, don’t pull the leg — you know very well, or you should. After all, you cleaned poor Dickie Van der Burge out of his fortune. You know the poor sod’s bankrupt? Can’t keep him away from the tables, gambling every night. I’m surprised he’s not turned up at your posh club with a sledgehammer, he loathes you... So would I — how much did you get from the old boy? Heard through the grapevine that you made megabucks, that true?’

Edward’s mind was in turmoil... Sylvia? Sylvia syndrome? He gulped at the brandy as Allard leered at him, swinging one foot with its down-at-heel, scuffed shoe. He laughed, twirling his finger by his temple. ‘Sis gone a bit nutty again, has she?’

‘Allard, talk straight, or so help me God I’ll smash this glass straight into that smirking face of yours.’

Allard backed down fast, poured himself another brandy. ‘All I know is, Aunt Sylvia was a bit dotty. Everyone put it down to her losing her two sons. Harriet went the same way after... Look, this is her business, you’d better ask her yourself.’

‘Why don’t you tell me...’

Allard did actually have the decency to become serious. He even showed a flicker of emotion when he told Edward about Harriet’s baby, about the cot death. Edward felt as if he had been punched in the heart. Allard continued telling him how Harriet had been diagnosed schizophrenic... Edward sat back and closed his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ... was the father the French guy... was it...?’ He swallowed, his mouth dried out, he couldn’t even bring himself to say Rochal’s name. He was so shocked he didn’t ask dates, times, all he could think of was that she had had a child, and the sense of betrayal consumed him, sickened him. Allard continued unaware of the emotional impact of his revelations...

‘I don’t know all the facts, and she would never say who the father was, maybe it was Rochal, doesn’t really matter... all I know is she went off to some psychiatrist in Switzerland, and he said it was manic depression. That’s all I know. I presumed she’d got it all under control — she’s in a bad way, is she? She’s always been a bit odd, you know up one minute and down the next. Drink? Another drink? Are you all right?’

Edward sat with his head in his hands. He pressed his fingers against his temples, forcing himself, pushing himself towards controlling the explosion burning inside him. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. No more, thanks... so tell me, what about you? You follow the Judge? Did you take up law?’ Edward was sweating, and relieved as Allard casually discussed his own career. Having failed his exams he was now working for a well-known insurance broker. Edward listened intently, commiserated when Allard bemoaned the fact he had not gone into the theatre as he had always wanted. He heard himself offering Allard a table at the club any night he chose. He was totally back in control. Sharp enough to ask Allard not to mention to anyone his change of name, just in case it worried Harriet. He detected the vicious glimmer in Allard’s sly eyes, and reckoned he would delight in stirring things up whether it affected his sister or not. So he talked fast.

‘I have a couple of high-risk insurance companies, like to do a little “I’ll help you if you help me” racket... You must be in a position at your company to know when they are coming in with big profits at the end of the year. I want you to start shoving out high-risk claims on a couple of things — you know, safe, sure ones. There’ll be a lot of money in it for you... What do you say?’

Allard snorted and said he wasn’t in a high enough position to do anything even a trifle dodgy.

‘Nothing dodgy in it, old chap. All you’ve got to do is take a gander at the profits for the forthcoming year, farm out a few high-risk policies in my direction, make yourself a couple of hundred thousand for starters... Get yourself a better flat, want to think about it?’

Allard opened the brandy, finished the dregs of it and smiled. ‘Christ, I always knew you were a crook... Fuck off, I’m not interested, old bean.’

‘How’s Henry? Hmmmm, old bean?’

Allard laughed, told Edward he could not blackmail him with that — it was common knowledge. ‘Even Pa knows my preferences, Eddie, so that angle won’t work.’

Edward picked up his coat. Allard surprised him, and he was not, after all, going to be easy to sway. ‘Maybe you should have a chat with your old boyfriend.’

Allard sneered. ‘You don’t seriously think he even talks to me now, do you? Far too important...’

Edward put on his coat, then increased the pressure. ‘I think he will if you whisper in his ear that I would... I would talk to him and a number of other people. It would ruin him, so don’t beat about the bush, Allard. Earn yourself a few bob and get a decent pair of shoes. You can’t attract much looking the way you do, male or female.’

Allard hated Edward, his Savile Row suit, his still strikingly handsome face. ‘You got a card or something so I can contact you?’