Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

Roy kept his eyes on the road and accelerated into the corner, just enough to slide the rear wheel out under control.

‘Yes,’ said Wright. ‘We’ve come across each other on government

business.’

‘That reminds me. His Lordship asked me to emphasize that this

is an informal weekend. Relaxed. Emphatically not a duty weekend.

He wants everyone to feel completely at ease. No discussion of pol-

itics or other matters of government. No, um, standing on

ceremony.’

‘Got it,’ said Wright.

Roy fancied that he might have smiled for the first time during

this journey.

4

Sylvia looked across the table at him with what she judged to be

suitably disguised desire. Her judgement on discretion and subter-

fuge, born of experience, was infallible.

He was beautiful, simply beautiful. It was the only way she could

describe him. Tall, effortless, languid, yet muscular and athletic, with foppish blond locks that periodically he swept away contemptuously from his brow. And those eyes: blue yet with depth and

apparent scornful omniscience, and frightening. From his looks he

might have been an Oxford blue, captain of the England rugby

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fifteen, or a captain in the Commandos. But he would never be con-

fused with one of her class: apart from his slightly unplaceable

accent, he possessed a greater steeliness. He excited her and scared her in equal measure.

The beard. It was not a sobriquet she sought but one that vile

Gertrude had flung at her. It was a word, in this sense, that Ger-

trude had evidently picked up on her recent trip to New York. To

Sylvia’s knowledge the vulgar term had not yet reached British society. This had not prevented Gertrude from using it during one of

their private teas.

Sylvia’s marriage had not so much been arranged as arrived at.

The delicate problem had been the subject of much discussion, in

hushed tones and in opaque terms, between the parents before her

mother commented that Tommy Banks would be a good catch. Syl-

via had acquiesced in the fashion expected of her and from there it had fallen into place on a predictably smooth path, seemingly without her involvement. But Sylvia had known precisely the kind of

marriage into which she was entering.

Roy glanced discreetly at Lady Sylvia. She seemed to be staring at

him, but possibly this was his own self- consciousness at work. This was a tacit agreement that suited all parties moderately well. And

moderately well was the English way. He doubted whether the

supercilious German count would be remotely aware of the deli-

cate balances in play.

She was indeed strikingly attractive, with the poise of her breed-

ing and upbringing, her thin oval face, large eyes and pert nose

framed by a fashionable chignon that exposed to best advantage

that delicious neck, whose surfaces he would shower with kisses.

She was full- bosomed and slim, almost thin.

Sylvia had confided of her fantasy of remaining married while

shaping a future life with him, maintaining a filigree approximation of respectability. He knew it was nonsense: she would in the end

adhere to her social norms and anyway he could see in her the scle-

rotic old crow she would later become. For as long as it lasted they would restrict themselves to their furtive liaisons at weekends such 125

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as this, during the week at the town house she shared with Sir

Thomas, and on various snatched occasions at discreet hotels in the Home Counties. This suited him rather better than the complications of what he might call a relationship.

After dinner the men took their port and cigars in the library. The count droned on about his estates in Sachsen- Anhalt in the eastern part of Germany.

‘Germany is so uncivilized,’ he announced. ‘The rabble has taken

over. In the east they have created their socialist state. Their state! It is the Bolsheviks who run it in reality. It is an experiment that will fail. It is even worse in the west, with their economic miracle. Completely unsuitable people are becoming prosperous at the expense

of the old values. In their own way these people are as unacceptable as those who came before.’

‘Do you have difficulty getting to your land in the east?’ asked Wright.

‘Not at present, no,’ said von Hessenthal. ‘I have a reasonable

relationship with the authorities there, despite their dogma. I have to ensure that I make appropriate contributions and cultivate agree-able relations with the local Party men, but it works. I cannot

guarantee it forever, however. The border is continually developed

and I hear rumours every so often that the authorities are seeking to regularize the position of my properties. Regularize is the expression they use. Steal would be mine. Fortunately, I have sufficient

funds and land away from their grasp.’

‘You live mainly in London?’ asked Wright pleasantly.

‘That’s right. I have land also in Bavaria. But Germany today is so cheap. Unpleasant. East or west, it makes little difference.’ He shuddered for dramatic effect, then said, ‘I do not wish to be impolite, Charles, but may I ask a question?’

‘Of course,’ said Stanbrook.

‘It seems that you have invited one of your staff to dinner.’

‘Courtnay? Well . . .’

‘I have to say it makes me rather uncomfortable to be discussing

my affairs in such circumstances,’ he said, looking directly at Roy with a distaste that he did not attempt to hide.

It’s not me you should be worrying about, thought Roy. It’s the

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likes of Oliver Wright, itching to get their claws into you. But he smiled back benignly.

‘Well,’ said Stanbrook, ‘Courtnay is in a different position from

most of my people. I –’

‘No, sir,’ interrupted Roy. ‘Please. I was about to turn in anyway.

Goodnight, gentlemen.’

He stood from the leather armchair, stubbed out his cigar and,

still smiling broadly, left the room. In his peripheral vision, he noted the count’s eyes following his leisurely progress with undisguised

animus.

In truth he was unaffected by von Hessenthal’s comments. He

was better off out of these conversations stilted by politesse and the utter tedium of the inevitable game of billiards. He went to his

room and prepared himself for Sylvia.

She was waiting for him. He was rough with her, as was her pref-

erence, pinning her weak arms as he pounded relentlessly into her

softness with little regard for her well- being. There would be time for tender embraces later in the night, though no place for love. She shrieked exultantly and soon it was over.

Sir Thomas and Oliver Wright would be in the next bedroom

shortly. At four Roy would be turfed out to return to his own bed

and the same would happen to Wright. The doors to the intercon-

necting bathroom would be unlocked and by the time the breakfast

trays were brought up marital bliss would have been reinstated. No

one in the house would be fooled, save perhaps the obnoxious Ger-

man and his man, but it would satisfy the niceties.

As she whispered to him, lying in his arms, he did not listen, looking with blind eyes to the ceiling. I despise these people, he was

thinking. I despise you.

5

The next morning he thought better of mingling with the party and

took his breakfast in the kitchen with von Hessenthal’s bespectacled manservant. He discovered that Ernst Maier had only recently been