The Greys had taken Florence and James under their wing almost as soon as they had returned from Madrid, insisting that Florence transfer her doctoral work to the college, demanding they have their Spanish marriage blessed in the college chapel — where they had acted as if they were the parents of the bride. His own parents had sat polite, quiet and thoroughly overwhelmed through the whole event.
Now in their late sixties, the Greys had their doubts about James’s field, regarding psychology as new-fangled and experimental. They urged him to switch to political science instead — though, to his irritation, they always appeared riveted by Florence’s work on evolutionary biology. James suspected they rather fancied the Zennors might become the future Greys of the 1970s, seeing themselves in this ‘handsome young couple’; seeing too, perhaps, an opportunity to extend their influence beyond the grave. They had no children of their own.
Brushing crumbs of a half-eaten sandwich off himself and onto the wooden floor, he opened the door. ‘Good mor-’ He stopped, suddenly aware that he had no idea what time it was.
‘Thank heavens. I was beginning to wonder if you were dead! I’ve been knocking on your door for seven minutes.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grey. I wonder if I could call on you later. Now is not-’
‘Are you unwell, James dear? You do sound a little off-colour.’ Her tone was bossily familiar, a mother talking to a recalcitrant child.
‘I am feeling a little under the weather, as it-’
‘I think I ought to come in.’
‘I really would rather-’
‘Chop, chop, James.’
That was how the Greys were: they would not take no for an answer, so no one ever gave it to them. He opened the door.
‘Oh Lord. You look absolutely dreadful!’ Her eyes darted past him, no doubt taking in the devastation; then she wrinkled her nose in distaste: she had smelled the whisky.
‘What has been going on here?’ She marched into the room uninvited.
‘Would you like a drink, Mrs Grey?’ He took an almost malign pleasure in the appalled expression on her face.
‘I rather think you’ve had enough of that already, don’t you?’
‘I was actually offering one to you, Mrs Grey. But if you won’t, I will.’
She ignored this remark, instead finding a chair and making herself comfortable. Then in a voice that was kindly, and nearly free of the usual imperiousness, she said, ‘Can I suggest you tell me what happened?’
James sat down too, realizing that he was grateful for the chance to speak to another person. ‘It would appear that Florence has left me.’
Grey stifled a gasp. ‘Good God, no. When?’
‘This morning. I came back from sculling and the house was empty.’
‘And Harry?’
‘She’s taken him with her.’
James watched a thought flicker across Grey’s face, stern beneath its bun of silver hair. Her initial shock seemed now to give way to urgency, the practical desire to act and to act immediately. ‘Have you spoken to her? Has she telephoned?’
‘She left a note.’
‘A note? What did it say?’
‘Nothing.’ He paused, weighing up the temptation to tell her everything. But something held him back. Was it loyalty to Florence? Was it embarrassment? ‘Nothing that explains anything anyway.’
‘Had she ever talked about leaving before?’
‘No. Never.’
‘So why do you presume she left?’
‘She must have met someone else. She is the most beautiful woman in Oxford, after all. Your husband called her that, as I recall, at our wedding celebration.’
A picture instantly sprang into his head. That Indian summer’s day, late September 1937, in the college garden: Florence, heavily pregnant and glowing with good health. Next to her, on crutches, James himself, his smile for the photographer more of a wince. Though the Greys had insisted on the location, the idea of the celebration had come from Florence’s parents: ‘Darling, you’ve denied us the delight of seeing our daughter married; you will not deprive us of our right to throw an enormous party.’ So nine months after they had exchanged their Spanish vows, they had listened as Sir George Walsingham made a toast extolling the qualities of his wonderful daughter while Bernard Grey made jokes at James’s expense and, like a man who could not help himself, offered repeated paeans to the beauty of the bride.
‘Her attractiveness has no bearing on her willingness or otherwise to pair with other men, nor to leave you. Unless you have any evidence to the contrary, James?’ Virginia Grey asked tartly.
James closed his eyes. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do.’
‘You have made a telephone call to Florence’s parents of course.’
He sighed. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t.’
‘Well, why ever not? She’s probably on her way there now. It’s the first place any young girl goes when there’s trouble at home.’
‘She’s not gone there. Believe me.’
‘Well, it’s the obvious place to start and I insist that you check. Now where’s the number? I’ll-’
‘Please! Mrs Grey. Florence hasn’t spoken to her mother in… for a while.’
Virginia Grey frowned.
James looked away, guilty to be breaking one of his wife’s secrets. ‘They’re not speaking to each other at present.’
Silence hung in the air until eventually Mrs Grey spoke again. ‘I imagine it will be awkward, but I fear you will have to do it all the same. She has almost certainly gone there and no proper search can begin until you have at least eliminated that possibility.’
James could hardly fault her logic; but the thought of making such a call filled him with dread. What would he say? If he announced that Florence had gone missing, he would be admitting that she had left him. If Mrs Grey was right, that would make no odds: the Walsinghams would know already. But if she was wrong, well, then he would be making an entirely needless confession. And before he knew it, Sir George Bloody Walsingham would be taking charge, alerting his contacts in the Oxford constabulary until they had tracked down his daughter and grandson, while Lady Walsingham would be giving him that withering look of hers, a woman’s look that said ‘No wonder she’s left you: you’re not a proper man any more.’
They already blamed him anyway. He was the reason why Florence had stormed out of that dinner in London with her parents, back in April (or was it February?). He could scarcely remember what the row had been about, probably something trivial about the menu or the taxi home. But the underlying cause was obvious. The Walsinghams believed their daughter had married beneath herself: she, whose pedigree breeding would have secured the richest, most desirable man in the kingdom, married to this son of provincial schoolteachers who was crippled to boot. To announce that he could not find Florence or Harry, that he had been discarded, would be to confirm their verdict on him: he was not good enough.
A voice called out from the hallway. ‘They live in Norfolk, don’t they?’ As good as her word, Virginia Grey was standing by the telephone table, about to make the call.
James ran out and grabbed the phone from her. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said quietly. This was how the Greys operated, bending everyone to their will.
Virginia hovered as he heard his own breathing through the heavy, Bakelite receiver and then a click as the operator came on the line. ‘The name is Walsingham, please,’ he said. ‘In Langham in Norfolk. Thank you.’ He waited, listening to the clicks and switching sounds, picturing the exchanges as they plugged in the series of cables that would send his voice eastward across England.
Eventually there was the ringing sound, followed after four rings by a female voice: middle-aged and aristocratic. ‘Wells 452.’
‘Lady Walsingham? It’s James. Florence’s husband.’
‘Good afternoon, James. I’m afraid Sir George is out.’ Ite. ‘Is there something wrong?’