Lysander folded up the deposition and the photograph and slipped them inside his jacket pocket.
‘You can’t take that,’ Vandenbrook said, outraged.
‘Don’t be stupid. I can do anything I like as far as you’re concerned.’
‘Sorry. Sorry. Yes, of course.’
‘Go to work as usual. Try to act normally, unaffectedly. I’ll contact you when I need you.’
11. The Sensation That Nothing Had Changed
It was strange being in the Green Drawing Room again, Lysander thought, walking around, letting his fingertips graze the polished surfaces of the side tables, picking up a piece of sheet music and laying it on a window seat. Again, he felt this sensation that nothing had changed and indulged it, letting it linger in him. He was still an adolescent, the century was new, they had just moved to Claverleigh and in a minute or two he would see his mother come into the room, younger, pretty, frozen in time, years back. But he knew how fast the world was spinning, faster than ever. Time was on the move in this modern world, fast as a thoroughbred racehorse, galloping onwards, regardless of this war – this war was just a consequence of that acceleration – and everything was changing as a result, not just in the world around him but in human consciousness, also. Something old was going, and going fast, disappearing, and something different, something new, was inevitably taking its place. That was the concept he should keep in mind, however much it disturbed him and however he found he wanted to resist it. Perhaps he should bring it up with Bensimon – this new obsession he had with change and his resistance to it – and see if he could make any sense of his confusion.
His mother swept through the door and kissed him three times on both cheeks in the continental manner. She was wearing a pistachio-green teagown and her hair was different, swept up on both sides and held in a loose bun at the back of her head, soft and informal.
‘I like your hair like that,’ he said.
‘I like that you notice these things, my darling son.’
She went to the wall and turned the bell handle.
‘I need tea,’ she said. ‘Strong tea. English fuel.’
He had one of those revelations and understood at once why a man would be irresistibly drawn to her – the casual, ultra-confident beauty coupled with her vivacity. He could understand why a Christian Vandenbrook would be ensnared.
Tea was served by a maid and they sat down. She stared at him over the top of her held teacup, her big eyes looking at him, watchfully.
‘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? “Pointed”? 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.’
12. Autobiographical Investigations
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.