Spy’s Honour

44

The car was waiting for them in the square by the church, but Ranklin led the way past it to a bit of neo-Gothic nonsense called the Fishermen’s Bastion. It was being built when Ranklin was last in Budapest and was nothing more than a lookout point across the river to Pest, but elaborated with steps, parapets, arches and needle spires.

“Why Fishermen’s?” Lucy asked.

“They used to live around here, and their Guild had the job of defending this stretch of the city wall against besiegers. I don’t know if they ever did, but that’s the story.”

“Everything seems to be war: wars in the past, wars just down the road now, war tomorrow …”

“I’m afraid that’s Europe for you.” It wasn’t an answer. Perhaps he had hoped to see an answer in the peaceful twinkling lights of the city that, at night, could be any city with its ordinary butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers. But the view did the opposite: just emphasised how small and lonely their island of lights was, how endless the dark plain that surrounded it.

Lucy seemed to pick up the thought. “But why, why start a war in the middle of all this?” She gestured at the lights. “I know the politics are dreadfully complicated, but …”

“That might be one reason. I think a lot of people, ordinary people, in most European countries, feel that things are getting too complicated: that a simple outright war will clear the air.”

“Would it?” she asked doubtfully.

“I don’t know – it doesn’t seem the best of reasons for a war.”

She turned away towards the car. “If there is a war, would you really become a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“But aren’t you too old?” she asked with that charmingly direct manner Corrinna had mentioned.

Ranklin winced. “Well, I was a soldier – once. They’d probably take me back.”

“An officer? I thought you had to be terribly grand to be an English officer.”

“In the Guards or Cavalry, yes, but we’ve got generals who’ve risen from the ranks. Not that I did. But I wasn’t a general, either.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Oh – for a change. Nothing much happens in an army in peacetime.”

They climbed into the back of the car, which started with a jerk towards the Vienna Gate.

“And how long have you known Corinna?” Lucy asked.

“Just a few months – since I started working for her father.”

“Has she told you anything about her husband – Mr Finn?”

“No – ” The word had trouble getting out of Ranklin’s throat. He coughed. “Why should she?”

“Oh, you just seemed very friendly. I wondered if she’d told you anything.”

“No.” Then the oddness of her question sank in. “Don’t you know him?”

“No. I heard – she didn’t tell me – I heard he’d died in the San Francisco fire of ’06. Either that or he keeps missing the train back, because I’ve known her nearly five years and never met him.”

Ranklin put his hands on the seat to brace himself, and not only against the swaying of the car as they wound down off the Hill. I’ll be damned, he thought dizzily: which of us is supposed to be leading a secret life?

“Mind,” Lucy prattled on, “I don’t blame her for not letting on his position’s vacant, if it is. She’d have every fortune-hunter in Europe lining up at her door.”

“Oh, yes, quite,” Ranklin said brightly.

“But I think it’s time she married again and settled down. It doesn’t seem real ladylike to be so involved in business matters. I sometimes feel quite ashamed with her when she starts talking stocks and bonds to men.”

Ranklin almost threw her out of the car. Shamed of Corinna? You damnable little brat. I’ve changed my mind about what husband you need: it’s one who wallops the daylight out of you for his morning exercise.

Evening, too, he added.

When his feelings had simmered down, he said: “Really? I don’t find it unattractive for a woman to know something of the world outside the drawing-room.”

“Oh, but real men don’t like it,” she said with hobnailed confidence. “They like a lady to be sweet and scatter-brained.”

I truly believe, Ranklin thought grimly, that you’ll wind up with the sort of husband I hope for you.

“And what will happen,” Lucy went on, “when Pop Sherring dies or gets too old? Can you see Corinna running the House of Sherring? I don’t think the law allows it. And quite right.”

“Doesn’t she have any brothers?”

“Oh, there’s Andrew, but he’s always doing things with machines. He’s got no head for business. A great disappointment. That’s why Corinna has to be both hostess and business partner for Pop.”

“And Mrs Sherring?”

“Why, she divorced him years ago, it was in all the newspapers, he had so many lady-friends and I don’t mean ladies and I don’t mean just friends. Why, you don’t know anything, do you?”

But I’m learning, Ranklin thought dazedly. I’m learning.

Corinna, O’Gilroy and the hotel’s best coffee pot were waiting as Lucy bounced in calling gaily: “Hello there, we’ve had a great evening, we went to the weirdest place and met the weirdest people; they write poems about politics – can you believe that? Is Daddy back?”

“He just got in,” Corinna said, smiling – perhaps a little relieved. “I think he’s in the lounge with the Baroness.”

“Oh, that old crow. I’ll soon get rid of her.” She turned back to Ranklin and became formal. “Thank you kindly for a most enjoyable evening, Mr Ranklin. No – Matt; I can call you Matt now, can’t I? Thank you. Good night, all.”

Corinna eyed Ranklin. “She can call you Matt now, hey?”

“She can call me anything she likes as long as she’s saying goodbye.”

She began to get stern, then relented. “Yes, you do look kind of ragged. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, I would like a real drink. I’ve had quite enough and I want some more.” He collapsed into a sun-bleached basket chair already full of cushions while O’Gilroy aimed some well-practised sign language at a waiter.

Corinna stood up; she wore a very simple evening dress in burgundy silk and hardly any jewellery – dressing so as not to outshine Lucy, perhaps. Or by only a carefully modest amount, anyway. “I’ll just tell the driver about tomorrow morning.”

“So,” Ranklin said to O’Gilroy, “how did the tariff figures look?”

“Not too good at all.” O’Gilroy seemed quietly amused. “With him taking his case along to the speech-making.”

Ranklin stared. “Oh hell’s Christmas – d’you mean I had that whole evening for nothing?”

“Now, Captain dear, I’m sure ye enjoyed yeself in yer own quiet way.” Corinna came back and O’Gilroy explained: “I was jest telling Matt what a peaceful evening we’d been having.”

Ranklin groaned: “All for nothing.”

“We couldn’t get at his case if he’d taken it with him,” she said truculently. “You didn’t think of that.”

“I didn’t think of burgling his room in the first place.”

“You approved.”

“I approved of the promised result. To that end, I played my part impeccably, not to say heroically, wearing my sanity to the bone … Thank you,” as the waiter delivered half a tumbler of brandy and a bottle of mineral water. “Not too much soda, just take the chill off … woah, stoppen sie, anhalten! Danke.”

Corinna watched him drink. “If that’s your reaction to a minor setback, you’re on the way to becoming a lush.”

O’Gilroy said: “When the women start talking about the men’s drinking habits, it’s time for bed. I’ll bid ye both good night.”

Corinna gave him a cheery wave and then sprawled herself – elegantly – on the sofa. “We can try again – when you’re sober. And I bet the evening wasn’t all that terrible.”

“It had its moments,” Ranklin said sombrely. “And Lucy talked about your family.”

“Oh? You’ve been prying, have you?”

“Do you need to stoke a volcano? If I’d been prying, I wouldn’t be telling you.”

“No, sorry. If Lucy has a fault, it’s a tendency to gossip. Well, what did you learn?”

“Nothing more than most people who know you know. Including that your husband died in the San Francisco fire.”

“Well, I didn’t say he hadn’t, did I?”

“No. I was just going to say I was very sorry. It must have been-”

“Oh, never mind. Long ago, forget it.” But why the devil haven’t you been prying into my life before? she thought indignantly. I suppose because gentlemen don’t pry. But no wonder you need so much help as spies. “And learning about my family cast you into total gloom, did it?”

“What? No,” Ranklin said hastily. “But … talking to some of Hazay’s – that’s the journalist – his friends, I suddenly got convinced we really are going to have a war.”

“I thought you were busy preparing for one anyway.”

Ranklin looked around, but the nearest waiter was at a safe distance in the shadows at the edge of the lobby. “That’s what armies are supposed to do. No, I just suddenly saw all the nations and peoples of Europe each demanding liberty, territory and whatever they think are their ‘rights’. And most of them justified, but all of it irreconcilable. And all of them ready to fight. What else can happen next?”

Corinna was silent for a while. Then she sat forward, tasted a cup of cold coffee, grimaced and reached for Ranklin’s glass. “That isn’t just the evening’s wine talking?”

Ranklin shrugged. “In vino Veritas? You travel Europe, at a more exalted level. What do you hear?”

She considered. “I guess it’s ‘If only Germany would realise …’ and ‘If only England could understand …’ or if France would, or Russia or Austria. It’s always the other guys who should do something. Are you going to report this to Pop? – or anyone?”

“Report what? Isn’t it just a smell in the air? If it was a wicked plot … Perhaps I mean that life should be simpler.”

Corinna smiled, stood and stretched. “Yes, growing up, you miss Santa Claus and the Devil both.”