The Twilight Hour (24 page)

Over coffee I said to Noel: ‘What are you doing about Mavor's paintings?'

‘I'm going round to see the old girl.'

‘Joan Mainwaring?'

‘I thought you might come with me,' he continued. ‘You've met her after all.'

‘I can't do that, not with the appeal. It would look very bad if I went to see her while the appeal's pending. Might make her suspicious – or as if I was nobbling a witness.'

‘I don't see why,' he said petulantly.

‘You can go, though. But it's over a year since the murder. Won't his family have sorted his stuff out by now?'

‘I somehow don't think so. Gerry Blackstone says they live in the country, not interested, never come to London, loathed all Mavor's arty friends. Got stuck with his bastard.'

‘Gwendolen never ever mentioned the child, you know. Not once. Not ever.'

‘Should I write to the old girl first? Or go round on the off chance?'

‘Go round,' I said.

When he came back his glasses gleamed more than ever and a sly smile revealed his protruding teeth. ‘She was really quite accommodating – actually let me into Mavor's place, you know, the house next door. It's more or less derelict. I'm surprised it hasn't been requisitioned and pulled down. I was petrified going up the stairs, thought the whole thing might collapse. But when we got to his room – his paintings are still
there
!'

The paintings: again I was back in that moonlit room, the frozen winter darkness, the canvases flung about. I remembered them roughly stacked or pushed over in the room while Titus lay greenish in the moonlight, his limbs flung out, abandoned in the childish peacefulness of death.

‘She said the family couldn't care less – told her to chuck 'em out. So far as she's concerned I can have them! Would you believe it!
But
–' and he paused dramatically, ‘
no sign
of anything more important. I looked fairly carefully. The old scarecrow lay on the sofa smoking and watched me go through the canvases.'

‘He died on that sofa, you know!'

‘Did he? Well, she didn't care. Then, when we went back next door, there was an André Masson hanging in her front room. Made me wonder if she'd taken the lot. I thought I'd try the direct approach, you know – I said I'd heard Titus owned some rather
valuable
paintings by other artists. She gave me a funny look. “Oh, really?” she said, “well I wouldn't know about that, but the night before he died there was a bit of a commotion next door as if he was having a row with someone.”'

‘She said
what
?'

‘Someone came to see him the night before he died and they had a row. And I thought – if it was about his paintings, not
his
paintings, but the ones he owned, well, he owed an awful lot of people a lot of money and I just wondered …'

‘That's not what she said.'

‘Yes! It is!' He looked at me, baffled.

‘It's not what she said at the
trial
. She said it was the
same
night. She said the row was the night Titus was killed.'

This took even Noel's mind off his own obsessions. ‘Oh my goodness, that's really important. Could she really have made a mistake like that?' He thought about it. ‘But it's only hearsay – I think. I don't think me saying she said it – I don't think that counts.'

‘I must get on to the lawyer. I must tell him about this.'

I rang immediately, but Julius was out. However, as Noel and I chewed over it, we began to develop a plan. Noel would try to get her round to the gallery and somehow lure her into saying it again. And this time it would be recorded on his Dictaphone.

‘Yes, that's what we'll do. I'll offer to pay her for Mavor's stuff. She didn't seem to give a hoot, but I daresay she wouldn't turn down the money if offered.'

‘It'll have to be soon.'

‘Mavor knew Dalí, you know. He was his disciple.' Noel was still brooding over the missing masterpieces. ‘He certainly gave the impression he owned one – some, and a Max Ernst, and God knows what. But nothing's turned up in any auction rooms, so where are they?'

‘Are you sure they exist?'

He smiled. ‘Good point, Dinah. The famous Mavor boastfulness. What a disappointment that would be.' He picked a minute piece of fluff off his sleeve. ‘Against that, Marius Smith certainly believed him; claimed to have
seen
them.' He jumped up. ‘You know – we could go and see Marius! All three of us – Alan could interview him for the programme about the Surrealists; I could offer to represent him and pick his brains about the Dalí, etcetera, and you could buy yourself some pretty clothes! A week in Spain; how about it. Please say you'll come. And you must persuade Alan.'

.........

What a trip! It was complicated to arrange, with passports and the tiny foreign exchange allowance, and we couldn't have done it if Alan hadn't got the BBC to pay his expenses, so for him it counted as a work trip. Alan, of course, didn't approve of our going to Franco's Spain, and nor did I, but he squared our common conscience because he hoped it might help Colin. Time was so short. That made the trip even more urgent, and we rushed frantically here and there to get it organised.

It was the first time I'd ever been abroad. The journey lasted almost two days: first, the boat train to Newhaven; then the boat to Dieppe (it was quite rough); then another train to Paris and a mad dash across Paris to the Gare de Lyon to catch the overnight train to Madrid. We sat up all night, for hours and hours, in a carriage crammed with travellers, none of them English. But it was a wonderful moment when dawn broke over the south of France and I looked out of the window and found myself in a different world: vineyards and cypress trees in the pearly dawn!

The visit only lasted three days and it was all a blur – or rather, the opposite of a blur. Everything was so bright and hard-edged. Although it wasn't very warm, the sun shone, but what amazed me was that there was no austerity in Madrid. The moment we crossed the border we saw fruit and chocolate and biscuits on sale at every station and on our first day in the capital I could hardly believe my eyes. The women were gorgeously dressed, in furs and lovely clothes and jewellery. And the shoes! The shops were crammed with goods and the restaurants with food. We ate so much I was nearly sick. And then in the cafés afterwards, late at night, Madrid society preened itself, so sleek and glamorous.

Marius Smith was living just outside Madrid and as soon as we'd left the centre there was a completely different picture. The contrast was astonishing, the poverty unbelievable; crumbling tenements and then shacks and hovels alongside broken roads housed a population of beggars, children in rags, old women bent double, thin, knotty men carrying loads that would have befitted a donkey, women whose faces were blank with weariness and suspicion.

Marius Smith was sharing a two-room cottage with a sullen young woman who disappeared as soon as we arrived. I suppose I should have expected the squalor – but at least he'd been working; several finished canvases were stacked against the walls.

He plied us with olives and cheap wine. It was only midday, but he must have been drinking all morning. Still, he was reasonably coherent. He told us confidently that he knew Titus had owned three important paintings, one by Salvador Dalí, one by Max Ernst and a third by Miró. Titus, he said, had hinted that he had a buyer for two of them, but intended to keep the Dalí. Marius Smith was vague about the exact dates, but was sure it wasn't long before the painter's death.

Later, Alan interviewed him for the Third Programme. Afterwards, as we jolted back in a decrepit taxi Alan asked: ‘Was it worth coming all this way just for that?'

Noel was cheerful. ‘Yes.' He was emphatic. ‘We've something definite to go on now. Not to mention the programme.'

Alan was angry with himself – with all of us. ‘We should have thought of all this long ago.'

But at least we'd had a taste of the Mediterranean. The promise of a sun-drenched culture had burst into view and I couldn't wait to explore the sunny south.

Yet at the same time it made me more appreciative of austerity Britain. It put Churchill's notorious remark about the socialist Gestapo in perspective. It made nonsense of the endless newspaper grumbles about rules and regulations. In Britain you didn't see policemen armed to the teeth on every corner. Nor did you see beggars or children with legs like sticks. In the train going home I felt quite patriotic.

twenty-four

ALAN RIPPED OPEN THE AIRMAIL LETTER
that was waiting for us when we reached home. ‘It's from Hugh.' He frowned at the flimsy sheet. ‘Good God! He's coming back, docking next week … he's raving about Hollywood … just a flying visit … he must be in the money, sailing to and fro across the Atlantic … he says the studio's thrilled with
Be Still My Heart
, and
House of Shadows
was a box-office sellout, now they want more like that … new projects …' He folded the letter up slowly. ‘Rather sickening in a way, these opportunities coming up just when I've settled down at the BBC.'

‘But you love the Third Programme, Alan! Don't you?' I looked at him anxiously. I so wanted him to be happy, to be a success. ‘And is Hugh suggesting anything about you working with them again? Is that why he's coming? Is it to talk to you?'

‘He's coming with Radu – he doesn't really say what it's for.'

‘And Stan's Brighton thing wasn't serious, really, was it. You're much better off where you are,' I said brightly.

.........

Naomi Abrahams asked me to go to the Van Gogh exhibition at the Tate Gallery with her. Alan said she must be trying to recruit me to the Party. He was miffed not to be included. We both suspected it had to do with Colin's appeal, but in that case why didn't we just go to the Abrahams' office? An atmosphere of secrecy was creeping in, hole-and-corner meetings, as if we ourselves were involved in some kind of spy network, clandestine operations.

Most of the Tate was still closed because of bomb damage, but the exhibition was a kind of sign that things were getting back to normal. We had to queue for ages, but it was worth it. Another Mediterranean blaze of colour as we walked slowly through the crowded rooms, craning our necks to see over the shoulders of this art-starved public. It was so exciting, exhilarating. There'd been nothing like this in London for so long, they said, or ever as far as I was concerned.

‘Let's find a quiet corner for a chat,' said Naomi when we'd gorged ourselves on the Van Goghs. We wandered away and found an almost empty gallery, where we sat on a bench facing a huge Scottish landscape.

‘I've got something for you,' she said and took a brown envelope out of her bag. ‘You could have collected it from the office, or we could have posted it, but it seemed better to hand it over direct – and then I thought why not do something nice for a change – you've had such a difficult time.'

I took hold of the envelope gingerly. ‘What is it?'

‘It's from Colin. We got it out at a legal visit, though I think the warder might have turned a blind eye. I mean, they check him all the time, now he's in the condemned cell.'

‘Have you read it?'

She nodded. ‘Go on – read it.'

I took out the sheets and unfolded them. ‘It's for Alan.'

‘Yes, but it's for you as well, and we thought – it'll upset Alan and this way you can sort of break it to him in advance.' She uncrossed and recrossed her legs.

Dear Alan

A letter seems the only way to tell you how things are with me. There's so little time during visits and we're not alone then. I've dragged you into a lot of trouble and I owe it to you to explain, in so far as I can, of course. You may not understand, but I can only try.

After the Italians surrendered there wasn't a lot to do. It seemed like my war was more or less over. For a short time it was almost like a holiday, but soon I was pretty bored. I tried to make contact with Italian comrades, with the partisans, but then I got to know another British comrade who turned up, Boris Anderson, and he suggested we go on up into the Balkans, where the Soviet army was gathering. Said it would be an opportunity to make contact. The Party wouldn't have approved, but we were just twiddling our thumbs and I thought, why not! We had some leave; we got hold of a jeep and off we went. Johnny was with us as well. I'd known him for a while. It was all pretty crazy, a wild idea. But somehow we made it all the way up to Romania and Bucharest. And that was very exciting. The Red Army had recently arrived! Imagine – the legendary Red Army. Boris's mother was Russian, he could speak the language, so soon we were hanging out with the officers at the Athenée Palace Hotel, where everyone gathered. Place was full of fascists and opportunists as well, either trying to get away or doing deals with the Russians. That's where I thought I saw Enescu, by the way. I got talking to one of their intelligence guys. He told me the British secret service had agents all around the Balkans before the war and withdrew them when the Nazis came. But now they were trying to re-establish bases, which was going to be pretty difficult in places like Romania that were about to become part of the Soviet sphere of influence. We got really pally and after a while
he suggested I might see what I could find out about any British secret service types that might be hanging around. That seemed like a good idea to me. I was entirely in favour, and still am, of the expansion of communist democracy.

I thought it'd be difficult to gain the confidence of the British, I thought they'd have seen me fraternising with the Russians at the Athenée Palace. But there was a chap who'd just arrived and hadn't seen me there with them. He was a bit young and silly and not as careful as he should have been. It was easy to get him drinking and then he told me various things he should have kept quiet about.

Unfortunately, it didn't last. I used to meet with the Soviet guy in a little bar in a back street, nowhere near the Athenée, but Bucharest's a small place and my English contact caught me out. He came to see me the next day, said we needed to talk properly, so I suggested we meet somewhere out in the countryside, outside the capital. I said I couldn't be seen with him in Bucharest. I tried to give the impression I really wanted to work for him, that I was on the anti-communist side.

I'm amazed he fell for it – but he did. We went out in the jeep, Boris, Johnny and I, and he was all on his own. He was rattled when he saw there were three of us, but he threatened me just the same. He'd told his boss all about me, he said, I was going to be in a lot of trouble when I got back home. I didn't believe him, he was all on his own so far as I knew, communications were pretty bad, and even if he'd managed to contact London I'd given him a false name.

I thought it was all pretty silly. Here we were, somewhere on the edge of town in this dismal region of concrete blocks and wasteland with no one about. I thought we'd just turn around and drive back to the centre and forget all about it. Unfortunately, Johnny was very jittery and as we turned to go the English bloke made a move and Johnny misinterpreted it, thought he was going to shoot us up, so Johnny whipped out his revolver and shot the poor sod in the head.

After that I can tell you we got out of Bucharest pretty fast. Johnny's nerves were all to pieces and Boris was horrible to him, said he was a bloody fool who'd get us all into trouble. The journey back down into Italy was pretty hairy too, but we made it. Obviously, or I wouldn't be writing this.

This may explain why Joan Mainwaring has it in for me. She worked in intelligence during the war and must have guessed something. I know the British were becoming suspicious of me. And I'm the enemy, after all, so far as people like her are concerned. Before I left Bucharest I saw the Russians again. I was keen to help them. I am, after all, a socialist and a revolutionary.

What I can't forgive myself for is Johnny. It preyed on his mind. And you see he didn't know I was a Communist, not until we started to see each other again. It sounds absurd, but in some ways he wasn't all that bright, or he was just too naïve, but although he knew I was a socialist, he didn't connect it with communism. It was a big shock when I told him. I think it may even have been partly why he committed suicide. In retrospect, he felt he'd been a traitor, killing a British agent. He couldn't understand my point of view.

That's my greatest regret – Johnny's death. I'm angry that I'm to be hanged for a crime I didn't commit, but any Communist must be prepared for anything, even death, and I do feel that, however indirectly, this trial has been the result of my actions in Romania. And of those actions I'm proud.

I send you and Dinah all my love. You could not have been a better friend. You've supported me all the way. Please don't mourn for me – just carry on the struggle for socialism. That'll be my memorial.

Colin

I stared at the landscape opposite which we were sitting. Through my tears I gazed at its mountainous crags towering over a glen with dark rolling clouds above and a crofter and his dog shrunk to the size of Lilliputians by the immensity of nature.

We made our way back to the crowded foyer, and then we walked out into the cold light from the river and down the steps to the embankment.

‘It's a pity Colin wasn't frank with us,' said Naomi.

‘He didn't want Johnny's name brought into it.'

‘But he's dead. He killed himself, didn't he?'

‘Colin didn't know that for a while. We didn't tell him at first. We thought it'd just be too much for him to bear. But we should have, shouldn't we. Or perhaps it wouldn't have made much difference. Could you have used all this to discredit Joan Mainwaring's evidence? On the basis she was full of ill-will towards Colin, wanted some kind of revenge?'

‘I don't know,' said Naomi. ‘And I don't know if we can do anything with it now.'

We walked towards Westminster and Parliament Square.

‘Does it mean the British secret service wanted him out of the way?' It seemed so melodramatic. Then an even wilder idea occurred to me. ‘Or could Joan Mainwaring have murdered Titus and then got the blame shifted onto Colin?'

‘I suppose she could have murdered him more easily than anyone else, but to do so in order for someone else to be blamed is just too far-fetched, isn't it? There might be someone in British intelligence who wanted revenge – or a group of Romanians wanted him out of the way, I suppose, but in either case they would have just killed Colin. No one in their right mind would rig up such a complicated scenario.'

‘Colin was very suspicious of Radu Enescu,' I said bleakly. ‘Perhaps there was something more he never told us.' All the old suspicions of Radu crowded back. ‘But he's coming over here next week. Would he risk that if he'd had anything to do with the murder?'

‘Someone else has been convicted of the murder,' Naomi pointed out. ‘But again, he – or other Romanian anti-communists – would simply have liquidated Colin. The idea of anyone killing Titus in order to implicate Colin simply doesn't stand up.'

She was walking more quickly, almost as if she wanted to leave me behind, but I quickened pace to keep up with her. ‘We
know
more,' she said, ‘but I don't think it helps much. But we'll do all we can for Colin, you do believe that, don't you.' Then, as we crossed Parliament Square: ‘I hate the Cold War,' she cried. ‘Why are we all supposed to be against the Soviet Union now? Of course, I know it isn't all as it should be. I mean, Julius and I don't always see eye to eye about Stalin. And it's what we can do here in Britain that's important, we shouldn't defer to the Soviet Union as much as we do. We have two MPs and a hundred thousand people voted for us at the general election. We ought to be working for them. Well – we are, but … and then – what's happening in Czechoslovakia? What do you think about that? I don't believe Jan Masaryk threw himself out of that window. I think he was pushed. They liquidated him.'

I hardly knew who Jan Masaryk was, but his suicide had been splashed all over the headlines. Attlee had said it was a tragedy; that Masaryk was a democrat who couldn't bear to live in a totalitarian state.

‘You don't think there'll be another war, do you?' I said. ‘My father's all for bombing the Russians before they get a nuclear bomb of their own. He quotes some book someone's written saying something like that. Get rid of Russia before they get rid of us.'

It was a grim thought. The permafrost of the Cold War had penetrated to the heart of life. The deadly cold was still in the wind from Siberia, but now it was the wind of war. The ice had got into our hearts, our souls were eaten up with it as we shivered under the sallow sky. It was always coldest winter, a political ice age.