The Killing of Olga Klimt (8 page)

‘I suppose they are.’ Joan hadn’t the foggiest what Deirdre meant.

Lady Collingwood raised her glass of gin fizz. She might have been about to propose a toast but all she said was that sooner or later
everything
came back to her. There was always someone eager to spill the beans. ‘Rupert discusses me with you, doesn’t he my dear?’

‘He doesn’t.’ There were times Joan fervently wished she’d never got involved with the Collingwoods.

‘Oh how I wish I could trust you! No, don’t worry, I won’t ask you to repeat what he said. I am sorry. I shouldn’t be doing this. So terribly second rate, inquisitions like this.’ Lady Collingwood waved a scornful hand. ‘But I do know for a fact that you are his little confidante. He sees you quite often, doesn’t he?’

‘Not that often. I am no longer his secretary,’ Joan reminded her.

The two women were sitting at a table at the Criterion. They were having aperitifs while waiting to be served lunch. It was Lady Collingwood who had issued the invitation.

‘I believe you and he have some cosy little arrangement. You talk to him about Charlie and he talks to you about me. That’s correct, isn’t it? I don’t suppose Rupert ever talks about me in a
sympathetic
way? No, you needn’t answer. I am being a bore. I know it’s silly of me, but I can’t help feeling the tiniest bit jealous.’

‘You needn’t be. There is absolutely nothing between me and Lord Collingwood. And I don’t talk to him about Charlie any more.’

‘Rupert thinks the world of you, my dear. He keeps singing your praises. Says you were the best private secretary he ever had. He’s been having dreadful problems with his current secretary. I believe he’s thinking of sacking the poor wretch, perhaps he’s sacked him already.’

‘Lord Collingwood is extremely interested in heredity, isn’t he?’ Joan said.

‘Well, yes. He is.’ Lady Collingwood’s hand went up to her forehead. ‘I am sorry but I find sudden changes of subject a little disorientating. You are a very determined kind of person, aren’t you, Joan? But you are right. Rupert is particularly exercised on the subject of “tainted blood”. He has expressed
some very radical – some may say dangerous – opinions on the subject, not dissimilar, in fact, to those entertained by the Nazi elite during the last war.’

Joan said that Lord Collingwood had struck her as a little preoccupied when they had last met.

‘When was that? No, you needn’t answer. You mustn’t think I try to pounce on you each time Rupert’s name gets a mention. I am not the least bit interested, I assure you. I don’t know why we keep talking about Rupert. I do find his latest obsession a trifle puzzling. He says his family tree is “all wrong”. What does he mean exactly? And he has started writing memos to himself. Or is that something people do? Doesn’t that suggest some kind of split personality?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Last week Rupert ordered two pocketless suits. He says that’s symbolic. Symbolic of what? He never explains what he means.’ Lady Collingwood sighed. ‘It seemed such a good prospect when I first married him, you know. Rupert was what we used to call a “good catch” – military-minded, Bellona’s bridegroom, uncompromisingly Christian, descended from Scottish kings, his mother a former lady-in-waiting to the Countess of Athlone. There was also the sheer grandiose splendour of Collingwood Castle. I allowed myself to be won over. Not that I struggled much, mind!’ She smiled. ‘Have you ever been to Collingwood?’

‘Once, as a little girl. With my mother.’

‘Ah, your mother …
Of course
…’ Lady Collingwood reached out for Joan’s hand and held it in hers. ‘You have been very brave, my dear.
Very brave
. I know what you have been through. I mean that whole unfortunate business of the phantom engagement.’

‘If you mean Charlie and me, it wasn’t a phantom engagement. It was a proper engagement, only Charlie left me soon after.’

‘Unfortunately these things do happen. All break-ups are horrid. You took it rather badly, I understand?’

‘I am OK now. So kind of you to ask me to lunch, Deirdre.’

‘No, no, my dear, the pleasure is entirely mine! I always felt we should be friends. I must say this new colour is quite unusual. If you don’t mind my saying so, it doesn’t quite express your personality. It makes you look a bit frivolous, which you are not. I hardly recognised you. Did you do it because of Charlie? In the hope of getting him back? Did you attempt to bring about
un retour de flamme
?’

‘No, it has nothing to do with Charlie. I have got over Charlie,’ Joan said in a slightly louder voice.

‘Are you sure, my dear? Rupert is not entirely convinced. He is a bit worried about you, you know.’

‘He needn’t be. I was upset and for a while I found it hard to cope but I managed to get over it. That’s all there is to it. As a matter of fact I’m seeing someone else. So it is not as bad as you seem to imagine.’

‘Sometimes, sadly, things are as bad as we imagine them. And sometimes they are worse.’

‘His name is Billy Selkirk.’

‘A young man? You are seeing a young man called Billy Selkirk? How marvellous. This calls for a celebration! But why did Rupert paint such a pessimistic picture of the situation then? He believes you are still pining for Charlie. Maybe because you don’t smile enough? You should smile more, you know.’

‘I am not pining for Charlie.’

‘Oh well. Misunderstandings happen all the time. Only a couple of days ago one of my dearest and oldest friends thought that by “Foot Lady” I meant the racehorse of that name whereas what I had in mind was my chiropodist! As a result my friend lost an awful lot of money and now she refuses to speak to me … Did I say we moved Charlie to a private clinic?’

‘You did say, yes. What was it exactly that made him so ill?’

‘Charlie had sunstroke, poor lamb, or heatstroke, but now he is much better, I am glad to report. Really, the way the sun insists on shining! London is turning into a Luanda. It’s Bedaux who keeps me informed about Charlie,’ Lady Collingwood went on. ‘Bedaux is my eyes and ears. I have no idea how we’d have coped without him. Rupert seems to disapprove of him, but then Rupert disapproves of most people. He even disapproves of himself! I don’t think you have ever met Bedaux, have you?’

‘I have.’

‘Bedaux is one of the very few truly extraordinary people I know, my dear. Rupert says we mustn’t fraternise with flunkeys, which is
such
an antediluvian point of view.’ Lady Collingwood laughed. ‘
Us
and
them
, really! One might be excused for thinking
Jane Eyre
had never been written! Rupert should go back and live in the early twentieth century, say I. The Edwardian age would suit him perfectly!’

‘Our oysters are coming.’

‘
Did
we order oysters? I can’t help having mixed feelings about oysters. No, no, my dear, you mustn’t think I doubt your word! I am
famished
. You know of course that oysters are to be swallowed,
not
chewed? Little things like that do matter.’

‘I do know.’

‘When I rang Charlie last night, he said he was expecting a visitor this afternoon. I have an idea it might be the very same girl who caused the rift between you. Olga? He sounded enormously excited. Sorry, my dear. Tactless of me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

At three o’clock in the afternoon I arrive at Dr Bishop’s clinic. I find Olga in Mr Eresby’s room. She is sitting beside Mr Eresby, on his bed. They are holding hands.

Mr Eresby’s face is very pale and drawn, but it is clear that he has forgiven her completely. His cheeks and upper lip bear traces of Olga’s bright-red lipstick.

I endeavour not to scowl or purse my lips.

They seem glad to see me, but their smiles strike me as somewhat strained and unnatural. There is a conspiratorial air about them.

Mr Eresby greets me amiably enough. Olga, on the other hand, avoids looking me in the eye. Her mascara is a little smudged. Has she been crying? Why has she been crying? Well, it was no doubt part of her act. Even though I remind myself she’s had to play the repentant lover I am filled with misgivings.

‘Another fine day, Bedaux! I wish they didn’t keep me in conditions more suitable for tropical plants. In case you are wondering, I am feeling much better. Everything is, as they say, back to normal.’ Mr Eresby’s manner is exceedingly cheerful.

‘Most gratifying, sir.’

‘That nurse who ushered you in is the spitting image of Nanny Everett. Gave me quite a turn when I first clapped eyes on her. I don’t suppose you remember Nanny Everett?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No, of course not. Before your time.
Long
before your time. I threw my Pierrot at her once. It – he? – hit her on the nose. Do toys have gender, Bedaux?’

‘I imagine they do, sir.’ I resent the silly whimsicality of Mr Eresby’s conversation. It’s the kind of silliness people employ when they want to hide something. I did say I could read Mr Eresby’s mind, didn’t I? I think Mr Eresby has decided he no longer requires my services. I think it is only a question of time before he gives me the sack. Am I being paranoid?

‘You will be interested to hear that the coffee here is
nearly
as good as the coffee you make back home.’ Mr Eresby turns towards Olga. ‘Bedaux makes excellent coffee.’

‘I don’t like coffee. Coffee – what do you say? – puts stains on my teeth!’ She tosses her head and pouts. She bends over the bowl of roses that stands on the bedside table and pretends to smell them.

She is as nervous as a cat.

‘I believe the coffee has made me uncommonly talkative, Bedaux. At least, I
think
it’s the coffee’s fault, if “fault” indeed is the right word. Now I am talking like you!’ Mr Eresby laughs, then he strokes Olga’s fair hair. ‘Can coffee have faults, Olga?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Why do you ask such foolish questions?’

I clear my throat. ‘I hope they put the flowers out at night, sir. It is not healthy to keep them beside your bed while you sleep. Most flowers exude a certain subtle poison.’

‘Oh nonsense,’ Mr Eresby says dismissively.

I watch Olga pick up a rose. She starts plucking off its petals. She starts speaking. ‘A little, a lot, passionately, not at all.
Not at all
.’

I feel a cold hand around my heart.

‘Everything quiet on the Sloane Square front, Bedaux?’ Mr Eresby asks.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We haven’t been burgled yet, I trust?’

‘No, sir.’

Olga says she wants to smoke.

‘You know you can’t, darling,’ Mr Eresby says.

‘Why can’t I smoke?’

‘Because it’s not allowed here.’ Mr Eresby strokes her hair again.

I don’t like him touching her. I feel like ripping off his arm.

A minute or so later I leave Mr Eresby’s room. As I walk down the corridor, I pass the nurses’ room. The door is ajar. I catch a glimpse of the Nanny Everett nurse talking to another, younger nurse.

‘
No
,’ I hear the younger nurse gasp. ‘Not
kill
him?’

I halt and listen.

‘That’s what she said. It was quite a confession. It was all part of some plan or other, she said, which she’d never intended to carry out. She threw herself across Mr Eresby’s bed. Oh you should have seen her. She was in floods of tears. She didn’t even wait for me to leave the room. She said she loved him,
only
him, that he was the only man she’d ever loved, not Mr Beddoes, whoever that may be. She said she hated Mr Beddoes but she was also scared of him.’

‘She is Russian or something, isn’t she?’ the younger nurse says. ‘She was probably play-acting.’

What the older nurse meant was ‘Bedaux’, of course, not ‘Beddoes’.

I have been in a number of tight corners, but never for an instant have I lost my self-possession. Yet, I must admit this thoroughly unexpected revelation of Olga’s treachery does give me a nasty shock.

She said she loved him, not Mr Beddoes.

This time it is I who is walking like a clockwork toy soldier.

As I leave the clinic, I wonder what my next move should be.

Dusk had fallen and for the first time there was an autumnal nip in the air. Although it was some time before the clocks went back, the heat wave was over and one could already feel the insidious approach of winter.

The walk from the bus stop seemed endless. There was hardly any traffic and not a single person in sight. Something was wrong with the street lights, not one of them was on! It was also very quiet, oh so quiet! Olga thought it the deepest silence she had ever known since she had started living in London. It felt heavy and oppressive. One can’t see a silence but she did; she imagined it as a great dark beast lying sprawled over the neighbourhood, over the street and the houses, deadening every sound beneath its soft fur …

There was a story that used to terrify her when she was a little girl, about the man who was coming to get you when you were upstairs in bed. Now the man was on the
first
step. Now he was on the second step. Now he was on the third, the fourth, the
fifth
step … and now the man was on the twelfth step, which was the last, crossing the landing and opening your door and creeping in – and now he was standing by your bed …
Got you
! It was her old ghoul of a grandmother who told her the story, each time making Olga laugh and scream.

What was the reason for that particular memory? Why had it come to her
now
? Well, it was dark – she was feeling a little sad and a little nervous and a little scared – and there was someone walking behind her.

Yes. She could hear footsteps. Left, right. Furtive, yet determined and purposeful. No. They were perfectly ordinary footsteps. Left, right. Just someone like her going home.

She wished it wasn’t so dark!

Olga peered over her shoulder. She saw no one. But she thought she caught a movement.

The street was flanked with trees, so perhaps the person had dodged behind a tree? Her stalker wanted to remain unseen. Could it be Mr Bedaux? (Mr Bedaux had been very much on her mind.) Or perhaps it was Joan? Perhaps Joan intended to scare her. She had done it before, when she followed her and Charlie all the way to the Royal Albert Hall. Olga hadn’t seen Joan for some time and Charlie said she’d given up her pursuit, but what if she hadn’t? At one time Joan seemed to believe Olga could be persuaded to drop Charlie …