Vandelung would have joined him, but his wife forbade it.
‘And take great care,’ she warned the young Frau Saab in a dreadfully audible aside, ‘or he will have a heart attack. So much eating and drinking and shouting: it affects the heart. And with a young wife not easily satisfied,’ she added contentedly, ‘he could die easy.’ Taking her little grey husband firmly by the wrist, Frau Vandelung led him into the hall. In the same instant Hazel Bradfield leaned purposefully across the abandoned chair. ‘Mr Turner,’ she said quietly, ‘there is a matter in which you can help me. May I take you away a moment?’
They stood in the sun room. Potted plants and tennis rackets lay on the window-sills; a child’s tractor, a pogo stick and a bundle of garden canes were strewn over the tiled floor. There was a mysterious smell of honey.
‘I understand you’re making enquiries about Harting,’ she said. Her voice was crisp and commanding; she was very much Bradfield’s wife.
‘Am I?’
‘Rawley’s worrying himself to death. I’m convinced that Leo Harting’s at the back of it.’
‘I see.’
‘He doesn’t sleep and he won’t even discuss it. For the last three days he’s hardly spoken to me. He even sends messages by way of other people. He’s cut himself off entirely from everything except his work. He’s near breaking point.’
‘He didn’t give me that impression.’
‘He happens to be my husband.’
‘He’s very lucky.’
‘What’s Harting taken?’ Her eyes were bright with anger or determination. ‘What’s he stolen?’
‘What makes you think he’s stolen anything?’
‘Listen. I, not you, am responsible for my husband’s welfare. I have a right to know if Rawley is in trouble; tell me what Harting has done. Tell me where he is. They’re all whispering about it; everyone. This ridiculous story about Cologne; Siebkron’s curiosity: why can’t I know what’s going on?’
‘That’s what I was wondering myself,’ Turner said.
He thought she might hit him, and he knew that if she did, he would hit her back. She was beautiful, but the arch corners of her mouth were drawn down in the frustrated fury of a rich child, and there were things about her voice and manner which were dreadfully familiar.
‘Get out. Leave me alone.’
‘I don’t care who you are. If you want to know official secrets you can bloody well get them at source,’ Turner said, and waited for her to rise to him again.
Instead, she swept past him into the hall and ran upstairs. For a moment he remained where he was, staring confusedly at the muddle of children’s and adult toys, the fishing rods, the croquet set and all the casual, wasteful equipment of a world he had never known. Still lost in thought, he made his way slowly back to the drawing-room. As he entered, Bradfield and Siebkron, side by side at the french window, turned as one man to stare at him, the object of their shared contempt.
It was midnight. The Gräfin, drunk and quite speechless, had been loaded into a taxi. Siebkron had gone; his farewell had been confined to the Bradfields. His wife must have gone with him, though Turner had not noticed her departure; the cushion where she had sat was barely depressed. The Vandelungs had also gone. Now the five of them sat round the fire in a state of post-festive depression, the Saabs on the sofa holding hands and staring at the dying coals, Bradfield quite silent sipping his thin whisky; while Hazel herself, in her long skirt of green tweed, curled like a mermaid into an armchair, played with the Blue Russian cat in self-conscious imitation of an eighteenth-century dream. Though she rarely looked at Turner, she did not trouble to ignore him; occasionally she even addressed a remark to him. A tradesman had been impertinent, but Hazel Bradfield would not do him the compliment of taking away her custom.
‘Hanover was fantastic,’ Saab muttered.
‘Oh not again, Karl-Heinz,’ Hazel pleaded, ‘I think I’ve. heard enough of that to last for ever.’
‘Why did they run?’ he asked himself. ‘Siebkron was also there. They ran. From the front. They ran like crazy for that library. Why did they do that? All at once: alles auf einmal.’