But there was more behind Guy’s discomposure than that. He was suffering from shock himself. Both Inchcape and he had been named on the German radio. Both were the natural prey not only of the Iron Guard but of the Gestapo, rumoured to be on its way here.
Convinced that a testing-time was at hand, he tried to tell himself that he now knew exactly what would happen. He would be attacked without warning and struck about the face and head by thugs. He realised that in thus attempting to steady an inner nerve with certainty, he was simply imitating Harriet. And where did it bring one? To the verge of a break-down. He could only hope that when his time came, pride would prop him up as it had propped up Inchcape. The trouble was, he had a peculiar horror of physical violence and could not foresee what his reaction would be. Even Harriet, half his size, could frighten him when she lost her temper. He flinched or cried out in the instant of being hurt. Afterwards, he would pull himself together, but that first instant stayed with him, a self-betrayal.
Whatever happened, he must save himself from Harriet’s observing eye.
Pauli, opening the door for him, lifted a hand in mute dismay at what he would find. He said nothing but hurried into Inchcape’s bedroom. He had feared Inchcape would be prostrate and was relieved to see him sitting up in bed, but the relief was gone as soon as Inchcape turned his head.
Noting Guy’s change of expression, he said: ‘They haven’t improved my beauty, have they?’
‘It could be worse.’
‘How much worse?’ Inchcape winced as he attempted an appearance of jocularity. Both his eyes were blackened, one of them hidden by the swollen lids. A purple bruise, spreading from under his hair, covered one side of his face. His lips protruded, and his other features, naturally pallid and fine, were so distorted that he looked, against the whiteness of the bed-linen, like a grotesque native mask.
Guy had carried for years in his mind the memory of Simon’s bleeding, stupefied face – but Simon had been the victim of amateurs. Brutality had progressed since then.
Guy said: ‘Apart from the bruises, are you hurt at all?’
‘Back aches a bit. Have a drink.’ Inchcape reached out towards a bottle of brandy on the table beside him, then, as though some prop had been withdrawn, he fell back among the pillows and gave a groan. He looked at Guy, gasped and said: ‘Don’t stand there, staring. Sit down, for God’s sake.’ He attempted his old impatience, but it was a shadow of itself.
‘Let me get you a drink.’ Guy poured out the brandy before he sat down.
The bedroom was small, lit by a single small window that was overhung by plane leaves. On the walls were ikons so dark that to Guy they represented nothing. He wondered if it were the pervading gloom that made Inchcape look so ill.
Inchcape sipped his brandy and after a moment started to talk: ‘I rang H.E. this morning. I told him I was not to be coerced by these louts. I was determined to reopen the Bureau, but apparently the Bureau’s been officially closed by the Rumanian authorities. Still, I’m not standing for it. I shall fight.’ He dug his elbows into the pillows and made another irritable effort to sit up but failed again.
Inchcape was an elderly man but one who had maintained vitality and youthfulness: now some inner power had gone from him. His neck, rising from his pyjama jacket, looked wretchedly scraggy. His whole physique seemed to have aged and weakened overnight. He said: ‘Dobson rang a while ago, was very pleasant, as usual. He advised me to take myself off to Turkey. I said I wouldn’t dream of it. They’re not going to scare me so easily.’
Guy nodded his understanding. Yet with the English Department and the Bureau closed, would it not be better for Inchcape to go? He had imagined that the presence of the Legation guaranteed their safety. Well, he could no longer have any illusions about that. His work had come to nothing. He had been abused. Nothing remained but his determination to stay as long as Sir Montagu stayed.
‘Still,’ said Guy, ‘there’s no reason why you should not take a few weeks’ leave after this.’
Inchcape’s one visible eye glinted at him and Guy’s spirits gave a jerk. So defiance was now a sham! Inchcape wanted only to be persuaded – though, unpersuaded, his pride would probably keep him here. Suddenly Guy saw that Harriet and he might get away together unharmed; for if Inchcape went he could scarcely demand that they must stay.
‘After all,’ said Guy, ‘Dobson is off to Sofia.’
‘That’s true. Though I can’t say that I approve it. And I’m told, the old charmer himself recently chartered a plane and flew to Corfu. Spent a week there. A nice thing, I must say, at a time like this.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Guy, in fear of rousing Inchcape’s obstinate opposition, found himself lapsing into clichés: ‘Quite a good thing to get away from a situation – enables you to get it into focus.’
Latching on to Guy’s extenuating tone, Inchcape permitted himself a measure of agreement. ‘Of course, there’s more to these trips than meets the eye. There’s no knowing whom Sir M. met when down there, or what was discussed. I’ve often thought myself I could pay a call on our agent in Beirut, I could put him wise about a few things. He’s still in direct telephonic communication with London office, you know. And they should be made to realise how things are changing here. The rise in the cost of living, for instance! We can’t go on indefinitely on pre-war salaries.’
Guy had not heard before of this agent, but was prepared to believe in him. The organisation supplied men to the American University in Beirut. He said: ‘There’s probably an air-service between Istanbul and Beirut.’
Inchcape opened his mouth, but did not speak. There was a pause, then he nodded. It seemed to Guy that the trip was practically agreed upon. He was about to suggest that while Inchcape went to Beirut, he and Harriet could visit Athens, when he noticed Inchcape’s hand trembling on the white satin counterpane. He felt stricken. Telling himself that he was harrying this aged and lonely man out of the one place in the world where he had importance, he put his hand on Inchcape’s and pressed it.
At this touch, Inchcape’s lips shook: a tear trickled out between his swollen lids. ‘We can’t give in, Guy,’ he said. ‘We can’t run away. We must be represented.’
‘We aren’t running away,’ Guy assured him. ‘You are merely taking the leave that is due to you. I shall be here to represent you.’
‘That’s true.’ As though he knew he had committed himself to defeat, Inchcape let his head fall back and sobbed without restraint.
Awed by this collapse of a man who had until now appeared to be inflexible, Guy realised he had always taken Inchcape at his face value, accepting him as his chief, to be obeyed and honoured. He had never doubted that much of Inchcape’s temerity was based on self-deception but it appalled him to see this temerity collapse at the moment reality broke through. But perhaps it was the indignity that had destroyed Inchcape. The whole place must seem to him contaminated by this assault on him. No wonder he wanted to get away.
For a while Guy sat silent, at a loss before Inchcape’s weeping, then, realising that initiative had now passed to him, he said: ‘And another thing: London office must be told that we face a final break-up here. It’s only a matter of time. We should be instructed where we’re to go, what we’re to do when we get there. We don’t want to become refugees without employment.’
Inchcape nodded again. Finding a handkerchief, he dabbed gently at his eyes and nostrils. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘It’s not only advisable I should go, it’s imperative. And there’s no time to waste.’