He recoiled from what they might find in Vienna, even as she pursued it fervently.
His call to Clara Elsenreith as he looked out at the Rhine masked by slanting, driven rain was one of the most reluctant he had ever made. The woman had agreed, almost suspiciously, to see them, but only because he was a friend of Aubrey whose name she recognised. She did not promise help or revelation.
The Stephansdom, in the centre of Vienna.
He could not recall, except with difficulty, that this was the city of less than a week ago, the city of the drugged KGB Rezident, of Hyde's danger.
It was hard to remember Hyde. He was a distant, drowning figure in the waves of his wife's anguish, his white hand raised for help. He was, in all probability, dead.
The taxi stopped and the driver turned and indicated the imposing seventeenth-century fasade of the first and second floors of the building that housed the elegant shoe-shop. Beyond the broad window of the shop was a cobbled courtyard which would contain the entrance to the apartments. Massinger paid the fare, tipping with unconsidered generosity.
Margaret got out into the wind, which distressed the hair she had perfunctorily tidied in the taxi. She was heavily made-up, and the effect was to make her look older rather than to disguise the tired, drawn appearance of her features. The wind chilled and sculpted her features into an expression of hopelessness. He took her arm, and, as the taxi pulled away out of the Stephansplatz, led her beneath the archway into the courtyard. A small fountain was toyed with by the gusting wind. Green plants appeared drab and hardly alive.
Massinger rang the bell. Immediately the security loudspeaker enquired his name. Then the lock was released, and they entered a wide hallway, elegantly carpeted, small tables dotting it as if items left over, superfluous. Wealth announced itself quietly and firmly in the hall and on the staircase. Massinger clutched Margaret's elbow more tightly, brushing down his ruffled hair with his other hand. Paintings, furniture, tables, sofas.
The door opened as they reached the head of the stairs. The woman, white-haired and perhaps sixty, was four or five inches taller than Aubrey. Perhaps Castleford's height — almost as tall as himself, Massinger realised. Yes, she and Castleford would have made what would have been described as 'a handsome couple'. But Clara Elsenreith had preferred Aubrey, hadn't she…? She was dressed in a shirt and trousers perhaps too young in style but worn with definite confidence, even panache. Her eyes were intelligent, quick to observe. She smiled, introducing herself.
"I am Clara Elsenreith. You are the Massingers. Please come in." Her cool voice might have been that of a receptionist. A young maid took their coats and disappeared with them. The walls of the reception hall were crowded with paintings, some of which Massinger recognised. There were many he felt he could give a current, and heady, valuation. Even almost forty years later, the sense of wealth clashed with the image he had had of Clara Elsenreith, bereft and penniless and an expert exploiter of men. She waved them through double doors into a long, high-ceilinged drawing-room. Gold leaf, gilding, and a wealth of paintings and ornaments. A high marble fireplace and tall windows through which the bulk and the towers of the cathedral could be seen. The room was warm.
She indicated deep, comfortable chairs while she perched cross-legged, hugging her knee like a much younger woman, on a high-backed, delicate chair covered with some heavily embroidered material in blue and gold. Her shirt was chocolate-brown silk and her beige trousers were elegantly tailored. On her small, narrow feet were flat gold slippers. She seemed to watch them with amusement. There was no reluctance in her.
"I've ordered coffee," she announced after a few moments.
"Thank you," Margaret replied. Massinger sensed that the woman regarded them from a lofty superiority, as if they were two distant country cousins who had arrived in the city for a first visit.
"It was good of you to see us at such short notice," he offered.
Clara remained silent while the maid brought the coffee. Modern Rosenthal for the service, the coffee-pot silver and old and valuable. Then, when the maid had been dismissed, she said, "I was curious. Especially since I knew that dear Kenneth was also coming to Vienna — and at the same time. I don't believe in coincidences…" Her English was throatily-accented so that it sounded almost false, the trick of an actress. "Do you?" She seemed pleased with Margaret's discomfiture and shock, as if it represented the last piece in a complex puzzle she had just solved. She nodded to herself as if to confirm Massinger's impression.
"He's coming here—?"
"He is a — regular visitor, Frau Massinger. A very old friend."
Margaret looked at Paul, her face suggesting she might flee from the room at the slightest suspicion of Aubrey's arrival outside the door. He tried to smile to calm her fears, but it was evident his expression did no good. She violently resented the information that Aubrey was on his way. She wanted only the truth, and he was synonymous with evasion and lies — and the woman was his potential ally. Massinger himself realised he should have considered this a bolt-hole to which Aubrey might run, if he ever had the chance. And, he added to the thought, there was a truth here, somewhere, even if it existed only in the woman's memory. Was it a truth dangerous to Aubrey?
His eyes roamed the drawing-room. The apartment was larger than their home in Wilton Crescent, more richly appointed.
"You're wondering," Clara Elsenreith announced, following his gaze. "I began with the shoe-shop on the ground floor. Then other shops, then small manufacturers. The shops sell my designs, clothes and shoes made by my companies… all over Europe."
Massinger nodded, apologising for his curiosity. The woman seemed uninterested. She continued: "You are Kenneth's friend — I know of you. I understand what you must have been trying to do… but I understand what interests your wife, also."
"Will you tell me the truth?" Margaret blurted, the shoulder-strap of her handbag twisted in her hands. Her face was sharp, urgent, demanding.
Clara considered. "What truth?"
"About my father—"
"Ah, then what about him?" She seemed amused at Margaret's anguish. Massinger suspected a deep dislike of Castleford behind the cool eyes. At twenty or twenty-two, she would have been very beautiful, very desirable. A confident, challenging air of sexuality surrounded her even now. "There are things… no, leave that. You wish to know what happened to your father? He died."
"And—?"
"I know no more than that. If I did, it would not be my business to tell you."
"Then you do know more—!"
"I said I did not." Her tone quelled Margaret's outburst. Clara was used to obedience.
"You knew my father?" Clara nodded. "You were his — lover?" Hope was more evident than condemnation; the need for comfort paramount. Yet Massinger remained sitting in his chair, separated from her, little more than an observer or witness. There was no part for him to play in the present scene.
"No, I was not," Clara said, smiling.
"But—"
"You believed I must be." She shrugged. "Perhaps I might have become his mistress, had I not already met Kenneth." She brushed her hands absently through her hair. "Kenneth was able to arrange matters for me to leave Berlin. Later, he arranged my papers here. He was able to help in many ways. Your father was more powerful, yes — but the choice was not left to me. Your father disappeared — died, we now know." Everything was announced in a cool, unmoved voice. Massinger could not decide whether or not the woman was acting the part they expected her to play — heartless gold-digger, living on her wits. He felt she had been attracted towards Castleford's usefulness, but…?
"You didn't like Castleford?" he asked gently.