Pantheon

‘I was actually offering one to you, Mrs Grey. But if you won’t, I will.’

She ignored this remark, instead finding a chair and making herself comfortable. Then in a voice that was kindly, and nearly free of the usual imperiousness, she said, ‘Can I suggest you tell me what happened?’

James sat down too, realizing that he was grateful for the chance to speak to another person. ‘It would appear that Florence has left me.’

Grey stifled a gasp. ‘Good God, no. When?’

‘This morning. I came back from sculling and the house was empty.’

‘And Harry?’

‘She’s taken him with her.’

James watched a thought flicker across Grey’s face, stern beneath its bun of silver hair. Her initial shock seemed now to give way to urgency, the practical desire to act and to act immediately. ‘Have you spoken to her? Has she telephoned?’

‘She left a note.’

‘A note? What did it say?’

‘Nothing.’ He paused, weighing up the temptation to tell her everything. But something held him back. Was it loyalty to Florence? Was it embarrassment? ‘Nothing that explains anything anyway.’

‘Had she ever talked about leaving before?’

‘No. Never.’

‘So why do you presume she left?’

‘She must have met someone else. She is the most beautiful woman in Oxford, after all. Your husband called her that, as I recall, at our wedding celebration.’

A picture instantly sprang into his head. That Indian summer’s day, late September 1937, in the college garden: Florence, heavily pregnant and glowing with good health. Next to her, on crutches, James himself, his smile for the photographer more of a wince. Though the Greys had insisted on the location, the idea of the celebration had come from Florence’s parents: ‘Darling, you’ve denied us the delight of seeing our daughter married; you will not deprive us of our right to throw an enormous party.’ So nine months after they had exchanged their Spanish vows, they had listened as Sir George Walsingham made a toast extolling the qualities of his wonderful daughter while Bernard Grey made jokes at James’s expense and, like a man who could not help himself, offered repeated paeans to the beauty of the bride.

‘Her attractiveness has no bearing on her willingness or otherwise to pair with other men, nor to leave you. Unless you have any evidence to the contrary, James?’ Virginia Grey asked tartly.

James closed his eyes. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do.’

‘You have made a telephone call to Florence’s parents of course.’

He sighed. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t.’

‘Well, why ever not? She’s probably on her way there now. It’s the first place any young girl goes when there’s trouble at home.’

‘She’s not gone there. Believe me.’

‘Well, it’s the obvious place to start and I insist that you check. Now where’s the number? I’ll—’

‘Please! Mrs Grey. Florence hasn’t spoken to her mother in … for a while.’

Virginia Grey frowned.

James looked away, guilty to be breaking one of his wife’s secrets. ‘They’re not speaking to each other at present.’

Silence hung in the air until eventually Mrs Grey spoke again. ‘I imagine it will be awkward, but I fear you will have to do it all the same. She has almost certainly gone there and no proper search can begin until you have at least eliminated that possibility.’

James could hardly fault her logic; but the thought of making such a call filled him with dread. What would he say? If he announced that Florence had gone missing, he would be admitting that she had left him. If Mrs Grey was right, that would make no odds: the Walsinghams would know already. But if she was wrong, well, then he would be making an entirely needless confession. And before he knew it, Sir George Bloody Walsingham would be taking charge, alerting his contacts in the Oxford constabulary until they had tracked down his daughter and grandson, while Lady Walsingham would be giving him that withering look of hers, a woman’s look that said ‘No wonder she’s left you: you’re not a proper man any more.’

They already blamed him anyway. He was the reason why Florence had stormed out of that dinner in London with her parents, back in April (or was it February?). He could scarcely remember what the row had been about, probably something trivial about the menu or the taxi home. But the underlying cause was obvious. The Walsinghams believed their daughter had married beneath herself: she, whose pedigree breeding would have secured the richest, most desirable man in the kingdom, married to this son of provincial schoolteachers who was crippled to boot. To announce that he could not find Florence or Harry, that he had been discarded, would be to confirm their verdict on him: he was not good enough.

A voice called out from the hallway. ‘They live in Norfolk, don’t they?’ As good as her word, Virginia Grey was standing by the telephone table, about to make the call.

James ran out and grabbed the phone from her. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said quietly. This was how the Greys operated, bending everyone to their will.

Virginia hovered as he heard his own breathing through the heavy, Bakelite receiver and then a click as the operator came on the line. ‘The name is Walsingham, please,’ he said. ‘In Langham in Norfolk. Thank you.’ He waited, listening to the clicks and switching sounds, picturing the exchanges as they plugged in the series of cables that would send his voice eastward across England.

Eventually there was the ringing sound, followed after four rings by a female voice: middle-aged and aristocratic. ‘Wells 452.’

‘Lady Walsingham? It’s James. Florence’s husband.’

‘Good afternoon, James. I’m afraid Sir George is out.’ Ite. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No, there’s nothing wrong.’ The echo on the line was confusing him, making him trip over his words as they bounced back to him two seconds later. ‘I just wondered if I might speak to Florence.’

‘Florence? I don’t understand.’

‘Florence and Harry. They’re not with you?’

‘No. Why ever would they be with us? You always come in August.’

He listened closely to the voice, trying to detect a lie. They were polished, people of her class, he had learned that much after more than a decade in Oxford, whether as undergraduate or fellow. She and Sir George – a powerful figure in the City and a decorated officer in the Great War – were as elegant in their manner as in their looks. They were a handsome couple: Florence’s mother, once a society beauty, had her daughter’s piercing eyes and perfect bone structure. Was Florence standing nearby, mouthing answers to her? If she were, he would never know it. And yet, he had to confess it did not sound like that at all.

‘James? Are you still there? Has something happened?’

‘No, no. Not at all.’ Hearing his own voice played back to him, even he did not believe it. ‘Just some confusion on my part.’

‘Is Florence unwell? Is Harry all right?’ The concern was genuine, he was certain of it.

‘Yes, yes. Everyone’s well. I just thought they might have … perhaps …’ He mumbled a farewell and hung up.

Virginia Grey did not say anything. She bit her lip and headed towards the kitchen. ‘Time for a pot of tea, I think.’

While she was fussing over cups and spoons, she asked, her tone as casual as if she were inquiring where she might find the sugar, ‘How have things been between you? Recently I mean.’

He hesitated, reluctant to confide in her. But it was clear she was keen to help and it was somehow comforting not to be conducting this search entirely alone. ‘We’re not newlyweds any more, Mrs Grey. But I believe our marriage is strong.’

She stopped her tea preparations and gazed at him.

‘You’re not convinced,’ he said.

‘It does not matter a jot whether I am convinced, my dear. That is not at issue here.’