Death of a Unicorn

She continued to demonstrate her competence in coping with age. She needed to support her wrist with her left hand in order to pour from the teapot, but did so without splash or spill. The trolley was neatly laid with china all from one set, a variety of biscuits in a pattern on their plate, a fruit cake. The teaspoons and silver milk jug had been recently polished. The tea was hot.

The simplest course seemed to be to plunge straight in.

‘I have been talking to Ronnie Smith . . .’ I began.

‘Who, my dear?’

I mouthed the name.

‘Oh, Ronald Smith. He came to see me about his history of Night and Day. I must confess I was very doubtful about telling him anything. If I had known in the old days what we have since learned I would have done my best to see that he was locked up. Of course he claims to have had a change of heart, but you cannot ever tell with these people.’

‘I think it’s genuine,’ I said. ‘I saw him this morning. He’s in rather a poor way, I’m sorry to say, but I’m going to try and get him looked after. And he’s had trouble with his publisher about the history, which means it may not get written after all.’

‘An excellent project, though I must confess I would have preferred to see it in other hands. I could have told him a great deal about my dear husband’s doings, but he seemed to me much more interested in that dreadful man Brierley. My dear, I need not tell you how often I have given thanks that the scales fell from your eyes in time.’

‘If they did, but don’t let’s worry about that. There’s something I particularly want to ask you, Mrs Clarke. It’s why I came. I’m afraid it’s still about Amos Brierley. I know at one time you were trying to find out all you could about him. I wonder if you know where he got most of his money from.’

‘From the Communists, of course.’

‘I see. But you didn’t tell anyone?’

‘I did not realise in time. My late husband’s friends had told me that there was something peculiar. Money doesn’t come from nowhere, you know, and people in the City are very clever about that sort of thing. I did know of course about that business in Barbados of which I told you, but that had not then produced any funds. No, it was only after they had him shot . . .’

‘Who had him shot?’

‘The Communists, my dear.’

‘Why on earth?’

‘Because he was trying to cheat them. They gave him money to turn my magazine into a weapon on their side, and he pretended to be doing that, but all he wanted was to make money, and when he appointed Mr Naylor . . . I do not care for Mr Naylor, but he is certainly not a friend of the Communists. You see, he gave himself away. They shot him, of course. They do not know the meaning of pity or forgiveness.’

I was not as disappointed as one might think. The theory might be absurd, but the fact that she had remembered a brief and trivial conversation with me showed that her grasp of the past was remarkably precise. I wouldn’t have known what she was referring to if I had not recently read my old manuscript.

‘So you didn’t tell my mother about the Communists because you didn’t know then?’ I said.

‘I beg your pardon.’

Perhaps, because she had been seeming to follow the conversation with such ease, I had allowed myself to speed up too much. I repeated the question slowly and clearly.

‘I never told your mother anything, Lady Margaret,’ she said.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you told my mother about Amos Brierley trying to work a currency swindle in Barbados.’

‘No, my dear. I told you. I didn’t tell anyone else.’

‘Yes, I know you did. Well, you hinted at it.’

‘I told you very explicitly.’

‘All right. Perhaps my memory’s not as good as yours. But my mother certainly seems to think you told her.’

‘I never met Lady Millett except the once, at that party when your little book was published. Of course, as you know, she was kind enough to sign my photograph for me.’

‘She didn’t!’

I don’t know why I should have reacted with such vehement astonishment to this trivial bit of news. Not only astonishment, but also the amusement always aroused when somebody well known does something totally out of character. There was a long silence. Mrs Clarke, I remembered, was used to studying faces for information.

‘If I may say so, Lady Margaret,’ she said, ‘this is all very extraordinary. I am beginning to wonder why you have troubled to pay me this visit.’

As she spoke I heard vague sounds of struggle in the blackness beside the glare. Craning sideways and shading my eyes I saw that she had heaved herself to her feet and was looking around in a frustrated way as though not sure what to do next. I rose too and, now able to see her properly, realised that she wanted to move, but her walking-frame was in the kitchen and the trolley encumbered with tea things no longer stacked for safe transport.

‘Can I help ?’ I said.

She didn’t hear, so I moved and took her arm.

‘Oh, if you would be so good,’ she said. ‘It must be a misunderstanding. Perhaps I didn’t hear you aright. Oh dear, how strange.’