'You think Tucker's more likely to talk to two strangers than one?' said Laurence. 'I don't.'
'No. But I think he's less likely to attack two than one. His sort go for the safe bet. Anyway, I'd like to look the man in the eye.'
They finished their dinner, Laurence turning down the offer of brandy and cigars. Charles walked with him to get his coat. Impulsively, Laurence shook his hand, holding it with both his own.
'Thank you,' he said. 'You've been more of a help than you know.'
Charles looked simultaneously pleased and embarrassed.
'I was getting bored, you know. Before. At least with the war you knew where you were.'
Chapter Twenty
When he arrived home his rooms felt cold and unwelcoming even when he'd lit the fire. He made some thick, bitter cocoa and warmed his hands on the cup. There were things he thought he'd never know for sure but the biggest remaining question mark, apart from Tucker's role in al this, was why Gwen Lovel had been left money by a stranger and why they couldn't find Harry Lovel's records.
But then another thought struck him. They'd al made the assumption that Lovel was an officer. He had done it from the start himself. Mrs Lovel had never said so but he'd taken it for granted because, although in visibly reduced circumstances, she was a lady and also because of her assumption that John, a captain, might plausibly have been her son's friend. Friendships were rare across the ranks. But whether or not you went into the ranks wasn't always a matter of class. Sometimes it was one of preference.
He'd read of a famous headmaster's son who'd set out to be a conscientious objector, but when half the young men in his vilage had died he had finaly joined up, refusing the commission his education entitled him to. Eventualy he had won the Victoria Cross. There were plenty of others. One school friend, he'd heard, had gone into the Royal Flying Corps as a mechanic, simply because he was fascinated by the engines.
It was much rarer the other way. A costermonger or a miner didn't get a commission, however good a soldier or however bravely he fought. Although an exceptionaly able bank clerk or a seed merchant might work his way up to major if casualties were sufficiently high, he doubted they'd find an unstinting welcome in the mess. Even in the face of imminent death and conditions of massive discomfort, the nuances were always there. Snobbery, prejudice, bulying: al of it transported straight from the playing fields and drawing rooms of English society. He had been guilty of it himself, assuming the son of the wel-spoken Mrs Lovel would automaticaly have held a commission.
If young Lovel was the link between John Emmett and the bequest to Mrs Lovel, and Lovel was a private soldier, not an officer, the puzzle became more complex stil, simply in terms of numbers. It was just possible that the man his mother had described as sensitive and music-loving might have refused a commission despite his background. He cast back to the events that people had described to him over the last few weeks and thought how often he'd heard the phrase 'some corporal' or been told of 'a young soldier' or 'a private—I don't think I ever knew his name'. He felt momentarily dispirited but then recaled that Lovel, though an interesting loose end, didn't seem to be at the centre of his enquiry. Why was he making everything so complicated?
As he got ready for bed, he thought about seeing Mary again. Tomorrow, no, he tipped his watch to the light, today, she'd be here, in London. Yet since her unexplained encounter with Charles in Tunbridge Wels and that fleeting exchange with a stranger at the Wigmore Hal, he was wary. He could hardly ask her to explain herself.
Several hours later, when she appeared waving vigorously from the far end of the platform, so that the pompons on the ends of her scarf danced on her coat, the minutiae of his concerns about her fled away. She tucked her arm in his as if they were the oldest friends in the world. Her other arm clutched a bag to her body.
'Gosh, it's cold,' she said. 'Do you think it's going to snow early this year? It'l make the winter seem awfuly long.'
She had put on a little weight, he thought, and it suited her. Today the cold had also flushed her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.
'How've you been?' he asked once they were settled on the bus, knowing that he realy wanted to ask what she had been doing.
'Oh, al right. You know. Up and down but I think, on the whole, more up than down. It's not so easy for my mother.'
'But she's stil got you,' said Laurence.
'Maybe you always count the cost of what you've lost more than what you stil have,' she said. Anyway, she was always trying to get rid of me—marry me off.
Ghastly men. Whiskery bachelor academics, mournful widowers.' She looked mortified. 'Oh Laurence, how frightful of me. I'm dreadfuly sorry.' She put her warm, gloveless hand over his. 'I didn't mean you or anyone like you. It was just a joke. I talk too much, always have, especialy when I'm trying to impress someone. Say things I shouldn't even think.'
He was more amused than anything else, though glad she might want to impress him.
As he helped her down from the bus he said, 'Perhaps she's eager for grandchildren. Another generation to live for.' He added swiftly, 'There, that sounds awfuly clumsy too. I don't mean to suggest your only purpose is to produce babies as her consolation.'
'You're probably right, though,' said Mary. 'Idealy they'd be boys and the oldest one could be caled John. The youngest too, possibly. That should do it. A girl caled Johanna in the middle. But I need to find the right man first.' He knew she was teasing him as she squeezed his arm a little more tightly.
'Let's get out of the cold and have tea,' he said, already turning up a street in the direction of the British Museum. They were walking too fast to talk easily.
It was the same smal place that he had used to meet Eleanor. The waitress who took their order seemed completely indifferent to them. Her cap was pinned far back on her crimped yelow hair and with her lips coloured into a surprised-looking bow, she looked like a large, rather peevish dol. In any case she was too busy watching the door, waiting for somebody she evidently expected. But nobody else ever arrived; the room was theirs. Laurence curved his cold fingers round his cup.
Before he could start to tel Mary of what he stil thought of as his detective work, she took out a brown envelope from her bag.
