Colonel Lambert Ward, who assured him no meeting had been requested, nor had one taken place. Dr Chilvers had not confronted John with this by the time of his death. And although he could not have answered if it had breached confidentiality, in answer to her second question he could tel her that he had never had a patient caled either Lovel or Hart. Chilvers ended his reply, pleasantly enough, by hoping that Mary was in good health.
Laurence grinned at Mary's initiative. Her enquiry resolved one loose end. Neither Lovel nor Hart had ever been treated at Holmwood. But neither had John seen Lambert Ward. Had he met Somers like Brabourne had, or possibly seen Morrel or Bottomley? Or had that simply been a plausible excuse?
On impulse he decided to telephone Brabourne. He went into a hotel on Russel Square on the way to the station. The lobby was silent and the desk was unattended but after a few minutes' wait a porter arrived and made the connection for him. Brabourne soon answered.
'I've put together some cuttings,' he said. The line was crackling. 'You can pick them up any time you're passing. But there's not a lot to add. The Darling Committee presented its findings two years ago now—I was one of the last contributors, although Lambert Ward is certainly stil heavily involved in al kinds of issues connected with military justice. Bottomley's stil out there, shouting the odds through the mouthpiece of his paper. Quite brave; they al come under assault, even from felow MPs. For Bottomley it's part of his trade, but some quite nasty stuff comes Lambert Ward's way, and Morrel's and Somers' too.'
'Do you think it's possible John Emmett was giving evidence in much the same way that you were?'
'Possible. As I said, the Darling people wrapped up their report at the end of 1919. The Southborough Committee is stil taking evidence. Perhaps I should be in touch with them myself. Might be a new story brewing.'
Laurence thanked him, then added, 'John never mentioned a man caled Meurice? French?'
'No, I'm pretty sure not. Very faint bel but not in that context. By the way, a snippet for you. I got hold of Jim Byers' photograph. Pre-war but he's as like cousin Leonard as peas in a pod. Could just be someone mistook one for the other, don't you think?'
'Thank you,' Laurence said. 'Interesting.' He paused briefly while he considered whether he was leaning too heavily on a new acquaintance, then continued, 'I've got something for you too but there's a snag, I'm afraid. Could you check one other thing for me? I think you'd know how to get the information I need without having to give too much in return. Tucker was kiled last winter. In Birmingham.'
'Was he, by God?'
'I need to know the date but I don't want a fuss.'
He expected Brabourne to question him, to try to see a story in the enquiry, but he simply said, 'Al right. Not difficult.'
Laurence wrote a short message to Charles before leaving the desk, and paid a boy to take it straight to his club. Yet again he had a feeling that he was getting further away from a simple answer to Mary's question, which was probably just: 'What was my brother like?' or 'Why did he die?' Instead, he was folowing wild-goose chases: intruding into lives that were already bruised, seeing anomalies where there was only the discontinuity of lives disrupted by the chaos of the war.
Laurence walked out into Russel Square. Even though it was milder again and the sun was shining, the brief outburst of prematurely wintry weather had left the trees bare. He liked this time of year when the bones of London appeared, no longer hidden by foliage. Now the shape of the square was plain. Tal, red-brick houses stood solidly around the huge area of gardens with every detail of arch, balcony and portico seen as the architect intended. A haze of branches stil stopped him being able to see right across the square as he set off across it. At the far corner, cabmen were drinking tea by a dark-green hut. They nodded in response to his greeting.
The journey to Fairford seemed much shorter when traveling by train than it had done driving in Charles's car and he made the connecting train at Oxford with quarter of an hour to spare. There was even a carrier at Fairford Station who agreed to take him to George Chilvers' house for a smal sum.
'It's not far,' he said. 'Just out of the vilage.'
The cabman offered Laurence a blanket smeling strongly of horse, which he refused; it wasn't cold. The horse plodded on as if it had done the journey a thousand times. There were two possibilities looming and Laurence considered them both: either Chilvers wouldn't be there and his journey was wasted or, if he was, there would be a row. As they bumped along, he steadied himself with his hand on the edge of the seat, realising he was looking forward to the confrontation. Would George Chilvers recognise him, he wondered? If he was able to extract the letters or garner the smalest piece of information it would be a bonus but he was quite content just to rile him.
The house had pretensions to grandeur but lacked charm. Laurence guessed it had been built within the last century. The front was dressed in Bath stone, from which a heavy wooden porch protruded outwards, its supports painted a dul green. It looked out of place on its site: neither within a vilage nor clearly at home in a fold of countryside. To either side were rather desolate flower beds, tidy but understocked. Laurence remembered Eleanor teling him how Chilvers' wife, Vera, had loved roses. He presumed her money had bought the house.
A maid in uniform opened the door. She was very thin and very young, probably no more than fifteen, and sounded as if she had a cold. Mr Chilvers was at the hospital, she told him, but if he liked he could wait in the drawing room; Mr Chilvers usualy came back for tea. Laurence looked at his watch. He had plenty of time; the train connecting to the Oxford line didn't leave until five-thirty.
'Would you like tea?'
'No, thank you.'
The maid took him into a room with parquet flooring and half-height, varnished-oak paneling. There were some brocade chairs with crimson cushions arranged carefuly on their tasseled corners. He chose the chair nearest the unlit fire with its bright brass scuttle of wet coal. The chair scraped on the floor as he sat down and his foot clanged against the fender. This was a room in which nobody could ever move about silently. The girl went out, sniffing. He gazed out at the desolation of the lawn and wished he had brought a paper.
He was miles away in thought when a woman's voice said, rather breathily, 'Are you al right? Have you come to see George? I don't know where he is, he's usualy back by now.'
Laurence jumped up. The figure in the doorway was slight; a girl, he thought. She looked more surprised to see him than he was to see her.
'I'm Mrs Chilvers,' she said.
