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.
'Liking did not come into it, not in those days, in that place.'
'Nevertheless, something repelled you. What was it?'
'Possession,' she announced, suddenly ruffled, looking hard at Margaret.
'Aubrey and my father hated one another?' Margaret asked.
'They did.'
'And you — you were the cause. Possession, you said.'
'No — I would flatter myself if I were the cause. In your father's case, perhaps… but,' she added, turning to Massinger, 'you know Kenneth. Passion would not disturb him so much, I think?'
Massinger shrugged by way of reply.
'It must be that!'
'Why must it?' Clara asked Margaret. 'Why? Kenneth's dislike of your father was — professional. He interfered in Kenneth's work.'
'And Aubrey killed him.' Margaret had shifted her point of vantage. Now, it was rivalry, professional animosity.
Clara seemed to look to the far end of the drawing-room, towards an alcove. Massinger followed her gaze. An illusion that Aubrey was standing there was powerfully clear to him. The illusion stepped into the room. It was Aubrey, old and tired and wearing a silk dressing-gown below which pajama trousers appeared. He was, however, shaved and groomed. He appeared fully at home in Clara Elsenreith's apartment.
'Paul,' he acknowledged quietly. 'Mrs Massinger, I—'
'You?' It was like a curse.
Clara was mysteriously shaking her head in vehement denial, or to indicate that Aubrey was mistaken in revealing himself. Aubrey came to Margaret's chair, and studied her. She glared at him, then her gaze turned aside. Aubrey continued to study her for some moments, then turned to Massinger. His expression was kindly, sadly- wise.
'Is your wife ready for the truth she has come to hear?' he asked Massinger.
'Yes!' Margaret snapped in a hoarse voice.
Massinger pondered, then slowly nodded. Clara looked at her watch.
'Kenneth — I have appointments this afternoon. I must change. My apartment is at your disposal.' Clara's lips demonstrated a fleeting smile. Aubrey nodded. It seemed that something passed between them, brief and secret like a coded message; it appeared to be affection, at least.
'Very well, my dear. It's my responsibility, anyway. I must explain everything. I need the help of these people, both of whom are dear to me.'
'Then be careful,' Clara warned.
'No, the time for caution is past. You run along, my dear.'
Clara left the room with only a brief nod towards the Massingers. Surprisingly, she lightly pecked Aubrey's cheek. The old man seemed warmed by the gesture. He lowered himself onto the sofa as the door closed behind Clara, his gaze directed at Margaret. Then, without preamble, he began talking.
Zimmermann switched on his answering machine — his secretary was still at lunch and he had been out of his office for almost an hour — and listened to the familiar voice. Only its content was unexpected; disturbing and enraging. It was the Chancellor's senior private secretary.
'The Chancellor wishes you to take a week of the leave at present due to you, Herr Professor. This unfortunate matter of the suicide of a prisoner only hours after you interrogated her must be properly investigated. The woman's lawyers and family are prepared to make an embarrassing public display of their feelings — and of their suspicions that the nature of your questions disturbed the balance of her mind…'
The message continued. There was no order for him to present himself to the secretary or the Chancellor or to make himself available to any investigation. He was to be away from the scene until the fuss died down. There was no reference to any connection between the suicide of Margarethe Schroder in Cologne and the burglary of his apartment. A public fuss concerning a senior officer of the government, albeit one unelected, was the only thing of significance.
Zimmermann remembered another answerphone, years before, and the message that his wife had died in
