Sea of Lost Love Page 15

  “Yes. He said, ‘You’re a darling, Gitta.’ Then he hung up. It struck me as strange because for one, I expected the woman to be Mrs. Pamela, and for two, the name is foreign. That’s why I remember it, you see.”

  Celestria shook her head in amazement. “Good Lord, Waynie, it’s like getting blood out of a stone. Anything else you haven’t told me?”

  Mrs. Waynebridge’s white skin blushed pink. She lowered her eyes. “I were afraid to tell you in case your father were…you know…”

  “Seeing another woman?” said Celestria casually.

  “By gum, Mr. Montague wouldn’t do that,” she replied in a fluster.

  “Don’t worry, Waynie. I won’t tell Mama. It’ll be our secret.”

  Celestria opened the box in the pantry with anticipation. She felt she was beginning to uncover evidence of foul play. If her father was seeing another woman, perhaps the woman’s husband bumped him off? With mounting excitement she began sifting through the papers inside. There were letters that meant nothing to her. Letters from the bank about investments, and from people with foreign names. Some of them were sent to a PO Box in South Kensington, others to the house in Belgravia.

  One letter caught her attention because it contained a photograph of her father standing in what looked like a cloister, with the sun on his face, his panama hat sitting crooked on his head. He looked carefree, his mouth twisted into a half smile as if he had just told a joke. The letter was from someone called Freddie, who, according to the address on the letterhead, lived in a convent in Italy. “My dear Monty,” it said in neat, looped handwriting. “It was a pleasure to see you again. You brought light and love into our home. I just wish you could have put a smile on Hamish’s surly face. Sadly, at the moment, that is one miracle too far. I apologize for his appalling behavior, but I know you understand. I only wish you could have stayed longer. I’m writing to tell you that due to our present circumstances, my husband and I have decided to open the Convento as a bed-and-breakfast. Hamish is against the idea, for obvious reasons, but it is the only way. If he would just sell some of his paintings, or even show them, we might climb out of this hole, but he won’t hear of it. If anyone should mourn, it is I. What about the living? It is not healthy to live among the dead. I also want to thank you, dear Monty, for your generosity. You really needn’t have put your hand in your pocket. I am ashamed and humble in my gratitude. My fondest love, Monty. May God bless you and keep you safe. Freddie.”

  Celestria stared at the letter for a long time. Was this another woman besotted with her father? Had he given her money, too? Was she a lover, a mistress? What was he doing in Italy? She looked for a date on the letter, but there was none, and the postmark was illegible. There was clearly a good reason why her father hadn’t wanted anyone to find it—she just didn’t know what that reason was yet. She put the letter aside, slipped the photograph into her pocket, and continued her search.

  It wasn’t long before she seized upon bank statements, a few dozen of them, tied up with string. They were all in order, as if some efficient secretary had kept them all neatly filed. She scanned them, not quite knowing what she was looking for. Then her eyes fell upon long numbers that had left his account. To her amazement, they were all cash transfers to a name she didn’t recognize: F.G.B. Salazar. So this is where all the money’s gone, she thought, her heart thumping with excitement. The sums were large and regular. She gasped at the quantities. She didn’t fail to notice, either, that in the last two months, they had been bigger and more frequent.

  She was so engrossed in the bank statements she failed to hear the telephone ring. A moment later Mrs. Waynebridge filled the doorway. “It’s for you, Celestria. Mr. Aidan Cooney.” Celestria left the papers with reluctance and took the call in the kitchen.

  “Aidan,” she said.

  “Darling, I’m so sorry to hear about your father. What a tragedy!”

  “I know. It’s ghastly.”

  “I telephoned Cornwall. A snooty butler told me you were here.”

  “Soames.” She smiled. “He is rather pompous, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you on your own?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t stand being there a moment longer. You can’t imagine how awful it is down there. Everyone mourning. No body. No funeral. Just a dreadful limbo. I had to get away.” The words tumbled out in a rush.

  “Let me take you out for dinner,” he suggested. “Just the two of us. I’ll look after you.” His voice was rich and granular, like brown sugar. She felt the tears welling in her eyes and an urgent longing to be in his arms.

  “I’d love that,” she replied, grateful that he didn’t seem to think any less of her due to her father’s suicide.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven.” He hesitated a moment. “You know my number if you need me. I’ll come over the moment you call.”

  “Thank you. I’m fine, really. I’ll see you later.” She hung up and smiled. Aidan Cooney was exactly what she needed. “Waynie,” she shouted. “I’m out for supper.” Mrs. Waynebridge appeared from the other end of the house, panting.

  “Anyone nice?” she asked, hands on hips.

  “Yes, he is nice. Mama would certainly consider him marriage material, though I’m not sure I would.”

  “What do you consider marriage material, then?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She sighed and shrugged. “Someone altogether more unpredictable. Someone who doesn’t look at me in that doe-eyed way.”

  “I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth if I were you.”

  “That’s it. I’m not sure he isn’t a rather wonderful horse.”

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “I’m looking for a lion.”

  “Sounds like trouble.”

  “Exactly,” Celestria said with a smile. “That’s what I’m after.”

  Mrs. Waynebridge shook her head. “What do you want me to do with all them papers?” she asked, noticing them strewn all over the pantry floor. If Mr. Montague were still alive, he’d be exceedingly unamused.

  “Nothing. Just leave them there. Tell Jack Bryan to sharpen those knives. I might be needing them!”

  Celestria took a cab to Coutts Bank in the West End, where she asked to see the manager. “Mr. Smithe is out for lunch,” the cashier informed her.

  “It’s a matter of some urgency,” said Celestria, tapping her fingers on the counter with impatience. “My name is Celestria Montague.” To Celestria’s irritation, the cashier did not seem to recognize her name.

  “You’d better speak to Miss Bentham,” the woman said, aware that the haughty young lady was someone of importance. “I’m new here.” She coughed apologetically and disappeared to look for her colleague.

  Celestria looked about at the tall ceilings and rich wooden counters, stone floor, and big, heavy doors. The place had an air of formality and grandeur that reminded her of her father. She could see him in here, in his dark suit and coat, his briefcase in one hand, Brigg umbrella hooked over his arm. The bank was almost empty, except for an old man in a suit and bowler hat writing a check in the corner.

  Finally, Miss Bentham appeared. She was middle-aged and wore a conventional suit and sensible shoes with sturdy heels and thick brown stockings. When she saw Celestria, she smiled. Her face, hard in repose, softened with animation. “Miss Montague,” she said, extending her hand well before she had reached her. Celestria took it, and Miss Bentham shook it emphatically. “Come into my office, where we can talk in private.” Celestria followed her, those sturdy heels tapping across the polished floor, the sound echoing about the near-empty room. The old man in the bowler hat turned, his attention caught by the beautiful young woman with the dancing walk. Celestria caught his eye, and her gaze was so imperious the old man was caught off guard and hastily looked away.

  Miss Bentham’s office was a handsome room with an ornate cornice running along the top of the walls and a large sash window that gave out onto a quiet back street. She invited Celestria to sit on the
upholstered chair and offered her a cup of tea, which she politely declined.

  “I’m here to talk about my father,” she said, placing her brown crocodile handbag on her knee.

  “Mr. Montague is a very good client of ours,” Miss Bentham replied, although a shadow of anxiety swept across her face.

  “Was a good client,” Celestria corrected.

  “I don’t understand?”

  “My father is dead,” she stated impassively.

  Miss Bentham gasped.

  “I’m afraid he died in a boating accident in Cornwall.”

  Miss Bentham brought her hand up to her mouth. “When?” Her voice was a mere husk, and Celestria knew instinctively that her father had meant more to Miss Bentham than money. “Oh, God! Forgive me. This is such a shock.” She collapsed into her chair.

  “Last week.”

  “I’m so sorry. This is dreadful.”

  “It is a terrible time for all the family, as you can imagine. I have come up to London to sort out his affairs.”

  “Absolutely. If I can be of any help. Any help at all.” Miss Bentham withdrew a white cotton handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes beneath her glasses. Celestria noticed that her hands were shaking. “He was such a good man, Miss Montague. He always had time for a chat. Most don’t, you see. It’s understandable. Everyone’s busy. But Mr. Montague.” She smiled and blushed. “He was a gentleman. I looked forward to his visits.”

  “I’m interested to know why these large amounts of money were being transferred to F.G.B. Salazar.” She handed the statements to Miss Bentham, who pushed her glasses up her nose and composed herself. She took a while, her eyes running up and down the pages. Finally, she shook her head and gave the statements back to Celestria.

  “I’m not able to enlighten you, I’m afraid.” She hesitated, as if weighing her feelings for Mr. Montague against her loyalty to the bank and its principles. Celestria smelled weakness and pounced on it.

  “My mother is in hospital due to the terrible shock, and my darling little brother, Harry, hasn’t uttered a word since Papa died. He’s only small, and he worshipped his father. I really need to know.” Celestria had no qualms about lying. She lowered her eyes to enhance the effect and heard Miss Bentham let out a long sigh.

  “Well, I can tell you that he’s in the south of Italy,” she said in a hushed voice. “I don’t know where. It was none of my business. You should ask Countess Valonya.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Montague’s secretary. I haven’t seen Mr. Montague for a few months, but Countess Valonya came in weekly to arrange the transfers and transactions.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  Miss Bentham took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge between her eyes, suddenly wilting. “I’m afraid not. If it helps, I often sent things around to her at the Hungarian Club in Hampstead.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bentham. You have been most kind. My father obviously trusted you a great deal.” Celestria slipped the statements into her handbag and stood up.

  “He was a gentleman, Miss Montague. His passing is a loss to us all.”

  Celestria left Miss Bentham wiping her eyes with her tidy little hanky, clearly in shock. It had been fortunate that Mr. Smithe had gone out for lunch; he might not have been so forthcoming. She looked at her watch—time enough to make a quick visit to the Hungarian Club.

  13

  The plot was thickening like cream. Celestria had never heard of Countess Valonya, but maybe she was the Gitta that her father had been talking to on the telephone.

  Celestria hailed a cab and thirty minutes later alighted at the foot of the steps leading up to the Hungarian Club. The place was dimly lit, with high ceilings and a dark wooden floor of wide, polished boards. The old staircase swept extravagantly up to a landing where a vast gilt mirror hung. The air was heavy with the sour smell of rotten flowers. There was no one downstairs, but the low murmur of voices could be heard on the floor above. She climbed the stairs, clutching her handbag, not knowing what to expect.

  Upstairs were two enormous rooms with a landing in between where a couple of old ladies in hats and gloves sat on a crimson velvet divan, talking in hushed voices, moving their hands vigorously to demonstrate outrage. When they saw Celestria, they stopped chattering and watched her warily through hooded eyes. Ignoring them, Celestria wandered into the first room, where small clusters of people were sitting around tables, drinking coffee and plinkas and smoking in the gloom. The atmopshere was grim, as if their sorrow had transformed itself into a gray mist that hung over them, refusing to lift.

  Most were old and very elegantly dressed. Some of the ladies had feathers in their hats and wore fur stoles in spite of the warm weather. Their necks were adorned with pearls, and diamond brooches glittered in the weak light. A small gathering of gentlemen in hats and suits sat playing cards, chuckling bitterly where once there might have been laughter, and in the corner, by the bar, a string trio played gypsy music. An elderly couple danced slowly in the gloom. Some of the people spoke Hungarian, others English with heavy, doleful accents, but their conversations were all the same: “Revolution…they have betrayed their country…brave men have lost their lives…we are old, the least we should expect is to die on our own soil…” Celestria sensed she was being watched, especially by the women, whose animosity was as thick as their misery. It was understandable; she was an outsider, intruding. Having decided that it would be more prudent to approach the men, she strode over to the table where the four codgers sat playing cards, assuming a confidence she didn’t feel.

  “Excuse me,” she said in her sweetest voice. “I’m looking for someone.” One of the men raised his bushy eyebrows, fluffy and red like foxtails, and nodded. Celestria continued. “Countess Valonya,” she stated. At the mention of her name the four men immediately exchanged shifty glances. Foxy eyebrows shrugged and puffed on his pipe.

  “The countess hasn’t been here for a week,” he replied.

  “Do you know where I might find her?” She forced a self-conscious smile.

  “Who wants her?”

  “My name is Celestria Montague.”

  “Count Bdrassy,” replied the man, extending his hand. He didn’t smile. “Do you want to sit down and make an old man happy?”

  “I’m not staying, thank you,” she replied, not wishing to offend him. “It’s a matter of some urgency.” Count Bdrassy said something in Hungarian to his companions, and they all laughed, clearly at her expense. Celestria felt her frustration mount. Then she had an idea.

  “It’s her family,” she said deliberately. “I have some terrible news.”

  They grew serious: those words were as familiar to them as death. Count Bdrassy spoke around the pipe that hung out of the side of his mouth and picked up his cards to indicate that their conversation was coming to an end.

  “She lives in Weymouth Mews. I can’t remember the number, but you will know it when you see it.” She understood that this was as much information as she was going to get.

  Outside at last, she was relieved to breathe the warm London air again and leave the disillusioned old people behind to stagnate. Weymouth Mews was a taxi ride away, a small cobbled street with pretty window boxes and red-tiled exteriors bathed in the warm light of late afternoon. A white fluffy cat slept on a windowsill, tail twitching as it dreamed of milk and fat mice, and a young woman rattled a pram over the stones towards the main road. Count Bdrassy had said she would know the house when she saw it. She wished she had asked a few more questions because she didn’t know what to look for. The young woman with the pram was now too far away to ask, and she found herself alone with the cat, who clearly wasn’t going to be much help.

  She decided to wander up the street and look into every window. Perhaps Countess Valonya had stuck a Hungarian flag on a pole outside her door, though Celestria wouldn’t have recognized it. She walked for a while until, finally, the last house on the left grabbed her attention. It was the same size a
s the others. What set it apart was the winding wisteria bush that climbed up it, covering the entire façade in rich green leaves. There was barely enough room for the windows, which struggled to peer through the thicket of foliage and the flock of birds that lived in it, obviously encouraged to nest there by the little wooden houses fixed to the branches and scattered with grain. From the outside it looked pretty; from within Celestria imagined it must be quite claustrophobic.

  She stood in the shade for a moment, deliberating what she was going to say to the countess. Before she could gather her thoughts, however, the door opened, and an extravagantly dressed blond creature swept out in a fury. “Are you trying to steal my birds?” she hissed, her voice deep like a man’s and heavily accented. She screwed up her face so that the makeup she had caked onto it cracked like dry clay. Celestria’s eyes dropped to her décolletage, which was white and brazen, exposing a vast bosom squeezed into a tight blue dress that gave her a tiny waist and a shortness of breath.

  “No, of course not,” she replied, taking a step back in horror.

  The woman snorted. “I should hope not. There are some rare species in there. I nurture them, so they belong to me. You understand?”

  “I apologize, Countess. My name is Celestria Montague.” She recalled her mother’s advice always to respond in the opposite tone of one’s aggressor, in order to wrong-foot them. It worked. Countess Valonya was, for a moment at least, speechless.

  “You had better come in,” she replied at last, retreating into the dark little house. Celestria followed, catching in the air behind her the acrid stench of alcohol, along with the sickly sweet scent of musk.

  The house was as cluttered as the façade and resembled a flamboyant boudoir. The sofa was draped in silk throws of pale greens and pink; purple velvet curtains were trimmed with lace and hung like the elaborate curtains of a theater. The floor was adorned with Persian rugs, and on every surface were plants in pots on lace tablecloths. Celestria noticed the open bottle of gin on the round dining table, and the absence of a glass. The smell of alcohol was strong, as if the woman were sweating gin and trying to mask it with lashings of musk. Celestria, who had a sensitive nose and a delicate stomach, felt the bile rise in her throat. She was thankful when the countess lit a cigarette and the air was at once infused with the smell of tobacco.