A Scattering of Light

Chapter 68

Chapter 68

At first Anthony resisted the idea of my visiting him. He sounded utterly shattered, like someone facing the prospect of imminent death. "I need to see you today," I insisted, almost alarming myself with the urgency of my tone. After some hemming and hawing he eventually capitulated, though he begged me to make sure I wasn't tailed by reporters or "other unsavory characters." I swallowed hard, thinking of my reporter-stalker, and agreed to be careful.

I felt like a cliché from a mystery novel. How could I ensure I wasn't "tailed"? It seemed almost ridiculous to assume that Jonathan or one of his colleagues was watching my house, and yet twenty-four hours earlier I would have found it impossible to believe that a reporter from the Times would run me to ground at my favorite breakfast spot. I had become immersed in a strange new reality, and it appeared that I was now obliged to tailor my actions, as much as possible, to its rules.

All manner of elaborate schemes entered my mind (who, after all, doesn't relish a touch of intrigue?), but in the end I dressed in my drabbest clothes and climbed through the third-floor hatch onto the rooftop of the house in which I lived. I made my way across the mostly-flat roofs to the sixth or seventh house to the east—the first one I came upon with an unlocked roof door—and walked down the stairs into Cale Street, where I quickly turned the corner into Astell Street. There I found a taxi just dropping off its passengers and took it to Victoria Station, where I wandered through the massive crowd for a few minutes before going down into the Tube and buying a fare for Hammersmith. When the Circle Line train came I rode as far as Gloucester Road, then switched to the Piccadilly Line heading west to Hammersmith.

I was fairly sure I hadn't been followed. For good measure, though, I wandered into a shop in Overstone Road in Hammersmith and told the manager I was being followed by my ex-girlfriend, who harbored a violent grudge against me. I asked if I could "escape" through the back door. The shopkeeper eyed me up and down skeptically before leading me through the stock room into a dirty alley. "Good luck," he said with a wry look.

Fifteen minutes later Anthony, looking even more gaunt than usual, led me into a chilly room overlooking a garden at the back of Professor Golding's house. In a chair by the French doors sat a late middle-aged woman in a russet-colored cardigan. She turned towards me and smiled rather charmingly as I entered. "Hello," she said, holding out her hand, "I’m Tess Rothschild." When I introduced myself she went on: "Yes, I've heard quite a bit about you from Anthony. He's quite soft on you, actually, but I'm sure you know that by now. And he tells me you’ve been immensely helpful through this dreadful ordeal."

I sat down in a chair opposite Lady Rothschild as Anthony lowered himself onto the sofa between us. "I've tried to be useful," I muttered, unsettled by her kind words.

"Tess has come up to London to lend moral support," Anthony began. "Against her husband's wishes, I might add."

This implied criticism of her husband didn't seem to faze Lady Rothschild, who swatted it away. "Oh, Victor!" she said with a breathy sigh, as though his irrelevance was a given. "You know he's quite fond of you, in his own way."

Anthony harrumphed. "When you discover what way that is, do let me know."

They were clearly working through a long-established routine, one they both seemed to relish. I could see how this unpretentious woman's presence might provide a degree of comfort to Anthony at such a difficult time.

"Paul came down to Waddesdon last fall," Anthony volunteered after a protracted silence.

"Oh yes?" Lady Rothschild said quite keenly. "How was the tour? I'm always interested to get an outsider's view of how the Trust is handling things. When they see us nearby they start hamming it up pretty badly, it's quite embarrassing actually."

"No," I began, "it was very nicely done. Of course the house and collection speak for themselves."

"My catalogue will help, if it's ever done," Anthony inserted laconically.

"Oh don't hurry, it's been only thirty years in the making," Lady Rothschild poked back.

When it seemed that they were done I said, "I can't imagine living in such an enormous place."

"Luckily we don't, we live in a much smaller house on the estate."

"Ah."

"Still, it's a tremendous privilege to be part of the whole thing. My husband takes it very seriously."

"Too seriously," Anthony said almost by rote, and then they let the topic drop.

I turned to Anthony and said hopefully, "How are you holding up?"

His deep-set eyes welled up with tears of self-pity. "There's no way you can imagine what I've been through," he said. "I've stayed outwardly calm for John's sake—frankly if I were to show my true feelings he would go off his head completely—but I'm utterly and completely miserable. It's as if I had died, in a most sensational and embarrassing way, and now I’m doomed to attend my own very public funeral."

"I'm sure it's been awful," I said, feeling true pity for him. As I spoke my gaze wandered towards the door, half expecting John to burst into the room in a fit of hysterics.

Anthony's eyes seem to have lost their focus and his voice lacked inflection. I wondered momentarily if perhaps he had been medicated by his host, or had gotten hold of some pills himself. "I read what that absurd Mrs. Thatcher had to say about me in the House of Commons," he said dully. "What a hopped up bitch she is. I assume you saw the story as well."

"Oh yes," I nodded. "Terrible." I had come to ask a favor of Anthony, and I suspected that admitting I had personally witnessed Mrs. Thatcher's damning speech wouldn’t appreciably advance my cause. "I'm so sorry."

"Victor hates that woman," Lady Rothschild chimed in.

"They say I'm a double-dealer, but look at them," Anthony said, "selling me out after swearing on their lives they wouldn't. They're the traitors, don’t you think?"

I considered this fascinating morsel of revisionist history. The government had certainly behaved badly; but its decision to renege on a decades-old, ill-considered promise to protect Anthony from prosecution was hardly comparable with the treasonous acts he had committed. "Well," I began, looking out into the garden where a small rabbit hopped across a small diamond-shaped patch of lawn, "it's an awful mess, that's for sure."

Anthony lowered his voice even more, so that he was barely intelligible. "And of course you heard about the knighthood."

I nodded again, leaning towards him to signify solidarity. "I heard. I'm really sorry."

Again, he looked as if he were on the brink of tears. "Of course I never cared a fig about it really. They didn't even ask me if I wanted it, I just woke up one day and saw my name in the newspaper. What a ghastly joke." His tone suggested that he minded a great deal indeed.

"Knighthoods and titles and all that sort of thing are utterly irrelevant these days anyway," said Lady Rothschild.

Anthony gave her a long look. "So you'd prefer to be called Mrs. Rothschild from now on?"

"They can call me Pippi Longstocking for all I care," the lady responded tartly.

We sat in silence for a few moments. My mind flashed on the inconsequential fact that this was nearly the first time I'd ever been in Anthony's presence that a drink hadn't been offered. A siren could be heard out on the street, dim but conveying a faint suggestion of menace. "How can I help you?" I asked after a while, as the wailing faded away. "What can I do?"

But Anthony was barely listening. "I wish they'd strip everything away from me all at once and just leave me in peace. At least then I could get on with my work."

I nodded sympathetically. "You want to jump forward a year," I said, "and be done with it. And who could blame you. But of course it doesn't work like that. It's not enough for them to know you're suffering--they need to see you suffer."

Anthony blinked once or twice and looked out into the garden. "I don't quite know what they want me to do—set myself on fire in Portman Square?"

I saw my opening. I had convinced myself that I was acting for Anthony's good as well as my own, so I pushed ahead. "I think you should make a statement to the press, to clear the air."

Anthony turned towards me, his eyes still oddly unfocused. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.