Be Not Afraid Read online

  While the difficulties of detail were stupendous.

  “Of course I have no objection,” he said. “Come in.”

  Druce took off his hat as he entered the hall and Berkeley indicated the stand. “In here.” He waited at the drawing-room door and Druce, pausing a moment to check his tie knot, stepped past him.

  “You remember Mr Druce,” Berkeley said. “Walton’s junior. He was in court.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have much to do,” Druce said. “Colonel Savos. Mrs Savos. Miss Townsend.”

  “Mr Druce has something for you, Anna,” Berkeley said.

  Druce was blushing again as he presented the flowers.

  “Oh, how beautiful,” Martina said.

  Anna took the flowers, slowly, and Berkeley realised this was the first time in her life she had ever received such a gift; something he had sorely neglected, but it had simply not occurred to him. And perhaps this was better.

  Now she was flushing also. “Thank you,” she said.

  They gazed at each other, and it was Martina who grasped the initiative. “Berkeley,” she said. “There is something in the kitchen I wish to show you.”

  “Ah . . .” Berkeley hesitated.

  “Come along,” she insisted. “You too, Alexandros. It is man’s business.” She smiled at Druce and Anna. “We shall not be long. Pour Mr Druce some champagne, Anna.”

  They left the room.

  “Would you like some champagne, Mr Druce?” Anna asked.

  “If that is what you are drinking. Is there a celebration?”

  Anna poured. “Only Papa’s acquittal.”

  “There was never any doubt about that.”

  “There speaks the legal mind,” she said. “When one is the accused, there must always be an element of doubt.”

  “You have an experienced mind. Oh, I . . .” Another flush.

  “I consider that a compliment. Do please sit down.”

  She studied him as they sat, facing each other across the room. He has come here for what purpose? she asked herself. Men, in her experience, usually only had one purpose when visiting a woman. Did she want it to happen? Could she allow it to happen? Since her rescue by Papa she had resolutely refused to think about sex in any way. She had no desire for it, only fear. The only man with whom she felt at ease was her father. Even Alexandros she felt could not be trusted in sexual matters, although he was probably too old to do much about his desires, and she was not even sure of Johnnie.

  She was sure that if any man ever again touched her sexually she would either scream or tear all the flesh from his face.

  Yet this was what everyone, and Papa most of all, wanted to happen. In their society woman only found happiness in marriage and children. She actually thought she would love to have a child of her own, if that could be possible without the necessity of a man. As that was not possible, she was prepared to make do with her baby half-brother.

  But this man, so apparently pleasant, well-mannered . . . She wondered if he had ever been to a brothel. More importantly, how much did he know of her background, and how much could she tell him? Telling him, of course, would be one way of ending his interest on the spot. But it might also be broadcasting it to the world.

  She raised her glass. “Your health. Martina seems to imagine that you came to see me rather than Father.”

  “Martina . . . is she a relative?”

  Anna shook her head. “Only a very dear friend. She and Uncle Alexandros are old friends of Papa’s. They helped him—” She bit her lip. How easy it was to say too much.

  “She seems very nice,” Druce said. “And she’s right. I did actually come to see you.”

  “Did you wish to discuss the evidence I shall give at the Karlovy trial?”

  “Good heavens, no. We must not talk about it. You will be a prosecution witness and, at your father’s request, we are appearing for the defence.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Yes, I understand. Then should you be here at all?”

  “I wished to see some more of you, Miss Townsend. I think you are quite the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

  “Thank you. But you know nothing of me.”

  She was laying a trap, and watching him most closely as she had observed his tendency to flush. And he did so now. Betraying himself?

  “I would hope to correct that,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Well . . . we could perhaps start by having dinner together.”

  “Where?”

  He was certainly finding her directness disconcerting.

  “I haven’t actually decided. But I know several very good restaurants in Northampton.”

  “Ah,” she said. “That sounds very nice. I have never been taken out to dinner, except by Papa and Lucy.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “You will have to ask Papa.”

  “I shall do that, certainly. But I felt I should first discover whether you cared for the idea.”

  “I think it is a very nice idea.”

  “Well, then . . . shall we say Friday night? I will call for you at seven.”

  “Thank you. But you must ask Papa.”

  *

  “It is very decent of you to ask my daughter out to dinner, Druce. I assume you do know that she is only nineteen years old?”

  “Soon to be twenty, I understand, sir.”

  “That is true, certainly.”

  The two men were alone in Berkeley’s study, Druce having asked for a private word.

  “You also are aware – it is common knowledge – that Anna was abducted as a young girl.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you are then no doubt aware of just what I mean.”

  “The very thought makes my blood boil, sir. But if you are afraid that I shall in any way refer to the matter or cause her any embarrassment whatsoever, I beg you to believe that I shall never do so.”

  “Never,” Berkeley said, half to himself. “It is a long time. That you are aware that there are certain lines you must not cross will suffice for the time being. However, as Anna is still only nineteen, I would be obliged if you would bring her home by ten o’clock.”

  “With respect, sir, could you make that eleven? I propose to take Miss Townsend to the Square Room. I doubt we will get through dinner much before half past ten.”

  Berkeley had been to the Square Room, which enjoyed the reputation of being Northampton’s best, and most expensive, restaurant.

  “Isn’t that rather pushing out the boat?” he asked.

  “I consider Miss Townsend worth it, sir.”

  “Well, in that case . . . eleven o’clock. But not a moment after.”

  *

  “But what is she to wear?” Martina complained. “She has nothing to wear!”

  “I have my blue dress,” Anna pointed out.

  “Pouf! That is for a child. You are now going out to be a woman. You are going to a famous restaurant. You must look the part.” She looked at Berkeley. “You do understand this, Berkeley?”

  “I think you have a point,” Berkeley said. “Today is Monday. We have four days. I’ll drive you into Northampton tomorrow, and the two of you can go shopping.” He wagged his finger at Martina. “We are looking for something nice, but nothing daring.”

  She pouted. “What is daring on one woman is merely modest on another. You must trust my judgement.”

  *

  Next morning, having dropped them in town, Berkeley drove out to the remand centre.

  He was shown into a small, windowless room, which contained a table and two straight chairs. He waited for about five minutes, then the door opened and Helen Karlovy was shown in, a wardress at her elbow; Helen’s wrists were handcuffed in front of her.

  “Would you mind taking those off,” Berkeley said, standing.

  “This is a dangerous prisoner,” the wardress said.

  “She is only dangerous to me, and as I am aware of this, she is no longer dangerous. If you follow me.”
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  The wardress obviously didn’t, but she unlocked the handcuffs and Helen rubbed her wrists with her hands. Thus far she had not raised her head to look at him or at anything in the room; she looked utterly crushed, her demeanour accentuated by the severe ankle-length blue prison dress and the no less severely pulled back hair, secured on the nape of her neck.

  “Thank you,” Berkeley said. “Now, if you’d like to close the door behind you.”

  “I cannot leave the prisoner alone in here with you,” the wardress protested.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s against the rules.”

  “Listen,” Berkeley said. “I have told you what I wish you to do. So do it, or I shall become annoyed.”

  “I am going to the superintendent.”

  “Do that. But kindly knock before again entering.”

  Berkeley sat opposite Helen who was shivering although the prison was well heated.

  “Are they treating you badly?” he asked in Serbo-Croat.

  “They are going to hang me,” she muttered.

  “Not here,” he promised her. “I meant, are they feeding you enough? Do they beat you? Are the other prisoners all right?”

  “They do not beat me,” she said. “They will hang me.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I do not believe they will hang you after the evidence I shall give. If you will cooperate, and tell me some things I need to know.”

  She raised her head. “I have confessed.”

  “You have confessed your intentions, but not the details. You told me this man Himmler arranged the documentation and finance for your visit to England. But he must have done more than that. I know you were stalking me for at least a fortnight before you attacked my house. Where were you living? The police have been looking and have advertised, but no one has come forward. And you speak very little English. Someone has been concealing you since you came here, and even now that you are awaiting trial for murder this person has not come forward. I wish to know who this is.”

  “Stefan speaks good English,” she said. “He learned it in school. And now he is dead.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “I still wish to know where you lived for that fortnight.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You will hand him to the police.”

  “No, I will not. I just wish to ask him one or two questions.”

  “About Herr Himmler?”

  “Yes. Listen, Helen. You owe this man nothing. He sent you on a suicide mission. Even if you had succeeded in killing me, you would still have been caught before you could leave the country.”

  “You want to find him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you can kill him?”

  “Would that be such a bad idea?”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then said, “We went to the house of a man named Green, in a town called Wellingborough.”

  About five miles from Northampton.

  “This man was an agent for Herr Himmler?”

  “I think so. His name is not really Green. I think he is German.”

  Berkeley took out his notebook and gave it to her, together with his pen. “Write down the address.”

  Helen did so, and he replaced it in his pocket.

  “Thank you. You are being very co-operative. As I have said, I am going to help you as much as I can.”

  “How can you help me?”

  “By the evidence I shall give.”

  “What evidence?”

  “I will have to reveal some secrets from my past. But if I do this, I do not believe they can condemn you to death.”

  “You would do this, for me?”

  “I’ve done quite a lot to you and your family over the years.”

  “And we have destroyed your family.”

  “Not quite. Let’s say I have more left than you. I would like the feud to end.”

  “I cannot do that. I have sworn an oath.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Does that mean you will not help me?”

  “I have said I will help you escape the gallows, if I can. You understand, however, that you will be sent to prison for the rest of your life.”

  She shivered.

  “And prison will not be quite so easygoing as this remand centre. However, in the course of time, a parole will be considered. I imagine I will be consulted. Call off the feud and I will support your application.”

  “I cannot do that,” she said again.

  Berkeley sighed. “So be it. Then I will oppose the application, and you will spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  “So am I,” Berkeley said.

  *

  “You and I are going to pay a visit tomorrow, Alexandros,” Berkeley said.

  “Ah! We have a lead?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then why cannot I come?” Martina demanded.

  “I want you to stay here with Anna.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Anna! Come and see her. She is simply splendid.”

  *

  “May I say that you look absolutely magnificent, Miss Townsend,” Harry Druce said. “Or may I call you Anna?”

  “Please do,” Anna said.

  She knew she was looking gorgeous in a black lace dinner gown which showed off her auburn hair to perfection, cut to just below her knee. The lining was black crepe de Chine, and her top flesh-coloured georgette as were her stockings. Her shoes were silver, and Berkeley had allowed her to wear some of her stepmother’s jewellery, a pearl necklace and silver bracelets on her left arm. Martina had complained that her hair was most unfashionably long – not that she had ever considered cutting her own hair – but she had pinned it up in every direction.

  “This is the best,” she had said. “Nothing gets a man more excited than being allowed to unpin a girl’s hair. Eh, Alexandros?”

  Savos merely grunted. He was not looking very well, and Berkeley supposed he was feeling his age; it had been a hectic month.

  But he himself was amazed, if a little disturbed, at how grown-up his daughter looked in her new outfit, and equally at how smitten Druce was.

  “Well, sir,” Druce said. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  “Have a good time,” Berkeley said, and held the fox-fur cape for Anna. He shuddered to think what the entire ensemble had cost, but it had certainly been worth it.

  Anna kissed all three of them; she was clearly very nervous. Then Berkeley and Martina stood in the doorway to wave them goodbye.

  “I feel as if I am going to cry,” Martina said. “Do you think it is going to work out?”

  “Oh, come now,” Berkeley said. “This is their first date.”

  “I so want it to work out. He seems such a nice young man.”

  “No matchmaking,” Berkeley said. “We have just to let events take their course.”

  She pouted, and then they both turned sharply as there was a choking sound behind them.

  “Oh, my God!” Martina ran across the hall and into the drawing room, checking to gaze at her husband. Savos had apparently poured himself another glass of champagne and was sitting in his chair, slumped, the almost full glass emptying on to the carpet beside him.

  Berkeley bent over him and tried for a pulse at both wrist and neck.

  Martina stood above him. “Is he . . .?”

  Berkeley nodded. “I would say he’s had a heart attack. I’m afraid all the excitement has proved too much for him.”

  “What are we to do?”

  “We need to ring for a doctor,” Berkeley said. Damnation, he thought. Savos had lived a long, very full and entirely disreputable life. He could have no complaints. But Anna . . . setting out on her first date! She would believe she was cursed, that whoever she came into contact with was bound to die.

  Martina was waiting. Berkeley knew she had never really been in love with Savos. She had been his secretary when he had been chief of poli
ce in Belgrade immediately after the war, and when he had summoned her to his bed she had not resisted. Equally, she had been happy to comply when he had opted, with Berkeley’s assistance as a return for past favours, to flee Serbia for England. He had no idea whether or not she had been a faithful wife; certainly Savos would have been a dangerous man on whom to cheat. But she had made advances to him, once, Berkeley recalled. Perhaps she had supposed that he was the only man in the world who could cope with her husband’s trigger-happy tendencies.

  But what the future might hold was less important than the present.

  He called the doctor, told him what had happened. Cheam promised to be right out and said that he would bring an ambulance.

  Martina sat down with a glass of champagne. “I suppose that is the best way to go,” she said.

  “I would say so.” Berkeley sat beside her. “Now, Martina, the doctor and the ambulance will be here in half an hour, and we will have Alexandros’s body removed to await a post-mortem. When that is done, we continue as normal, at least for tonight. I do not wish Anna to know what has happened.”

  “But . . . she must find out.”

  “Of course. I will tell her when the time is appropriate. If you feel you cannot cope, then it would be best for you to go to bed.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I will do anything you wish, Berkeley.” She rested her hand on his. “Anything.”

  They gazed at each other.

  “We’ll talk about it,” he said. “Later.”

  Mr Green would have to wait.

  *

  “That was a lovely meal,” Anna remarked, as Harry drove her out of Northampton and took the road to the farm.

  “I thought so,” he said. “And we’re early. It’s only ten fifteen.”

  “Papa will be pleased.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. The other is that he won’t be displeased as long as we’re back by eleven. From here to your home is only about fifteen minutes. That leaves half an hour.”

  She did not turn her head. “What will we do with half an hour?”

  His heart was pounding quite painfully. He had had several glasses of wine but then, she had had two. And she had seemed to enjoy his company.

  If only Walton’s lecture did not keep coming back to haunt him!