NINETEEN
Immediately, the phone at the other end of the line was picked up. ‘Hello.’
‘Er. Hello. Is that Harold?’
‘Speaking.’ It was a well-spoken and elderly voice, but Apryl instantly found herself disarmed by the hint of a confrontational attitude existing in one word alone.
‘Mmm. I was calling about the meeting on Friday night.’
‘The Friends of Felix Hessen, yes. Are you a Friend?’ He said it quickly and with an authority and self-importance she thought ridiculous.
‘Er . . . I’m not sure, but I’d like to find out.’ She giggled, but the voice at the other end remained silent.
‘Sorry, the meeting, I’d like to come.’
The silence continued.
‘Sorry, are you still there?’
After another few seconds of silence, the voice replied, ‘Yes.’
‘It said . . . I mean, the website said to call for details.’
Silence.
Her resolve faltered. And not only because of the forbidding silence. It was on account of what she now knew about Hessen. Who would want to be a friend of that? ‘Is it the wrong time to call? I apologize if it’s too late.’ She thought of hanging up.
‘No. No. Not too late,’ the voice said.
‘Then can I come?’
‘You know his work?’
‘Yes, I just read the Miles Butler book—’
‘Pah! There are better sources. My own work is published online and soon in hardback. I suggest you start there. It’s definitive.’
‘I will try.’
‘Advance copies are on sale at all of the meetings. But as they are held at a private address and our interpretations are quite vigorous, not to mention the unwarranted infamy that hounds some of our visiting scholars, we do vet attendees. Who are you?’
‘Mmm. No one really. Just visiting and I saw the website and bought the book.’
Silence again. Though it seemed loaded with disapproval. The guy was freaking her out. ‘And, my great-aunt knew him,’ she added softly, wincing with discomfort.
‘What did you say?’ he asked quickly, almost before she had finished speaking.
‘My great-aunt, she knew him. They lived in the same building.’
‘Which address?’
‘Barrington House in Knightsbridge.’
‘Yes, I know where it is,’ he said, sternly. ‘But why on earth did you not say so before?’
‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘Is your great-aunt still alive?’
‘No. She recently passed. But she mentioned him in her diaries. That’s how I got interested.’
‘Diaries?’ The volume of his voice suddenly increased. ‘You must bring them with you. I must’ – he paused, as if to calm down – ‘see them. Right away if possible. Where are you now?’
Immediately cautious, she lied, ‘But I don’t have them with me. They’re at home. In the States.’
‘No good to us there. Your fellow countrymen already have his sketches under lock and key. We must see the diaries.’
‘I can copy them, or something, when I get back.’
‘Have you got a pen?’ he asked with impatience. She told him she had. ‘Well take this down.’ He recited an address in Camden and made her spell it back to him. ‘Right, I’d suggest you get here early so I can brief you, and also to quiz you a little on your great-aunt. You’re practically the guest of honour.’
‘Oh, but I don’t want to be. I don’t really know anything about him—’
‘Nonsense, you are related to someone who actually knew the great man. Someone who stood in the presence of genius. We’d be delighted to have you here. You must come. We can help with expenses.’
‘No, that’s fine. Thanks. I’ll get there at sevenish.’
Harold then insisted on taking her number at the hotel, which she unwillingly gave, not being able to think fast enough to refuse. Then she rang off and sat back, feeling the perspiration dry on her brow. Her desire to go to the meeting had vanished. She began to suspect that anything connected to Hessen was weird and unpleasant. And she chided herself for mentioning Lillian’s diaries. Why had she said that? To impress him? She felt she had been indiscreet in a way that would come back to haunt her.
The phone beside her bed rang. Nervously, she raised the receiver. It was Harold. ‘Sorry, I pressed redial in error,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow then.’ He hung up while she was still thinking of something to say.