Temporary Kings - Anthony Powell [78]
‘What do you want, Felicity?’
‘A book.’
‘This is Mr Jenkins.’
‘Hullo,’ she said, without turning round.
‘Where’s Stella?’ asked Bagshaw.
‘God knows.’
She found her book, and went away, slamming the door after her. Bagshaw grimaced at the noise.
‘That one’s rather a worry too. Young people are nowadays. It’s either Regan or Goneril. Look here, have you seen this? Only one paper reported the item.’
He searched about among the assortment of journals lying on the floor, indicating a short paragraph on the foreign news page, when he found the special one he wanted. Its subject was a recent state trial in one of the countries of Eastern Europe, action somewhat unexpected in an atmosphere, in general, of relaxed international tension. Representatives of an outgoing Government had been expelled from the Party, and a former police minister, with one or two others, imprisoned by the new administration taking over. No great prominence was being given by the London press to these proceedings, which appeared to be of a fairly stereotyped order in the People’s Republic concerned. That morning a modest headline in my own paper had drawn attention to allegations that some of the accused had been in the pay of the British Secret Service. The three or four persons named as having set out to corrupt members of the fallen Government (together with certain officials and ‘intellectuals’) were all British Communists of some public standing, or at least prominent fellow-travellers, malting little or no concealment of their political affiliations; in short, as little likely to be connected with the British Secret Service, as the accused of being in touch with that organization. An additional name, unintelligibly translated, had been put within inverted commas in Bagshaw’s newspaper paragraph.
‘Who is…?’
The row of consonants, unlinked by vowels, was not to be spoken aloud. Bagshaw was quite excited. He was no longer an oppressed family man, nor even a television ‘personality’.
‘Is it one of their own people?’
‘You don’t recognize the name?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Try speaking it.’
On the tongue the syllables were no more significant.
‘An old friend.’
‘Of yours?’
‘Both of us.’
‘A hanger-on of Gypsy’s?’
That was just a shot at possibles.
‘Once, I believe. A Fission connexion.’
‘A foreigner?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You’re not suggesting the name’s “Widmerpool”?’
‘What else could it be?’
‘Denounced as – what amounts to being denounced as a Stalinist?’
‘In fact, a Revisionist, I think.’
‘But – ’
‘I always said he was at the game.’
‘Docs a certain Dr Belkin mean anything to you?’
Among the scores of such names proverbial to Bagshaw, Dr Belkin’s did not figure. That did not alter the conviction Bagshaw had already reached about Widmerpool.
‘There have been some odd stories going round about both the Widmerpools since Ferrand-Sénéschal died.’
Bagshaw was not greatly interested in whatever part Pamela had played. It was the political angle he liked.
‘That woman may have invented the whole tale about herself and Ferrand-Sénéschal. A sexual fantasy. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. The denunciations at the trial are another matter. It’s become a routine process. Nagy in Hungary, earlier in the year. Slansky in Czechoslovakia. I’d like to know just what happened about Widmerpool. He probably didn’t move quite quick enough. Might be a double bluff. You can’t tell. He himself could have felt he needed a little of that sort of attention to build up his reputation as an anti-Communist of the extreme Left. Make people think he’s a safe man, because he’s attacked from the Communist end. Pretend he’s an enemy, when he