There But for Fortune Read online

  There But for Fortune

  There But for Fortune

  © Vivian Stuart, 1966

  © eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

  ISBN: 978-9979-64-481-1

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

  ____

  For Géza Ferenc (Kim), who will probably never read it, and for his father, also Géza Ferenc, and my onetime colleagues at the Balogh Institute of Pathology in Baross utca, who—alas!—most certainly will not, I offer for what it is worth this little fantasy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  They arrested Stephen Kelen in Budapest during the early hours of Monday, July the fifth. I heard the news of his arrest on my car radio as I was driving back to Dr. Adams’ surgery in Fairfax, after being called out to a confinement. The thought of my own impending visit to Budapest, as a tourist, was pleasantly uppermost in my mind as I switched on the radio, with the intention of listening to the weather forecast. Instead, I heard the last part of the announcement about Stephen and I listened to it in stunned disbelief.

  It always seems so much more shocking when disaster befalls a person one knows. I didn’t know Stephen Kelen well, but I had met him several times at his sister’s house and, because I had found him an attractive and interesting man, I had made a tentative promise to dine with him when I reached the Hungarian capital. But now . . .

  ‘Dr. Kelen is a lecturer at Fairfax University, in Yorkshire,’ the disembodied voice of the news-reader stated, with professional lack of emotion. ‘It is understood that he was in charge of a party of British undergraduates attending an international Students’ Conference in Budapest at the time of his arrest. Although no specific charges have yet been made against him, it is believed that the doctor is being held on suspicion of having engaged in subversive activities against the Hungarian State. He is a naturalised British subject and the British Consul has requested an interview with him, permission for which has so far not been granted . . .’ there was a pause, followed by the weather forecast.

  I leaned forward to switch off the radio, no longer even mildly interested in what the weather was likely to do.

  This was the last day of my six weeks locum tenens for Dr. Adams and the old doctor had promised to relieve me of responsibility for his busy medical practice at midday, to enable me to catch the twelve-fifty Pullman to London. At midnight the tourist flight, on which my seat had been booked, would leave London Airport for Vienna, but . . . I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was still only nine-fifteen and Stephen Kelen’s sister—whose second child was due to be delivered within the next week or ten days—remained my responsibility. If she had heard the news-flash, Margaret Dacres would be beside herself with anxiety and almost certainly in need of whatever comfort and reassurance her family doctor could offer her. I hesitated and finally turned in the direction of the University.

  Even if she hadn’t been listening to the nine o’clock news, I thought, someone would undoubtedly have told her what had happened by this time, since bad news always travels fast. Margaret, or Meg, as she was affectionately known, was in fact Stephen Kelen’s stepsister, but I knew that she was devoted to him. Her husband, Tom—also a lecturer at the University —was away, depositing their elder child with his parents in Newcastle, and not expected back until some time in the evening, which meant that Meg would be alone. She had plenty of friends, of course, but the University had gone down for the summer vacation and most of the dons and their wives were away. Still, I decided, there was bound to be someone I could leave with her—the daily woman, if no one else was available— until Tom got home.

  Fairfax is one of the new universities, situated in what had once been the stately home of the local lord of the manor in a picturesque village of old, stone-built houses about three miles out of town. Tenancy of several of these beautiful village houses had been acquired by a fortunate few of the staff—the Dacres among them—and as I drew up outside Meg’s newly painted front door, I found myself admiring the charm of her garden, gay with roses of the old-fashioned, sweet-smelling cottage variety.

  ‘To come here,’ Stephen Kelen had said, I remembered, ‘is like turning the clock back two centuries, to what was undoubtedly a better world . . .’ and I wondered, as I walked up the narrow paved path to the door, whether he was thinking of this place now. Perhaps, poor man, he was.

  Meg’s daily woman, Mrs. Holroyd, admitted me. ‘Why, Doctor,’ she exclaimed, clearly startled, ‘you’ve been quick! It’s not ten minutes since I phoned t’surgery for you.’

  ‘You mean you asked me to call?’

  ‘Aye.’ She stood back, eyeing me gravely. ‘I had to, for Mrs. Dacres. You’ll have heard about that stepbrother of hers, on t’radio? It seems they’ve arrested him.’

  ‘Yes, I heard it just now,’ I told her, ‘that’s why I came. I didn’t know you’d called me . . . I haven’t been back to the surgery, you see. I came straight here as soon as I heard about Dr. Kelen.’

  ‘I’m real glad you did,’ Mrs. Holroyd said feelingly. ‘Very insistent that I was to get you, Mrs. Dacres was. She didn’t want old Dr. Adams, although he offered to come, seeing you were out on a case. It must be Dr. Stacey Heriot, she said, and no one else, and I was to say it was urgent.’

  ‘Is Mrs. Dacres very upset?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye, Doctor, she is. But you’d best see her for yourself. She’s in her bedroom, I made her go back to bed. You know your way up, don’t you? I’ll put t’kettle on. She’s not had a thing to eat, poor young soul, but maybe she’ll take a cup of tea now you’re here. I’ll bring a tray up, any road.’

  I thanked her and went upstairs. The house was small, just two bedrooms and an attic on the upper floor and a minute cubby-hole of a bathroom, where I paused to wash my hands and prepare a syringe in case of need, before tapping on Meg’s door.

  ‘Come in.’ Her voice sounded strained and unhappy, but she smiled when she recognised me and said, as Mrs. Holroyd had done, ‘You have been quick! Bless you for coming, Stacey . . . it is good of you, because I know you’re leaving here today. But I simply had to see you, I . . . have you heard about Stephen?’

  ‘Yes, on the radio.’ I studied her anxiously as I seated myself in the chair at her bedside. Meg was very pale and her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, but she had herself under careful control and she shook her head as I reached out automatically to feel for her pulse.

  ‘I’m all right . . . just terribly worried, that’s all. But you needn’t bother about me, I’m not going into early labour or anything like that. And I won’t delay your holiday, I promise you . . . that’s the last thing I’d want to do.’

  ‘But I thought . . . I mean, Mrs. Holroyd did say you’d sent for me——’

  ‘Yes, I did. But not on my own account, Stacey, on Stephen’s. I . . . that is, I want to ask a great favour of you. You’re perfectly at liberty to refuse, of course, but’ —Meg sighed—‘I hope you won’t.’

  I guessed what she was about to ask me to do and my heart sank. I had first made her acquaintance as a patient when I had taken over Dr. Adams’ practice, six weeks before. We had become friends and I had seen a good deal of Meg and her husband, both socially and professionally, during my locum; the fact that my surname—Heriot—was the same as Meg’s before her marriage was an added bond between us. We weren’t related, though, and I really knew very little about her and still less about her stepbrother. I liked them, it was true, particularly Meg, but . . .

  ‘A favour, Meg?’ I echoed, trying not to sound too reluctant. ‘I suppose that means you want me to try and see Stephen when I’m in Budapest?’

  She grasped my hand eagerly. ‘Well, yes, it does. I thought . . . that is you’re going to Budapest anyway, aren’t you, for your holiday? It’s all arranged, your flight booked and everything?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, bu . . .’ I was beginning to wish that it were not, although I had been looking forward to my Hungarian holiday with the keenest anticipation for almost six months. ‘I don’t think there’s a hope of my being allowed to see him. They won’t even give the British Consul permission to visit him, and——’

  ‘But you could try.’ Meg’s blue eyes held the glint of tears, as they met mine beseechingly. ‘Oh, Stacey, please, at least you could try! Since you’re going to be in Budapest in any case, it wouldn’t hurt you to try, would it? You’ll be there as a genuine tourist, you wouldn’t be running any risk.’

  I might be running a very grave risk, I thought uneasily, but for Meg’s sake, I did not say so. ‘I suppose I could ask to see him,’ I admitted, ‘if I knew who to ask. But I’m very much afraid that it wouldn’t do any good, Meg. However, if it would relieve your mind, I’ll see the British Consul as soon as I arrive and find out what’s being done to help Stephen.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Meg acknowledged miserably. ‘I’d go myself, if it weren’t for this . . .’ she gestured to her distended abdomen and bit back a sigh of frustration. ‘Obviously I can’t, in the circumstances, can I? Young Dacres has timed his arrival rathe
r badly.’

  ‘No, you can’t possibly go.’

  ‘When I remembered that you were going . . . oh, it seemed providential, like an answer to prayer. I realise it’s an awful lot to ask of you, but I’ve no one else to ask and . . . Stephen is innocent, whatever charges they bring against him, I’d stake my life on that.’ Meg spoke earnestly, her small, intelligent face unusually grave. ‘Believe me, Stacey, he isn’t involved in any sort of conspiracy and he’s not a spy, I give you my word.’

  I believed her, since she was evidently speaking the truth, so far as she knew it, but I couldn’t help wondering how much she knew or, for that matter, how much Stephen Kelen had told her. Spies—or agents, as they were more often called these days—didn’t, as a rule, confide even in their nearest and dearest. They kept their own counsel and endeavoured to behave so normally that no one suspected them of being more than they appeared to be . . . that was part of their stock in trade, an essential part of their camouflage. As if she sensed my unvoiced scepticism, Meg’s fingers tightened about mine.

  ‘You’ve met him, Stacey, and . . . he’s simply not the type, is he? All Stephen cares about is his work here, the University and that precious Conference of his. That was the reason he went to Budapest, the sole reason, he had no ulterior motive . . . he simply wanted to attend the Students’ Conference because he believed in it, because he had faith in what it could achieve. He’s honestly not a spy. He’s not even against the present government of Hungary any more.’

  ‘Any more?’ I challenged sharply.

  Meg shrugged. ‘Well, he is Hungarian. He took part in the 1956 uprising, that was why he came to England, he was a refugee. But all that was ten years ago and he was only a boy when it happened—a nineteen-year-old student at the University of Budapest. Nearly all the students were involved in the uprising, Stephen wasn’t the only one.’

  ‘But he was one of the freedom fighters?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Meg admitted. ‘He doesn’t ever talk of it. Why should he? It’s over and he’s a British subject now, his home is here. He never thought of going back to Hungary . . . if it hadn’t been for that wretched Conference, he never would have gone back. I tried to persuade him not to go, but he assured me that there was no reason why he shouldn’t. He had nothing to fear, he said . . . those who took part in the uprising had been pardoned and, in any case, they rose against the Russians, not against their own government, so . . .’ There was a knock on the door and she broke off, as Mrs. Holroyd came in with a laden tray. I took it from her and, when Meg had accepted a cup of tea and a slice of home-made cake, she nodded with evident satisfaction and left us with the reminder that she was in the kitchen, if we should need her.

  I poured myself some tea and resumed my seat . . . and my questions, because, if I were to try to help Stephen Kelen, I had to know more about him. Meg told me that his father had been a distinguished musician, who had died just before the uprising.

  ‘His name was Ferenc Kelen,’ she said. ‘Stephen’s mother, Magda, is a darling. She had a pretty ghastly time escaping from Hungary . . . she broke both bones in her right arm and, from lack of proper attention, the arm didn’t heal and became infected. That was how she met my father . . . he was a consultant at St. Mark’s in London and he operated on her soon after she arrived. It was quite a shock to the family when Father announced that he was going to marry a Hungarian refugee, but it was a very happy marriage and we all loved Magda as soon as we met her. Stephen, too . . . ’ Meg caught her breath on a sigh. ‘They’re part of my family now, Stacey.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ I drank my tea slowly, thinking hard. ‘Your stepmother . . . have you been in touch with her since you heard that Stephen had been arrested?’

  ‘I telephoned my father. He’ll break the news to her gently, when he thinks she’s fit to stand it. She’s not strong, you see, she had a bad heart and is almost an invalid, but she’ll have to be told, I suppose.’

  The faint hope I had cherished that Stephen’s mother might be able to intervene on his behalf faded abruptly. Further questioning elicited the fact that no one else in Meg’s family was in a position to make the journey to Budapest—certainly not within the next twelve hours, as I was going to—and I began to resign myself to the inevitable.

  ‘You said, a few minutes ago, that you didn’t know who to ask about seeing Stephen,’ Meg volunteered suddenly. ‘Apart from the British Consul, I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Although the Consul will presumably be able to tell me.’

  ‘I could ask Magda . . . or ask my father to find out from her. You wouldn’t have time to go and see them, before you leave, I suppose? They live in Sussex now—Father’s retired.’

  ‘My plane leaves at midnight,’ I objected.

  Meg’s face fell. ‘Then obviously you wouldn’t. But you could ring me up from London—or even from the airport, before you take off—and I’d give you all the information I’d been able to obtain. Names, anything that might be of use to you . . . introductions, if you like, to friends of Magda’s.’

  ‘Yes, all right, I’ll ring you from London.’ I tried to sound confident and enthusiastic and failed miserably. Meg eyed me with contrition. ‘I really am sorry to ask you to do this,’ she said. ‘Only there just isn’t anyone else. Oh, Stacey, I’m so grateful . . . you’ve no idea what a weight you’ve taken off my mind.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing to earn your gratitude yet,’ I pointed out, feeling ashamed. ‘And I may not be able to, even when I get to Budapest. You do understand that, don’t you, Meg?’

  ‘You’ve said you’ll try,’ she answered. ‘That’s enough, because I know you will try. And I know that it will help Stephen if you’re able to visit him.’

  ‘If they’ll let me visit him. They may not . . .’ I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. I should have to get back to the surgery soon—there were certain notes I had to give Dr. Adams, my call-list to hand over and my packing to complete. ‘I’m not a relative of his and I——’

  ‘Stacey!’ Meg sat up so quickly that she almost upset her teacup. ‘How stupid of me not to have thought of that before! Of course, you must say you’re Stephen’s stepsister . . . it’s the obvious answer, and they’ll have to allow you to see him, if you’re a relative.’

  ‘But I’m not,’ I countered, taking the cup from her. ‘And they’d very soon find out I wasn’t if I——’

  ‘No,’ Meg put in, with conviction. ‘Your surname’s Heriot and so was mine before I married Tom. Oh, Stacey, don’t you see . . . the Hungarians won’t have any way of proving you’re not Stephen’s stepsister, not at once, anyway, even if they bother to check. And they probably won’t because your passport will almost certainly satisfy them . . .’ I attempted to argue, but she cut me short, and eventually, much against my better judgement, I agreed. Certainly if I were seriously to attempt to see Stephen Kelen when I reached Budapest, I should have a better chance of obtaining permission to do so if I said I was his stepsister.

  Although it probably wouldn’t arise, I told myself, as, aware that time was running short, I rose to take my leave of Stephen’s real stepsister. The radio announcement had said that the British Consul had been refused permission to visit him, which meant if other, similar cases were anything to go by, that no one would be allowed to see him . . . not even a sister or a wife. At any rate, not for some time, and my visit to Hungary was only supposed to last for eighteen days. I would try to see him, having promised Meg I would, but if I failed, she could scarcely blame me.

  I turned, holding out my hand, but Meg was writing busily on the back of an old envelope. ‘There,’ she announced, thrusting it into my hand, ‘I’ve made a list of the family, in case you should need it. My father is Sir Andrew Heriot, F.R.C.S., and Magda, of course, is Lady Heriot now. I believe her name was Bethler before her marriage to Stephen’s father and I think her family were wealthy landowners at one time. I have one sister called Stella, who’s engaged but not married, and an elder brother, John. But you’ll be able to study the list in the train and I’ve written down their addresses for you. Again bless you and thank you, Stacey! Don’t forget to ring up from London, will you?’