There But for Fortune Page 2

  ‘I won’t,’ I promised. ‘Au revoir, Meg. I hope all goes well with you and young Dacres when the time comes. It should, but I’ll ask Dr. Adams to look in on you tomorrow, when he’s on his round, just in case.’

  Returning to the surgery, I found Dr. Adams awaiting me with some impatience. Some new calls had come in and he was anxious to answer them before starting his morning surgery. We dealt with our business swiftly, he handed over my cheque, thanked me and hurried out to the car. I completed my packing and, having bidden the necessary farewells, was ready and Waiting when the taxi I had ordered came to take me to the station.

  My journey to King’s Cross was uneventful. I bought a paper at King’s Cross, but although Stephen’s arrest was reported on the front page, the report told me very little more than I had learnt from the radio. It did, however, make quite a lot out of his having been a freedom fighter during the Hungarian revolt of 1956 and it also traced his father’s very distinguished career, as a violinist and as a composer of international repute.

  I read the report in a taxi, on my way to my parents’ flat in Chelsea, where I had an early meal and picked up my tickets and passport. I had considered telling my father of the promise Meg Dacres had wrung from me, but finally decided against it. He had been in court all day and he was tired . . . besides, I knew that it would worry him, so apart from mentioning that I had met Stephen Kelen, I said nothing, and both he and my mother came to the air terminal to see me off. I was early, so I rang Meg from a public phone box, jotting down the information she gave me in my diary. There wasn’t much—the names of one or two people, resident in Budapest, who had been close friends of Stephen’s parents and to whom she had promised to write, in order to introduce me, and that of a Laszlo Kulka, at the Ministry of Justice on whom, Meg assured me, her stepmother had said I could rely.

  By the time I had finished my call, the members of my party were gathering round their coach, a dark-haired courier checking their tickets and urging them to go on board. At first glance, they all looked ordinary enough. There were about thirty of them, the majority women, who included the usual sprinkling of fashionably dressed, middle-aged American matrons, and several elderly couples, some British, the rest— judging by their accents—Australian, American or Canadian. About a dozen appeared to be roughly in my age group . . . three married couples, four young women travelling together, whom I decided were probably American school teachers on vacation, and two unattached men, one British and the other Australian.

  The courier inspected my tickets and passport, took charge of my suitcase and invited me to join the rest of the party in the coach. He had a strong accent but spoke English very fluently, treating me to a beaming smile and assuring me, expansively, that I was going to enjoy myself.

  ‘I shall be with you throughout the tour, Dr. Heriot, so if there is anything you want, you have only to tell me. My name is Kovacs, Imre Kovacs or, as we say in Hungarian . . . Kovacs Imre. And I am always at your service.’ Continuing to smile, he bowed me into the coach before turning to greet a late arrival who appeared, much flustered, at his elbow.

  I took a seat at the rear, immediately behind the four teachers, who were laughing and talking gaily, and the unattached Australian, after inspecting me covertly from behind his newspaper, rose and seated himself beside me.

  ‘Looking forward to the trip?’ he asked.

  ‘Well . . . yes, I think so,’ I answered, with more honesty than I had intended to display.

  His brows rose in his tanned, pleasant face. ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘Well, I——’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said ruefully. ‘You reckon I’m a wolf, trying to make a pass at you before we’ve even left the ground. But I’m not, I give you my word . . . there’s nothing of the wild Colonial boy about me.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ I challenged, catching his mood and amused, in spite of myself, by his approach. At least it was disarming. ‘How can I be sure of that?’

  He nodded his crew-cut fair head emphatically.

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ he asserted, ‘and may I be struck down if it isn’t true. Oh, the spirit is willing enough, but I just seem to lack the knack, somehow . . . or the killer-instinct. I put women on pedestals and worship them. It’s probably my upbringing . . . very strict Presbyterian. Anyway, you looked . . . well, you looked understanding, the kind of girl who wouldn’t bite my head off if I spoke to you. And I mean that as a compliment. But . . . his eyes were very blue and innocent as they met mine. ‘I’ll go away if you want me to. I know how fussy the British are about being properly introduced.’

  The coach started and, to my own surprise, I found myself smiling back at him. ‘No, I don’t want you to go away,’ I answered, again with honesty. I was suddenly afraid of what might lie in store for me at the end of this journey and it was oddly comforting to have someone to talk to, someone to laugh with, in whose easygoing company I could relax and pretend to myself that I was going on a perfectly ordinary holiday. The thought of Stephen Kelen, languishing in a Hungarian prison cell, which had haunted me ever since I had heard the news of his arrest, faded a little and became less oppressive.

  My companion offered his hand. ‘Maybe we ought to introduce ourselves,’ he suggested. ‘I’m Nicholas Russell, but my friends call me Nick . . . or Old Nick, depending on how friendly they’re feeling. And you’re . . .’

  ‘Stacey Heriot,’ I supplied, accepting his proffered hand.

  ‘Unusual name, Stacey. But it’s pretty and I like it because it suits you.’ Nick Russell grinned. ‘You’re rather unusual, I reckon.’

  This was shameless flattery, but for no reason that I could have explained, I didn’t resent it. ‘Thank you,’ I acknowledged. ‘It is kind of you to say so, Mr. Russell.’

  ‘Nick,’ he reminded me. ‘Hell, I don’t go for all this British formality! And I don’t intend to address you as Miss Heriot . . . Stacey. That would be a waste of a pretty name, wouldn’t it? Tell me, what do you do for a living, presuming that you have to work for one? No, wait . . . let me guess. It’s a little game I often play, trying to decide what people do, just by looking at them.’

  The coach halted at a light signal and he turned in his seat to study me solemnly. ‘Educated accent, intelligent, air of competence and assurance. Good clothes but practical, and flatheeled shoes . . . hm, what does that give us? Definitely a career woman, I should say, and a dedicated one. A barrister, maybe . . . I can just picture you in a wig and gown, charming some old judge off his bench. No? Probation or Personnel Officer? I’m getting warmer. It’s a job where you meet people, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘And my father is a barrister, so you weren’t too far out in your first guess.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ he looked thoughtful. ‘Wait a minute, I believe I’ve got it. The essential clue . . .’ he raised my hand, turned it palm uppermost, making a great pantomime of sniffing and wrinkling his nose. ‘Nails cut short, hands very clean and smelling ever so faintly of antiseptic . . . you’re a doctor.’

  I laughed. ‘Yes, I’m a doctor.’

  The lights changed and the coach moved slowly into the traffic. ‘What kind of a doctor are you?’ Nick Russell asked curiously. ‘In general practice or working in a hospital?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been doing a locum for a G.P. in Yorkshire,’ I told him, ‘but that was really to fill in time. I did my training at St. Vincent’s—here in London—and I’m going back there as an obstetrical registrar in September, with the idea of working for my M.R.C.O.G. I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea at first . . . it means an awful lot of work, you see. But after six weeks’ experience as a G.P., I’ve convinced myself that it is a good idea . . . for me, anyway.’

  ‘You’re ambitious, then?’

  I denied it. ‘No, not really. It’s just that I prefer working in a hospital, although I quite enjoyed the locum while it lasted. But that’s enough about my job—what do you do?’

  ‘Your turn to have three guesses now, Doctor,’ my new acquaintance returned. ‘Put your powers of observation and deduction to the test . . . what do you think I do?’

  He was obviously the outdoor type, I decided. The tan on his cheeks wasn’t of recent origin and he had the air of a man who was in the peak of physical condition. He was tall and lean, without an ounce of superfluous flesh on his big, muscular body. The loose-fitting grey suit he wore was expertly tailored, the material expensive . . . a farmer, perhaps, or more probably, a station owner in the Australian outback? I, too, looked at his hands, but they offered no clue, save that they were slim and well kept, although I recalled that the palm I had held when we shook hands a few moments before had been calloused. I tried various guesses, to each of which he shook his head, evidently enjoying my failure to place him.

  ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ he offered. ‘When I’m on the job, I wear a beard.’

  ‘A beard?’ I echoed, puzzled.

  ‘Yeah . . . a real beaut ginger one. But I had to shave it off for Wimbledon.’

  ‘You mean you’re a tennis player?’

  Nick Russell shrugged. ‘Only incidentally. I played at Wimbledon, but I didn’t get beyond the third round . . . I was out of practice, couldn’t expect to. Tennis is kind of a sideline, you see. I have to travel around a lot in my job.’

  ‘Then you’re a sailor?’

  ‘Nope . . . you’re stone cold. Give up?’

  ‘I think I’ll have to . . . unless you’re a poet or a pop singer.’

  His deep, full-throated laughter was infectious.

  ‘Heaven forbid! No, I’m a construction engineer, strictly practical and with both feet on the ground. I build bridges and dams and even roads, sometimes . . . help to, that is. I’ve just spent two and a half years working on an irrigation scheme in the Northern Territory, with only the odd week’s leave in the city when things slackened off a bit and I could spare the time. Mostly I couldn’t, so I promised myself I’d take a real, slap-up holiday when the job was finished. A visit to the Old Country, with Wimbledon first on the list, and then a chance to see something of Europe. And, as you’ll observe, here I am.’

  ‘On your way to Budapest?’ I questioned. ‘But why choose Hungary, of all places? I should have thought you’d want to see Paris first. Or Italy . . . Florence and Venice, Naples, Capri. Or Switzerland, even.’

  ‘Give me time, Stacey,’ Nick pleaded. ‘I’ve only just made a start and I’ve another three months to fill in. But I chose Hungary because that’s where my folks came from originally. Oh, I was born in Australia, I’m a dinki-di Aussie, make no mistake about that. My dad, too, he’s second generation, doesn’t speak a word of the language. But my mother came out just before the war.’

  ‘As a refugee?’

  ‘Yeah. I reckoned I’d like to go and see where she came from . . . it’s a little place called Visegrad on the Danube, not far from Budapest. You can get there in a few hours on a Danube steamer and it’s one of the trips they advertise on this tour, so I booked myself on it. Normally I like to take a car and wander around, going where I please, but you can’t do that in the Iron Curtain countries, can you?’ Nick shrugged. ‘Or so I was told. They like to keep track of their tourists, and although theoretically you can take a car and go just where the spirit moves you, in practice I heard there were snags. So I reckoned an organised tour was the best bet. And at least, on this one, the excursions are optional and you aren’t always being herded into a coach with a whole mob of your fellow tourists and being taken to visit museums.’

  This was also what had attracted me in the travel agent’s brochure and I said so. Nick Russell beamed at me.

  ‘Great minds,’ he observed, ‘think alike, don’t they? I’m hoping to play a little tennis and go for a sail on Lake Balaton . . . or even take a canoe down the Danube. Ever done any canoeing?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘It can be fun. Maybe we could hire a canoe and paddle up to Visegrad, instead of going by steamer. Would you fancy that?’

  ‘Well, I suppose there has to be a first time for everything. Yes, I think I would fancy it.’

  His smile widened. ‘You’re a woman after my own heart. Funny, I just knew we were going to hit it off when I saw you step on board this coach . . . there was something about you. That was why I plucked up the courage to come and sit beside you.’

  ‘Does that take very much courage?’ I asked mildly.

  ‘Too right it does, in England,’ he assured me with a wry grimace. ‘I’ve been mistaken for a wolf in full cry when all I was trying to do was ask the way somewhere! Anyway, I hope, for my sake, that they’ve had the foresight to seat us together in the airplane.’

  But they hadn’t. We were booked on a scheduled night flight by the Dutch KLM airline and there were a number of other passengers, in addition to our party. When after a short wait in the departure lounge, our efficient little courier shepherded us through passport control and Customs to the airliner, every seat was taken. Nick was allocated one at the rear, some distance from mine, but I was not altogether sorry. I had been up very early and I found suddenly that I was feeling extremely sleepy. Nick Russell was an amusing and stimulating companion, but the grey-haired American matron who now occupied the seat beside me seemed likely to prove more restful . . . and rest, just then, was what I wanted.

  We exchanged a few polite remarks before take-off and then, when we were airborne and were informed that we might release our seat-belts and smoke if we wished, we both refused the stewardess’s offer of coffee and sandwiches and began to make preparations for slumber.

  ‘Airplanes have a real soothing effect on me,’ my new companion announced, smothering a yawn. ‘I guess we’ll have a pretty long day tomorrow and I certainly do want to be fresh for the coach tour of Vienna, don’t you?’ She tilted back her seat with the skill of an experienced airtraveller and slipped a small, inflatable plastic cushion behind her head. A few minutes later, she was neatly and tidily asleep, not a hair of her elaborate coiffure out of place.

  I endeavoured to follow her example, but—perhaps because I was over-tired—sleep eluded me for some time. I had the aisle seat and most of my fellow passengers seemed to have decided to drink the coffee they had been offered or else to order some sort of nightcap. The two stewardesses went busily back and forth, to the accompaniment of clinking glasses and the subdued hum of conversation, cigarettes were lighted and the estimated time of our arrival in Vienna announced, over the airliner’s amplifying system, by the Captain.

  I had just managed to accustom myself to these small disturbances and was dozing off when I was startled into wakefulness once more by hearing my name called over the amplifier. The announcement was made first in Dutch, which I did not understand, and then in English. ‘There is a radio message for Heriot. Will this passenger be so good as to come to the flight deck? Thank you. Mr. Heriot, if you please . . . to the flight deck.’

  I scrambled awkwardly to my feet. It seemed rather unusual to call a passenger to the flight deck, in order to receive a message which could have been written down and delivered by one of the stewardesses, but I suppose there must be some reason for it. And the ‘Mr.’ must be a mistake, or possibly whoever had made the announcement had meant ‘Dr. Heriot’. Sleepily I started to move in the direction of the flight deck, trying not to disturb those whose seats I had to pass and wondering whether Meg could have sent me a message concerning her stepbrother. I had reached the end of the aisle when a tall man, whose face I glimpsed indistinctly in the dimmed light of the passenger cabin, attempted to thrust past me with a murmured apology.

  ‘Excuse me, if you don’t mind . . .’ his accent was English, of the clipped, public school variety which, I felt sure, Nick Russell would have described irreverently as ‘lah-di-dah’.

  ‘Yes?’ I turned to face him a trifle stupidly, my brain still clouded by the mists of sleep.

  ‘I want to get past you . . .’ he gestured to the door of the flight deck at my back. ‘They have a message for me.’

  ‘You mean . . .’ I was struck by the coincidence. ‘You mean that your name is Heriot?’

  ‘Of course it is, otherwise I shouldn’t be answering to it, should I?’ His tone was impatient, almost rude. ‘Now if you wouldn’t mind——’

  ‘My name is also Heriot,’ I informed him, with what dignity I could muster. ‘So it is possible that the message may be for me and——’

  The tall stranger cut me short abruptly. ‘You are not Mr. Heriot, one presumes? And it so happens that I’m expecting a message—an urgent one—and I should like to take delivery of it, with your permission, of course. Thank you.’

  He spoke with heavy sarcasm, making no attempt to conceal the fact that he considered me a nuisance and probably halfwitted into the bargain. I stood aside, feeling at once foolish and nettled by his unnecessary rudeness, and he opened the door to the flight deck and disappeared, closing it firmly behind him. As he passed me, I saw that he was dark and not at all bad-looking—a man of about thirty-three or four, dressed in a sober pinstripe suit of unmistakably Savile Row cut, with which he wore one of the few regimental ties I was able to recognise, that of the Brigade of Guards. He looked a typical Guards officer, I decided, not without malice. Only the bowler hat and the impeccably rolled umbrella were needed to complete the picture, but these, no doubt, were with his luggage.

  I returned to my seat, resuming it carefully and silently, but my companion didn’t stir. Heriot wasn’t a particularly common name, I thought, and wondered whether he could be a relation of Meg’s. She had mentioned a brother, older than herself, whose name was I hunted in my handbag for the envelope she had given me. Yes, the brother’s name was John, but she had supplied no information about him, beyond the bare statement that he was thirty-three and unmarried.