The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [304]
Sighing, he rang for Errol. ‘You ’d better glance at this’ he said. His Head of Chancery sat himself down and began to read the document greedily. He nodded slowly from time to time. Mount-olive cleared his throat: ‘It seems pretty incoherent to me’ he said, despising himself for so trying to cast a doubt upon the clear words, to influence Errol in a judgement which, in his own secret mind, he had already made. Errol read it twice slowly, and handed it back across the desk. ‘It seems pretty extraordinary’ he said tentatively, respectfully. It was not his place to offer evaluations of the message. They must by rights come from his Chief. ‘It all seems a bit out of proportion’ he added helpfully, feeling his way.
Mountolive said sombrely: ‘I’m afraid it is typical of Purse-warden. It makes me sorry that I never took up your original recommendations about him. I was wrong, it seems, and you were right about his suitability.’
Errol’s eye glinted with modest triumph. He said nothing, however, as he stared at Mountolive. ‘Of course,’ said the latter,
‘as you well know, Hosnani has been suspect for some time.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘But there is no evidence here to support what he says.’ He tapped the letter irritably twice. Errol sat back and breathed through his nose. ‘I don’t know’ he said vaguely. ‘It sounds pretty conclusive to me.’
‘I don’t think’ said Mountolive ‘it would support a paper. Of course we’ll report it to London as it stands. But I’m inclined not to give it to the Parquet to help them with their inquest. What do you say?’
Errol cradled his knees. A slow smile of cunning crept around his mouth. ‘It might be the best way of getting it to the Egyptians’
he said softly, ‘and they might choose to act on it. Of course, it would obviate the diplomatic pressure we might have to bring if
… later on, the whole thing came out in a more concrete form. I know Hosnani was a friend of yours, sir.’
Mountolive felt himself colouring slightly. ‘In matters of business, a diplomat has no friends’ he said stiffly, feeling that he spoke in the very accents of Pontius Pilate.
‘Quite, sir.’ Errol gazed at him admiringly.
‘Once Hosnani’s guilt is established we shall have to act. But without supporting evidence we should find ourselves in a weak position. With Memlik Pasha — you know he isn’t very pro-British … I’m thinking….’
‘Yes, sir?’
Mountolive waited, drinking the air like a wild animal, scenting that Errol was beginning to approve his judgement. They sat silently in the dusk for a while, thinking. Then, with a histrion ic snap, the Ambassador switched on the desk-light and said de-cisive ly: ‘If you agree, we’ll keep this out of Egyptian hands until we are better documented. London must have it. Classified of course. But not private persons, even next-of-kin. By the way, are you capable of undertaking the next-of-kin correspondence? I leave it to you to make up something.’ He felt a pang as he saw Liza Pursewarden’s face rise up before him.
‘Yes. I have his file here. There is only a sister at the Imperial Institute for the Blind, I think, apart from his wife.’ Errol fussily consulted a green folder, but Mountolive said ‘Yes, yes. I know her.’
Errol stood up.
Mountolive added: ‘And I think in all fairness we should copy to Maskelyne in Jerusalem, don’t you?’
‘Most certainly, sir.’
‘And for the moment keep our own counsel?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you very much’ said Mountolive with unusual warmth. He felt all of a sudden very old and frail. Indeed he felt so weak that he doubted if his limbs could carry him downstairs to the Residence. ‘That is all at present.’ Errol took his leave, closing the door behind him with the gravity of a mute.
Mountolive telephoned to the buttery and ordered himself a glass of beef-tea and biscuits. He ate and drank ravenously, staring the while at the white mask and the manuscript of a novel. He felt both a deep disgust and a sense of enormous bereavement —
he could not tell which lay uppermost. Unwittingly, too, Purse-warden had, he reflected,