Slow Burner

by William Haggard

  Charles Russell raised his hand. ‘You say that Bates would know about the meeting at the Society?’ he inquired.

  Nichol seemed surprised. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s a regular affair, and as a matter of courtesy I always let him know when I’m coming to London. But why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh nothing.’ If Russell sounded a little elusive Nichol was too irritated to notice it.

  William Nichol returned to the subject of Sir Jeremy Bates. ‘I have discovered,’ he said, ‘that I am spending rather more effort than I care to trying not to let Bates annoy me. I have begun to wonder whether the effort is justified.’

  ‘And for my part I am within measurable distance of spitting in his eye.’

  ‘Do not forget to give me notice of the occasion.’ William Nichol paused. ‘You know,’ he added, ‘he sent his car to bring me from Colton today. He does that whenever he can: it’s his way of putting me in my place, and the gambit is becoming tedious. I tell myself that I don’t really mind, and it gives my own driver a day in the garden. Nevertheless . . .’

  Russell laughed. ‘And Bates’ car,’ he suggested, ‘doesn’t drive itself.’

  Nichol regarded him coldly. ‘Collect yourself,‘he said curtly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I suggested that you collect yourself.’

  ‘But I was under the impression that Bates’ driver, that Mrs Parton . . .’

  ‘I did not invite your impressions.’

  Russell rose with a smile. ‘My friend,‘he said, ‘we are quarrelling. We are both on edge, but not with each other. That damned Bates again. I’m not aware of having given offence, but if I have done so I apologize.’ He looked with inquiry at William Nichol.

  Nichol’s expression was changing to one of astonishment. ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘I have been behaving like a child. My dear Charles! I thought I knew better. I am ashamed of myself.’

  But Russell was walking towards the sideboard. ‘A glass of port wine?’ he suggested. ‘I can think of a toast.’

  ‘With the greatest pleasure.’

  They raised their glasses. ‘A cold grave,‘Russell proposed, ‘to a cold man.’

  ‘Be it so.’

  They drank with deliberation. ‘An admirable wine,‘Nichol said.

  Russell refilled the glasses. ‘Thank you,‘he replied. ‘You recommended it, you know.’

  ‘Did I, now? Then have the goodness to remember it in my favour when you are tempted to think of me as hardly as I have just deserved.’ Nichol seemed to hesitate. ‘The fact of it is,‘he went on, ‘that I asked Mary Parton to marry me. She didn’t exactly decline, but she told me it was impossible; she told me she would never get a divorce.’

  ‘My dear William . . . I’m infernally sorry.’

  ‘Thank you. You will understand that in the circumstances meeting her again isn’t an unmixed pleasure. Not,‘Nichol added a little grimly, ‘that I won’t accept the mixture. I will accept her company on any terms, for I’m in love with her.’ He hesitated again. ‘I’m not exactly a young man,’ he said finally, ‘but I’m in love. It sounds very silly and you won’t understand . . .’

  ‘But I do. I never married myself, but—but I understand. I do indeed. I’m sorry that the matter doesn’t go smoothly, as evidently it does not . . .’ It was Russell’s turn to hesitate. ‘Nevertheless I congratulate you,’ he ended unexpectedly. ‘I congratulate you.’

  William Nichol was surprised but concealed it. ‘Thank you,‘he said simply.

  ‘And now that ass Bates . . .’

  ‘To the devil with Bates,’ Nichol recovered his hat and coat. ‘Shall we walk to him?’ he inquired. ‘I can get rid of the car and go back by train.5

  But Russell was inspecting the decanter. It was a noble object, a legacy from more spacious days. A single bottle, in its generous womb, would have gone nowhere. It was very nearly full. ‘We shouldn’t leave it like that,’ he suggested reflectively.

  There was a moment of comfortable silence. ‘Just as you wish,’ Nichol agreed. He put down his hat and coat again, and Russell opened a window.

  In half a dozen sentences Russell explained to Nichol what now was known of Parton. ‘So you see,’ he concluded, ‘we are morally certain that he’s responsible. Which means that I have a duty—two duties, in fact, and that is the problem. As it always is. The formal duty, my business as an official, is to pass what we know to Sir Jeremy. Who is by no means certain to act as we should wish. Very well then, as an official I shall be excused. If anything goes wrong, if the secrets of Slow Burner go where they could most damage us, I should suffer as an individual along, I suppose, with fifty million others. But as an official I should be clear.’ Charles Russell’s expression darkened; he erupted unexpectedly. ‘It isn’t good enough,’ he added vehemently.

  ‘Not for you—no. So what do you propose?’

  ‘I propose to go to Palliser directly.’

  William Nichol whistled. ‘It’s the hell of a thing to do,’ he said.

  ‘I know it. I’ve been in Whitehall for a good many years and I know what it would mean. Palliser would do what we want, I think, but that wouldn’t save me. I know the machine.’

  The two men were silent, considering. Nichol was thinking that Sir Jeremy had a sense of humour but that it wouldn’t stretch to this. Sir Jeremy had a sense of humour, perhaps, but it was a neat and careful flower, something, emphatically, for a sandy soil.

  Man for his former sins

  Has shaving still entailed upon his chins.

  Nichol remembered Sir Jeremy quoting the couplet; he had laughed delightedly: ‘entailed’, he had explained, was perfection . . . No, he wouldn’t be amused to be short-circuited to be ignored.

  William Nichol broke the silence to ask a question. ‘Then you won’t tell Bates at all?’ he asked. ‘Not at this meeting, for instance? You will go straight to Palliser?’

  ‘I’m undecided about that. I could compromise, of course; I suppose I could play both horses. It would be possible to tell Bates first and then, if he won’t do what we conceive to be his duty, go to Palliser later.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nichol said slowly; he was thinking again. ‘Do the former,’ he said suddenly. ‘Tell Bates this afternoon. And if he shirks do nothing more. Leave it to me.’ He spoke with decision, finally.

  Russell was evidently surprised. ‘To you?’ he asked. ‘My very dear William . . . you have a plan?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then you must tell me.’

  But William Nichol was smiling. ‘I shall do no such thing,’ he said.

  ‘But William . . .’

  ‘Be quiet, Charles. We have our respective talents, I dare say, but we are emphatically not actors. Our first objective is to get Bates to act—to persuade him to act. But we know our Sir Jeremy: it won’t improve our chances if we go to him oozing collusion. He’s sensitive in his way, and he’d spot it at once . . . and dig his toes in.’

  Charles Russell reflected. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘I don’t like to be excluded—I would have preferred a partnership. But I can’t compel you . . .’ He glanced at Nichol’s glass. ‘You’re empty,’ he said reproachfully.

  It was an hour before they walked at their leisure to the Ministry. Their stride was entirely steady, but about it there hung a faint air of the processional. Nichol halted at the deplorable portico and explained in detail why it offended him. He pointed with his stick. Russell took his arm. ‘We mustn’t keep him waiting for ever,’ he said. Nichol agreed amiably that it would be wrong to keep him waiting for ever. They turned into the Ministry and walked towards the private lift. It was a stuffy little lift, lined with some hideous plastic. Lights went on and off as the various floors were reached and passed, and from time to time a bell rang for no evident reason. Charles Russell cupped his hand before his mouth, blowing into it suspiciously.

  ‘A little, I’m afraid,’ Nichol said smiling.

  ‘Damn,’ said Russell. ‘Bu
t it doesn’t matter,’ he added at once.

  ‘Not in the least,’ Nichol agreed. They left the lift and walked along the corridor to Sir Jeremy’s office. The air was charged with more than a suspicion of mischief.

  Sir Jeremy was with Wakeman, his Deputy. He was a solemn man, wary-eyed, the official Man Friday to perfection. ‘I am sorry,’ Russell said courteously, ‘that we were detained.’

  ‘Not at all.” Sir Jeremy’s manner was formal; it conveyed to a nicety that he did not believe that there had been any detention, and that if there had it should not have been allowed to occur. He looked at the two men, and his expression changed. It was never easy to tell what Sir Jeremy was thinking, but now, faint but discernible, his face bore a look of surprise. They have been lunching very well, he was thinking—well, there was nothing unusual in that; but there was something else, something unfamiliar, and Sir Jeremy could not put his finger upon it. Russell and Nichol sat easily in their chairs, politely waiting for him to begin. They were relaxed, but they were alert as sparrows; they were prepared; they had something up their sleeve. Sir Jeremy’s instinct told him that what he sensed was danger . . . Ridiculous, he told himself at once. They were a little drunk—that was all. Danger, indeed! He shrugged, angry with himself, and began to speak. ‘I have had made,’ he said, ‘an analysis of the present situation at Dipley.’

  ‘That is excellent,’ Russell replied politely. Then I need not trouble you with mine.’

  Sir Jeremy exchanged a glance with his Deputy, but resumed. ‘As I understand it,’ he went on, ‘we have one fact; one reasonable assumption; and an inference. The fact is that there has been discovered at Dipley an apparatus which simulates epsilon rays; the assumption, and it seems a safe one, is that only a scientist of importance could have achieved such a thing—of importance, I am implying, to the national interest, a scientist whose disloyalty, whose defection, would be something more than merely a loss to science; and the inference is that the affair at Dipley was intended as a distraction whilst the defection was arranged.’ Sir Jeremy sat back; he was thinking that he had put it very clearly.

  Charles Russell was aware of an inclination to clap appreciatively; he suppressed it; instead he said deliberately: ‘We know a little more than that.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Indeed. We have discovered that one important scientist has known Mrs Tarbat for a considerable time.’

  ‘May I ask who?’

  ‘Of course. Mr Parton, Doctor Nichol’s Number Two.’

  ‘We should have been told this,’ Wakeman said.

  Colonel Russell ignored him.

  ‘But at least you are keeping a special watch upon his movements?’ Wakeman insisted.

  ‘That presents no difficulty,’ Russell said blandly. He drew a deliberate breath. ‘But I want much more than that,’ he said.

  The words fell bleakly into a shocked, a stony silence. Sir Jeremy was sitting very still; he recovered animation to ask a question. ‘You can prove,’ he inquired, ‘that Mr Parton has visited Mrs Tarbat recently? You can establish, perhaps, that he has put this apparatus in her house?’

  ‘I can do neither,’ Russell admitted.

  Sir Jeremy shrugged. He did it rather well, for the shrug was something short of openly contemptuous. Equally it wasn’t amiable. It was a little patronizing. Sir Jeremy had intended it to be.

  ‘Then we can leave Mr Parton,’ he said, ‘and move to what is obvious.’ He put the tips of his fingers together, but dropped his hands upon the desk as he caught Nichol’s eye. A faint colour crept into his pale cheeks, for William Nichol’s face bore the suspicion of a smile. A theatrical gesture, said the smile, and unworthy. Sir Jeremy’s colour deepened; he was not accustomed to feeling a fool. He cleared his throat. ‘I do not seem to have made myself understood,’ he said. ‘The fact that one eminent scientist knows Mrs Tarbat is an interesting line of inquiry which Russell is no doubt already pursuing.’ Sir Jeremy allowed himself his most wintry smile. ‘So far, it seems, without success,’ he added. ‘But though I am prepared to reserve an opinion whether Wakeman is right in thinking that in principle we should have been told of this, it seems to me less than essential in practice. It is a—a peripheral line of inquiry.’ Sir Jeremy smiled again; he was pleased with the adjective. ‘Whereas,’ he went on, ‘the direct line is to ask Mrs Tarbat who put the apparatus in her house. To ask her to tell us; to put pressure upon her to tell us.’

  ‘The first we have naturally done.’ Russell’s voice was patient. ‘She insists that she hasn’t an idea. We cannot shake her.’

  Sir Jeremy did not seem surprised. ‘Then with great diffidence,’ he said, ‘I am obliged to put forward the course which has occurred to myself.’ He turned to Russell. ‘It is not in dispute,’ he suggested, ‘that Mrs Tarbat is a woman of easy virtue. Would you feel that you had evidence to arrest her for a day or two—for keeping a disorderly house, for instance?’

  ‘There is evidence,’ Russell said, ‘of a sort.’

  Sir Jeremy was evidently relieved. ‘Then let us do so,’ he said.

  Russell’s expression did not change. ‘May I ask why I should?’ he inquired evenly.

  ‘But surely that is obvious. I imagine you will agree that people under arrest have been known to talk more freely than people in their own houses.’

  ‘Precisely. I had followed you to that extent. But perhaps it is my turn not to have made myself clear. I do not deny that we could take Mrs Tarbat into custody. We might even successfully oppose bail. I simply asked why I should do so.’

  ‘But why ever not?’

  ‘Because I do not believe that she is keeping a disorderly house.’ Russell blew his nose with deliberation. ‘I hope I do not sound unreasonably old-fashioned,’ he added.

  There was an embarrassed silence broken at last by Sir Jeremy’s Deputy; he was speaking with great care. ‘Mrs Tarbat may not, within the letter of the law, have been keeping a disorderly house,’ he said, ‘but she may well be endangering the State.’

  Sir Jeremy gave him a warning glance, but Russell had taken the opening at once. Then whether it is Parton or Mrs Tarbat,’ he said, ‘surely this is a case for the special powers.’

  Sir Jeremy ignored the question, and Wakeman ploughed on. ‘I suppose,’ he said with even more than his usual deliberation, ‘I imagine there would be no possibilities along the lines of Mrs Tarbat’s health?’

  Nichol and Charles Russell translated this rapidly. William Nichol had rather the quicker mind but Russell the longer experience of senior civil servants, and Russell arrived first at a meaning. ‘You are suggesting,’ he inquired, ‘that if Mrs Tarbat were sick she might be taken to hospital? That failing a cell in a police station a public hospital is likely to be most persuasive?’

  ‘Exactly.’ The question seemed to surprise him.

  ‘A fruitful thought.’ Sir Jeremy looked at his Deputy with something as near to gratitude as he ever allowed himself; he turned to Russell. ‘Do we know anything about Mrs Tarbat’s health?’ he asked briskly.

  ‘Yes. It is excellent.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘I have it upon the best possible authority,’ Russell said firmly. ‘Mrs Tarbat is uncomplicated and robust; her habits are normal; she is in the flower of womanhood.’

  Sir Jeremy coughed drily and Wakeman intervened again. ‘We might approach her doctor,’ he ventured.

  ‘Fix him, you mean?’ Russell asked. ‘Suborn him?’ Wakeman looked distressed, but Russell was considering the suggestion. ‘Hardly,’ he said at length. ‘It would have to be her own doctor, you realize, not just any doctor. At best it would take time. And it would be risky.’

  ‘In that case we seem to be at a dead end again.’ Sir Jeremy’s briskness had left him; his voice was flat. Russell half rose from his chair. ‘One moment,’ Sir Jeremy said sharply. ‘This is a very serious situation,’ he added. The remark dropped into another uncomfortable silence and Sir Jeremy flushed for the second tim
e. He told himself that two mistakes in one interview were unpardonable.

  William Nichol had been sitting quietly, his eyes half veiled. He opened them again to speak. ‘May I make a suggestion?’ he inquired.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Then may I return to Russell’s reference to the special powers.’ Sir Jeremy stiffened, but if Nichol noticed he gave no sign. ‘I cannot agree that Mrs Tarbat is essential,’ he said. ‘I consider her . . . asymptotic.’ Sir Jeremy glanced at him quickly, but Nichol’s face was without expression. ‘Whereas,’ Nichol went on, ‘Russell was saying that one very eminent scientist—one of my own, unhappily—was acquainted with Mrs Tarbat and therefore in a position to have visited her at Dipley.’ He glanced in inquiry at Russell: Russell nodded. ‘Would it alter your decision,’ Nichol asked, ‘if it were known that the scientist in question was already suspect? Suspect inconclusively, of course; suspect rather vaguely; but suspect.’

  ‘No,’ Sir Jeremy said. He was thinking that William Nichol was being extraordinarily cunning, trailing a false scent like that, leading them on to another man, one of his own colleagues, too. He was shocked—horrified at the depravity of it. Nichol who might himself be out of the country, away, beyond reach, at any moment. Tomorrow, perhaps, unless he, Jeremy Bates, did his duty. These laborious, these credulous Security officers—what did they know of it, what did they know of men’s hearts? Incompetents! And what in fact would they do if they knew what he did? They would babble again about the special powers, about the Nuclear Security Order! A sensation, an enormous, a resounding scandal . . .

  Only he, only Jeremy Bates could see his duty clearly; only he could do it.

  But Nichol was pressing the point. ‘You mustn’t think,’ he was saying, ‘that I don’t understand the difficulties in making to the Minister any recommendation to use the special powers. I do understand them. And may I say that I sympathize. But you oblige me formally to record that I disagree. I think a recommendation should be made.’

  ‘That,’ Sir Jeremy said precisely, ‘that is a matter entirely within my discretion.’ He put upon the pronoun an unmistakable inflexion.