Towards Sunset (third edition)

by Peter D Wilson

  *****

  Tom felt his throat dry and fancied a cup of tea, but while he was in the kitchen the doorbell rang. He answered it to find a middle-aged woman with a young child clutching a basket; “Tom?” she said, and after moment he recognised her.

  “Julie! Of all people! Do come in. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

  Julie introduced the child as her granddaughter Clare, and explained that they had been nearby collecting a kitten for her. It was getting a little restive, and that accounted for Flora’s interest in the basket; Tom thought it safe enough to try introducing the two. After some hesitation, the kitten emerged, a tabby with white bib and socks. It cowered before Flora who however licked its head in a motherly way, evidently calming it, and they seemed likely to be friendly enough. “What’s it’s name?” asked Tom.

  It was Clare who answered. “Tiger, of course.”

  Return to Contents

  THELMA

  Thelma Partington was unfortunate in having an unpleasant nasal twang to her voice, a harsh braying laugh and an irritating way of pronouncing ‘Iraq’ as ‘Eye-rack’; a pity, as she had plenty of good qualities too. Even her tendency to officious bossiness was well-intentioned, if seldom well-advised; hence the occasional jocular references to her as “The Philanthropest”. It had probably developed during her marriage to a loving but unworldly man who despite her prodding never satisfied her ambition for vicarious corporate advancement, owing largely to chronic indecisiveness. No doubt it was she who had made the running in the courtship, though her friends often wondered why; attraction between opposites, perhaps? At least, as she belatedly recognised, he never went off the rails and had cared devotedly for their three children. Moreover, unlike several of the wealthier businessmen with whom she had too often disparagingly compared him, he had not died prematurely from alcoholism or heart failure, but in a road accident for which he was blameless.

  The insurance settlement had left her, for the first time in her life, with a substantial nest-egg and no great demands on it. Her first instinct had been to bestow it in trust for her grandchildren, but while their parents were willing to accept a modest endowment on their behalf, they agreed (or perhaps had been persuaded to silent assent by a spouse) that for once she should seriously lash out on herself, maybe for a world cruise. Presented with the opportunity to get her out from under their feet for a while, they refused to be talked out of it. When pressed, she admitted a long-standing interest in her husband’s supposed antecedents in rural England, and within days was booked on to a flight with a hotel reservation for the first week of her stay.

  To her disappointment, the trails turned up by preparatory searches in the Mormon records had led nowhere, except for one that suggested a connection with an obscure northern hamlet, to which she set off after that first week had yielded nothing more promising. That was how I came across her on going for a drink with my uncle Ned in the Skiddledale inn. Jack Birtwhistle at the bar pointed her out sitting rather forlornly by herself amid what for them amounted to a babble, probably incomprehensible to her, of banter between the locals; “She looks as though she could do with cheering up.” The only two vacant chairs were at her table, so we had an opening to ask if she minded our joining her.

  The first sound of her voice made me wince, but fortunately she was looking at Ned at the time and I hoped hadn’t noticed. Afterwards I was prepared, and in time it ceased to register particularly. After the introductions and an explanation of her mission, she asked if we knew anything about St. Cyrus’s abbey which was mentioned in connection with a land lease to one Walter Farringdon, the only possible forebear of her late husband of whom she had found any trace.

  All I knew about it was in relation to the original bridge over the Skiddle, supposedly built by monks from the abbey, but Ned had unearthed a little more. The monastic house itself had been in the next valley, but it owned land around the headwaters of the river. There were suggestions that a cave in the side of a cliff left by the collapse of an underground cavern had once been occupied by a hermit loosely attached to the abbey, and Thelma immediately asked directions. “Sorry, it’s out of bounds at least for the time being. There was a nasty rock fall a while back.”

  “Yes, but we know what caused that.”

  “We think so, but can’t be sure. In any case we don’t know how much more’s been loosened. And the archaeologists have first bite of the cherry if it is opened up.”

  “Palaeontologists.”

  “What?”

  “Students of prehistory. There are drawings on the wall that might be prehistoric, and if so they’d be particularly significant. The most northerly of their kind, or something.”

  Thelma was scandalised. “Hasn’t anyone checked?”

  “The rock fall stopped that.”

  “But can’t it be cleared?”

  “I suppose so, but there’s the usual problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Money.”

  “How much?”

  I should have been warned by the glint in Thelma’s eye, but I didn’t know her then as well as came later.

  “I don’t know, but too much anyway. Academic budgets are tight these days.”

  “Who’s the academic involved?”

  “I don’t remember, but I could look it up. Why?”

  “Don’t you want these drawings investigated?”

  “Well, it’s nothing to do with me really, but … Yes, I do.”

  “Then you shouldn’t give up so easily.”

  “But I don’t have any influence with the organisations that might support a study. I’m not even sure who they are.”

  “Then ignore them. Back home there’s a fund for projects that can’t interest the usual sources.”

  “Maybe, but there must be thousands of schemes with a better claim.”

  “I dare say. But old Dan Arkwright who set it up in his will was a bit of an eccentric, and to avoid arguments he stipulated that beneficiaries should be selected purely on the whim of the current fund manager. He always maintained that inspiration was more important than cogitation.”

  “What makes you think our cave would inspire this fund manager?”

  “For one thing, he’s a fairly distant cousin of mine. And another, my late husband once did him some kind of favour that he keeps telling me to call in while I still have enough of my marbles to make it half-way sensible.”

  As they say, it’s not what you know that matters, but who you know. Almost before I realised what was happening, Professor McCulloch was installed in Ned’s best guest room with half a dozen students in a sort of marquee on the only tolerably level patch in his grounds. A mining engineer was brought in to supervise clearing the rock fall and gave the students a stern lecture on safety precautions, with particular emphasis on always wearing hard hats. “That wouldn’t have helped Robin Birtwhistle’s broken leg,” Ned commented.

  “A broken leg isn’t life-threatening. A cracked skull is.”

  It was of course essential to minimise any risk of causing more damage to the drawings than they might already have suffered, so a rough mock-up of the cave interior was set up with Ned’s photographs, enlarged to something like actual size, mounted as close to their original position as he could remember. Those areas were to be approached with extreme care.

  Thelma had decided that her search for antecedents-in-law was getting nowhere and in any case the cave project was far more interesting. She was still physically robust, and when clearance operations were about to start returned with a demand to take an active part in them. McCulloch was doubtful: “Wouldn’t it suit you better to record whatever’s found?”

  “When we get to that stage, maybe. We can’t be anywhere near yet.”

  “There’s the matter of clothing – you won’t want to get it ruined.”

  “It’s surely possible to get something that won’t matter?”

  With an inward sigh, McCulloch accepted the inevitable. As it happened Ned
had business in town the next day and she went with him, afterwards pronouncing herself reasonably satisfied with her purchases although the place should have been called Ripoff rather than Ripon. She also had a further idea: students were liable to let their natural high spirits get the better of them when the discipline essential to their work could be relaxed afterwards, so it would be helpful to have a mature woman on hand to keep order as a kind of matron. McCulloch couldn’t face disputing her argument, so that meant her moving out of the house. Ned therefore routed out a sort of home-made camp bed and a multi-panel Victorian folding screen to partition off a corner of the girls’ section in the marquee and give a bit of the privacy due to her age and position.

  That arrangement lasted for one night. The next morning the students declared en masse that they were not prepared to be treated like fourth-formers and either Thelma went or they did. McCulloch appealed to Ned for help.

  “Have you tried explaining the position to Thelma?”

  “Have you ever tried explaining anything to a formidable middle-aged American matron who doesn’t want to know? I haven’t dared. She’s financed this project on a whim; she could just as easily get it stopped.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit unfair? We’ve no reason to suppose she would.”

  “It’s not a risk I’d take.”

  “Then off hand, I can’t see any legitimate way out.”

  “What about illegitimate? Say a false call away of some sort?”

  “Illness in the family, you mean?”

  “That kind of thing.”

  “We don’t know anything about her family. And if we did, heaven knows what complications it would cause. It’s the classic stuff of farce.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that. Something else she’s really interested in.”

  “It’d have to be good to make her drop everything here in a flash. All I can think of is her supposed family history – some vital evidence turning up unexpectedly. Do you know any expert forgers of mediaeval documents? I don’t.”

  At that point Thelma herself burst in and McCulloch hastily excused himself. Ned got his oar in first: “Morning, Thelma. Did you sleep well?”

  “No I did not. One side of that damned bed collapsed and I had to sleep on the ground. I don’t believe there’s a square inch in there without a stone sticking out of it.”

  Ned commiserated and promised to see what he could do. The bed, when examined, showed signs of deliberate and recent sabotage that he discreetly developed to the point where he could plausibly condemn the contraption as beyond immediate repair. Thelma would have to move back into the house.

  With a few half-hearted grumbles about that, she accepted the situation and Ned went to see the girl who, on the well-known principle about the female of the species, he supposed to be the ringleader of the revolt. Given a broad hint that he was aware of the trick, but sympathised and wouldn’t say anything about it unless he had to, she agreed to persuade the rest that the revolt should be called off.

  As a sop to Thelma, McCulloch appointed her Safety Officer for the project, a post in which bossiness is demanded and accepted. He just hoped she wouldn’t go in for any unnecessary nit-picking.

  After breakfast, the students piled into McCulloch’s Land Rover and something similar but larger belonging to Frazer, the mining engineer, both snugly packed once they were all in with their kit. After one look Thelma declared she would take her hire car. Ned strongly advised against it, as the track up the valley beyond the house was very rough, but she insisted, and I begged a lift with her. Ned went with Frazer.

  “Very rough” was an understatement, and Thelma essentially a city driver. After a nightmare of bouncing along for half a mile or so with alarming noises from underneath the car, it became firmly stuck with one wheel against a rock in the gully of an occasional watercourse across the track, and shifting it needed more muscle than I possessed. Fortunately Ned had expected something of the sort and kept an eye on progress; with a couple of the beefier students joining the shoving and heaving, the car was reversed on to a patch of firm ground beside the track, and Thelma, shaking like a leaf, seemed relieved enough to leave it there.

  The track of course led to Dalehead Farm, not to the cave site, so the last half mile was strictly cross-country, and although Frazer plotted his course skilfully we were all well shaken up on arrival. With two extra passengers we were also very tightly cramped, and Thelma’s fear of car-sickness in that situation probably added to its threatened imminence. In her haste to get out she slipped, landed awkwardly and twisted her ankle. “Safety Officer first to have an accident,” muttered someone, to be quickly hushed by a more sympathetic girl.

  Fortunately Frazer had a well-stocked First Aid kit. Jim Shepherd (one of the students) had some medical training and was satisfied that firmly strapped-up, the ankle would bear as much of Thelma’s weight as it had to so long as she was very careful; he thought there was no need for a better-qualified opinion immediately but it would be wise to get one the next day. I did wonder whether that recommendation owed anything to the desirability of having Thelma out of the way, but reasoned that if so Jim would have put it more urgently.

  The various delays had taken up rather a lot of the morning. Nevertheless, Frazer insisted that that was no reason for haste, and under his direction clearing the rocks went very carefully and methodically. Removing some of those immediately accessible caused others to shift, but that was expected since the cave mouth was known to be lower than the interior and further back the debris would have been piled higher; there was nothing to indicate any new falls. Towards the end of the day the latest chunk to appear left a couple of inches clear above it.

  “Looks as though that’s the last to come,” someone commented.

  Frazer wasn’t convinced. “Maybe, but there could be a jam above it or behind. Sally, will you get my torch from the car?”

  Unfortunately the torch produced only a feeble glow. “Damn; must have left it switched on. Does anyone else have one?”

  No one did. “How about throwing a pebble through?” was the next suggestion, but easier said than done; after a few individual attempts with no one scoring a bull, nearly everyone joined in until Thelma called a halt before someone should get hurt by a ricochet. “What we need is a catapult.”

  Sue Jones had a stout rubber band round her sandwich box, so she had the privilege of first attempt. “Reminds me of flicking paper pellets behind the teacher’s back,” she commented.

  “I hope your aim was a bit better then.”

  Success came at the fifth attempt, to a chorus of “Fluke!” that Frazer pointed out had drowned any sound that the pebble might have made on impact. “So get close in to try again, and the rest of you keep quiet.”

  This time the second pebble went through cleanly enough, and the sound of its striking something solid had a perceptible reverberation. “Keep your fingers crossed,” commented Frazer, “but it seems we could be in luck. That sounds like a pretty large open space. The fall may have been quite limited. But that’s enough for one day. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

  On the way back, reaching Thelma’s car, Frazer asked if she’d like one of the students to drive it to the house. “It’s hired for a single driver only,” she said.

  “Feel like taking it yourself?”

  Thelma’s horror at the idea was obvious, and when Ned suggested it might be best to get a recovery vehicle on the job, she heartily agreed.

  The next day I volunteered to take Thelma to the surgery in Ripon, where the nurse checked the ankle and pronounced it merely strained; the strapping had been well done and nothing more elaborate than that was needed, though using a walking stick might help. I was afraid that Thelma would insist on getting the opinion of a fully-qualified doctor, but to my surprise she accepted the verdict without a murmur. Afterwards I found that she’d once worked as a nurse herself, so it may have been a matter of professional solidarity. With time in hand after we’d
found a stick that suited her well enough to allow more than minimal walking, I suggested she might like to look round the cathedral, and there used to be a particularly good restaurant nearby; maybe there still was.

  So it proved, and Thelma insisted on treating me to lunch, to which I had no objection. “How did you know about this place?” she asked.

  “It was quite famous in my student days, though not many students could afford the prices. In fact after my graduation ceremony I brought my parents here for lunch. Funny; I remember my mother had duck à l’orange. Maybe it stuck because I’d never heard of it before; I don’t remember what Dad or I ate.”

  It was mid-afternoon by the time we were back at Ned’s place and Thelma wondered how things were going at the cave – merely a comment as having already found that cell phones didn’t work in the valley, she knew I’d have no more idea than she did. As I said, there was no way of telling without going there, and I wasn’t going to wreck my car on that track.

  “I don’t blame you.”

  She was unusually quiet while I rustled up some tea and biscuits, and I wondered what was brewing. It came as quite a surprise.

  “What’s going to happen with the cave when it’s cleared? Supposing it is actually cleared and the paleothingumies have decided the drawings are important.”

  “I don’t know. Jack Birtwhistle had ideas of getting tourists in to see it.”

  “Up that track?”

  “I doubt if he realises what it’s like. There were rumours that he was thinking about a minibus service.”

  “What!?”

  “Not on, is it? He’s probably never been even this far up the valley. Country folk tend to leave local exploring to the visitors – if any.”

  “It would need a practically new road. And how much would that cost?”

  “I dread to think. It’s about six miles as the crow flies – maybe seven. More on any feasible route. It’d be quite a packet, anyway. I’ve seen ten thousand a kilometre for a cycle track, and that was the low end of the range.”

  “Then why not have a railroad instead? All you’d need is a firm base, not a fancy surface.”

  “Good lord! You are being ambitious.”

  “Well, why not? You need to think big sometimes.”

  “Don’t forget you’d need to keep the track open as well for farm traffic, and find a new route without all the ups and downs. It’d be pretty tortuous getting round those lumps in the terrain.”

  “It might follow the river. Are there any big drops in it?”

  “No, but it’s cut pretty deep in places. There’s not much level space beside it. And what there is floods every winter.”

  “I don’t suppose the train would run then. And it may not need all that much space; how much, do you think?”

  “Well, I believe fifteen inch is the minimum gauge for a light railway. You’d need a bit more for the base. And of course three feet or so loading gauge if it’s to be more than a toy.”

  “Yes, but for that you just have to clear obstructions; what’s left can be as rough as you like. Only the middle bears the rails. I don’t know what they cost, but I dare say the whole lot could be less than for a half-decent road.”

  “But you’ve still to allow for at least one engine and carriages. Not to mention an operating crew.”

  “Volunteers. I’ve read about some of these schemes. They all seem to manage with hardly any professionals.”

  “But then it would depend on getting planning permission and heaven knows what else - ”

  “For goodness’ sake! Why all this negative thinking? Don’t squash the idea before it’s started. See what the obstacles really are before you give up.”

  “Well, it certainly deserves thinking about. Let’s see what Ned has to say.”

  Ned, when he returned, had other things on his mind. Enough rocks had been shifted to show that as Frazer had hoped, the fall had been limited; most of the cave was clear. Moreover, a slight water seepage near the mouth suggested that the fallen rock might have been locally weakened, although the rest would have to be checked for soundness.

  “And then?”

  “We’ll need to check the condition of the drawings. Perhaps clear away dust. Probably get better photographs, record precise positions. Possibly take pigment samples – I don’t know. It’s up to McCulloch.”

  Thelma waited until after the meal before mentioning her idea. After his initial surprise, Ned thought it interesting, although he too was doubtful from the start. “Heaven knows what a proper survey would cost, but I suppose we could try walking a possible route. Even then … the ones I’ve seen … I don’t know of any railway in this sort of terrain. One is in a hilly area, true enough, but the actual route is practically flat. And it didn’t start from scratch – there was a line of some kind before. There’s no comparison.”

  McCulloch, who had been reporting progress to his wife, came in at that point. “Comparison with what?”

  “Thelma’s had an idea of running a light railway line up to the cave, but I was telling her it would be impractical.”

  “I should think so too. What on earth for?”

  “To take tourists.”

  “Tourists!? Good grief, we can’t have that. Think of the trouble at Lascaux. No, it’ll have to be strictly controlled visits by serious scientists only.”

  “Supposing the drawings are proved authentic.”

  “And if they aren’t, who’ll be interested?”

  “But if they are … It doesn’t bear thinking about. Just imagine - ‘Kilroy was here’ scrawled all over the drawings …”

  “I think he’s a bit out of date.”

  Thelma giggled. “Wouldn’t it be funny if the drawings were deciphered and turned out to mean just that.”

  McCulloch grunted. “We like to think the intention was more serious, but it’s all a matter of conjecture. You could be right, though frankly I don’t see much chance of making out any particular message – if there is one.”

  Next morning, Thelma was very quiet at breakfast and afterwards admitted that she couldn’t face taking another ride up the track to the cave. “And I was pretty useless when I did.”

  No one was tactless enough to agree audibly, or over-eager to contradict her. Then she asked if she might use the telephone, and after a brief conversation, whether I’d run her down to the inn: her car hadn’t yet been retrieved. I was happy enough to do that, though puzzled why.

  That was soon clarified. Closeted with Jack Birtwhistle, she established that he was still interested in attracting tourists. He had already recognised the impracticality of a minibus service, and wasn’t unduly bothered by the objections to invasion of the cave site. “It’ll be much more convenient to have a visitor centre here.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s an unused store room in the village hall. It’d need clearing out, of course, but that’s something we ought to have done long ago in any case.”

  “May we have a look?”

  “If you don’t mind doing it by yourselves. I’ve got the accountant coming tomorrow, and it’s always a nightmare sorting things out for her. By the way, there’s no light in there; have you a torch?”

  “In the car.”

  Fortunately Jack kept the key, so there was no trouble getting that. The room in question turned out to be a good deal larger than Thelma had expected; “In fact the whole building seems far too large for such a small community.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t built as a village hall – more a sort of market for the whole area.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought the area could support it.”

  “It didn’t for long. When transport improved it was easier for people in other valleys to go into town. Wider choice, too. Still, the building was too good to waste.”

  “Of course.”

  I was swinging the torch around to get an idea of what would need to be done, when the beam passed over something that caught Thelma’s eye. “Just a moment; what’s
that?”

  When I found it again, it turned out to be a rather rough picture frame on what looked, from the portion immediately visible, as though it might be a portrait. “That looks interesting. Can you get it out?”

  Even reaching it amid the clutter was quite tricky, especially in the very limited light, and separating it from obstructions even more so, but after overcoming a string of obstacles I succeeded. Taken into the daylight, it proved indeed to be a portrait, inexpertly painted, of what nevertheless appeared to be a very pretty girl. “I wonder who she is?”

  There was nothing helpful on the front, but on the back a barely-discernible scrawl could reasonably be interpreted as the name Jennie Hardcastle. “That’s interesting.”

  Thelma wondered why. “That’s the name of a girl who according to the story disgraced herself by suddenly producing an illegitimate child in the middle of some social event. I wonder what it’s doing here?”

  We found Jack all but buried in his business records, but not altogether displeased at having an excuse to set them aside for a moment. He had to think hard, but then recalled that for a long time the picture had hung in the inn, but didn’t go with a redecoration scheme fifteen years or so back and was put in the hall, where again it was eventually discarded.

  “But why was it in the inn?”

  “Apparently Jennie eventually married into the Birtwhistles, I gather one who was thought a rather bohemian type for the times and was more interested in the girl than the scandal. Good for him, I say. He fancied himself a bit as a painter, and that’s one of his efforts. As far as I can make out it was a happy marriage, though there were no more children. But he died fairly young. Jennie had managed to keep in touch with her son, who it seems had done well in the States, and when he heard she’d been widowed he sent money for her to join him. I believe she married again over there. Why the interest? – if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Not at all. My grandmother had one rather like it, professionally painted, possibly the same woman but older; said it had belonged to her great-grandmother. There was a Birtwhistle connection there too, now I come to think of it.” I suspected wishful thinking, but said nothing.

  She asked if she could buy it, but Jack said it was only junk, not worth the cost of a valuation, and she could have it for the trouble of taking it away – though if she felt like leaving a donation to the hall funds it would be welcome. That way, everyone concerned was happy.

  As far as I know, Thelma never did find anything about her husband’s forebears. At least to her own satisfaction, however, she was more than compensated by having found one of her own.

  Return to Contents

  EPILOGUE

  Henri Antoine Philippe Alexandre Dominic Eustache Louis Amalric de Saint-Hilaire, Comte de Soissons (Henri to his friends), sat contentedly gazing across the strait at the fortified islet a kilometre or so off the coast. He loved this time of evening with the western sky fading to blue-green, and the few clouds outlined in a blaze of golden light. It fell almost horizontally on the castle, picking out its structural details in sharp relief. Despite deploring the voracity of the Venetians in plundering the eastern Mediterranean, he greatly admired their remarkable talent for combining military efficiency in their fortresses with architectural aesthetic. This was one of his favourite spots.

  His companion stirred slightly. “When did you say he was coming?”

  “Patience, Gaston. We aren’t privileged to see into the future. We only know that barring a miracle, as a sceptic like you undoubtedly would, it can’t be very long.”

  “It doesn’t seem right, just lazing around like this.”

  Henri was amused. “Still not used to lotus-eating, Gaston?”

  “I doubt if I ever shall be.”

  “Just remember, there’s no need to hurry over anything. We’ve all the time in the world - if that’s the right phrase.”

  That clearly left Gaston some minutes to consider what was really worrying him. “I suppose it’s because I don’t like leaving Marie for so long. It’s been a bit of a shock to her, first coming here, and then finding she was to meet -”

  “He isn’t so very frightening, is he?”

  “Not to us. Marie didn’t have so much to do with him.”

  “You had a lot more than any of us. Couldn’t you reassure her?”

  “Somehow, words don’t seem to help.”

  Henri nodded. “Men’s words don’t. You needn’t worry, though. Elizabeth is quite capable of looking after her. If I know anything, they’ll be completely lost in an orgy of women’s talk. You’re well out of it.”

  It was a point well made. Gaston stretched and laughed. “You’re probably right. She always did enjoy a good chin-wag. I must say, it is pleasant not to have to rush over everything. The farm didn’t leave much time for simply enjoying life.”

  “I doubt if you’d have preferred idleness.”

  “Probably not. But a little more leisure wouldn’t have come amiss. Oh, I’m not complaining. Compared with some, we were extraordinarily lucky. Things could very easily have been a lot harder. The farm gave us a pretty reliable livelihood. And we were certainly lucky to get it. We’d never have been able to buy the place without Louis’s gift.”

  “Not a gift, Gaston. A reward for services rendered. That ring had been in the family since Guy de Lusignan, and goodness knows how many generations before. He’d have hated to lose it. That was why I left it in your care.”

  “A bit of a risk, wasn’t it?”

  “Not half as much as any alternative. As I said, you looked a reliable type.”

  “How could you tell that in just a glance? I still don’t know what made you say it. Though if you hadn’t, I’d probably have sold the thing straight away.”

  “Exactly. Showing people you trust them often pays off.”

  Gaston pondered for a moment. “There’s another thing. I was staggered when Louis traced me - scared, too. I never mentioned where I was lodging, and I was pretty sure no one ever followed me there.”

  “A good thing, too. Lopping so many aristocratic heads, and then Robespierre’s and a score of his pals’, might have made you rather less than popular in several quarters.”

  “Yes, that’s right. But do you know how Louis managed it? I didn’t think to ask him then - too relieved that he wasn’t after revenge - and the time has never seemed right since.”

  “Pure coincidence, I believe. He ordered a desk from your father-in-law, and asked for the same design to be worked on the front. I imagine the idea was not to lose it altogether. Young Antoinette happened to be there at the time and recognised it.”

  “Trust her to be sticking her nose in! But very fortunate all round.”

  Henri chuckled. “Old Jacques was pretty fortunate in more ways than one. Having called his daughters Marie and Antoinette might have given ill-disposed people some very nasty ideas in the 1790s. Plenty of people were guillotined for less.”

  “That’s what he thought, too, but it was a bit late to do anything about it by then, beyond using nicknames their playmates had given them.”

  “I shan’t ask what they were. Children’s nicknames tend to be unflattering. But the sun’s setting. Shall we go inside? I fancy a game of chess.”

  They had often played since Gaston’s arrival, or rather, Henri had been teaching him the game. For all either of them knew, Gaston might quite possibly have been adept in his youth, but all his earlier memories had been blacked out by a blow on the head. However it might have been, he picked up the rules and conventions quickly and by now could pose a fairly satisfying challenge. They were both deeply engrossed when Miriam came in, and she watched the progress of play for a few minutes before Henri noticed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear, you should have said something.”

  “Not likely! I know how you hate having your concentration suddenly disturbed. No sign of him yet, I gather?”

  “No, he must be hovering longer than
we expected. Can I get you anything while we wait?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just watch your game, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t in the least, but Gaston isn’t used to spectators. It could be unnerving. We’ll adjourn for the time being, if you don’t mind. Want to make a note of your next move, Gaston?”

  “No, thanks. There aren’t many possibilities left anyway. It’ll give me an excuse for losing again.”

  The evening was turning chill, and Henri lit a fire. They settled themselves comfortably around it, and shortly afterwards Marie and Elizabeth joined them, Marie rather shyly taking a place on the sofa next to Gaston. “Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it, old girl?” he said, sneaking an arm round her.

  “I’m all right now. But a bit sleepy.”

  Henri assured her that no one would be at all offended if she nodded off. “We’re all friends here. Make yourself easy. It looks as though there’s been a delay; we may have a longer wait than I thought.”

  The twilight had faded, and the room was filled with a warm glow. “Nothing like an open fire to cheer the place up,” said Miriam.

  Henri commented that there hadn’t been much choice in his day, and he never did take kindly to new-fangled ideas. But perhaps he should light a lamp or two? No one wanted it. Then a more serious thought struck him. “Coming here and meeting us will be sure to seem very strange to him, and the first recognition may well be really alarming. Didn’t you find it so, Marie?”

  “Well, it wasn’t quite what I expected.”

  “So you did expect something, then? Gaston didn’t.”

  Marie laughed. “Oh, he was always a hardened old cynic. What was it you used to say? ‘Expect nothing, and you won’t be disappointed,’ wasn’t it?”

  “Something like that. But what were you going to say, Henri?”

  Henri explained that since their guest might well have difficulty in accepting a situation that in any case he would find scarcely credible, seeing Miriam among them in the first instance might well make explanation even harder. It would be better to get over one possible problem at a time. On the other hand, having her walk in on the gathering would be altogether too dramatic. Would she mind staying in the shadows until the first hurdle was negotiated, and then present herself as seemed best at the time? Miriam didn’t mind at all; anything to make things easier. And so they waited, quietly chatting of nothing in particular, until there was a knock on the door, Henri called “Entrez!” and Eric appeared.

  Henri bustled around the introductions. “Delighted you’ve come, Eric. You know Gaston and Marie, of course. And myself. But you’ve never met my wife. Elizabeth dear, this is Eric, our author.”

  Eric was nonplussed. “I’m sorry. I … Forgive me if this seems stupid, but I don’t remember meeting any of you before.”

  Henri laughed. “Silly of me. I was forgetting. You never saw us in the flesh, as it were, did you? At most a verbal description, and not very much of that. But I’m afraid you’ve only yourself to blame there; it was you who called us into being, and all we have is what you wrote.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t expect you to, straight away. It’s a possibility I don’t suppose you’ve ever even considered. Your friends would probably think you mad if you did, at least if you took it seriously. But in fact we’re from a story you wrote. Remember ‘The Gift’? You used to say your characters sometimes seemed to take on a life of their own. That’s exactly what did happen.”

  Eric evidently was not taking in the idea, so Henri sat him down comfortably and poured wine for all before starting the introductions afresh. “Just make yourself at home, Eric. In case you’ve forgotten, Gaston was the revolutionary executioner and Marie his wife. I’m Henri, Comte de Soissons, one of those who got the chop, if you’ll excuse that inelegant but convenient expression. And as you’ve only newly arrived I shan’t take you to task just yet for neglecting to provide me with a wife. I had to rustle up Elizabeth myself. But I don’t think I did too badly there without your help. Louis, my nephew, hasn’t shown up yet, but then he was always a bit vague. Oh, I nearly forgot: Hortense, Gaston’s friend in Marseille, couldn’t be here this evening but asked us to give you her very warm regards.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Well, if you don’t know, how could anyone else?”

  Eric sat down with his wine, shaking his head in bewilderment. He took a sip - “Is it to your taste, Eric? There’s quite a selection if you’d prefer something else.”

  “It’s very good, thank you, your - er … I’m sorry, what is the correct form of address?”

  “Oh, never mind about that. Just call me Henri. Everyone else does. We’re quite informal.”

  The wine was indeed good, and Eric thought it best to take his time over it while trying to digest what he had been told. One question occurred to him immediately; what about the characters in his other stories? Where were they? Henri hadn’t thought of that, but explained that they knew only their own tale. If there were others, they didn’t overlap, although occasionally they wondered about the possibility, when for instance a book fell off a shelf for no apparent reason, or there was an indefinable feeling of some invisible presence in the room.

  There was a pause, and partly to avoid an awkward silence, but mostly from real curiosity, Gaston had a question for him. He had mulled it over for some time, wondering whether it was proper to ask, but eventually decided he might as well. “Eric, pardon my asking, but there’s something I’ve been wondering about for years.”

  “Yes?”

  “What was I before my loss of memory?”

  “I’ve no idea. I never gave it much thought. And I don’t suppose I could do it retrospectively, as it were.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t see that there was any rule against it, and not being directly beholden to Eric like the others, allowed herself the indulgence of half-seriously rebuking his previous laziness in leaving Gaston with only half a life. “Well then, let’s see. Hmm. You were born into a merchant family in Toulouse in 1758, the second of two sons, but they all moved to Grasse in ‘65 and took an interest in the perfume trade. You grew up into a bit of a rake, but in time you settled down and joined the firm. You had taken samples to dealers in Avignon and Marseille and meant to return by sea when you were set upon by footpads in the docks. Hortense’s militiaman friend disturbed them before they could find your hidden cash reserve, and the rest you know. How about that?”

  Gaston laughed. “That’ll do fine for the time being, thank you. I may come back for more detail later.”

  Eric’s glass was empty, and he declined a refill. “Actually, I’m feeling rather tired.”

  Henri was apologetic. “Of course, how thoughtless of me. You’ve had a long and difficult journey. Cancer, wasn’t it? A very exhausting way to die. I really can’t thank you enough for providing me with such a painless exit in the story. Couldn’t have asked for better. But now you must rest. Miriam will show you to your room.”

  “Miriam? You mean she’s here?”

  “Of course. She’s been waiting for you. For quite a long time.”

  The possibility of meeting her was something that had not occurred to Eric, and he was silent as Miriam quietly took his arm and guided him to the room they were to share. Then he tried to tell her how he had cursed himself for treating her so badly, but she calmly hushed him. “No need for that. We understand here. Everything’s forgiven.”

  “But I’m such a selfish bastard.”

  “No you aren’t.”

  “Underneath, I am. The real me, I mean, not the pretence I’ve put up over so many years.”

  “Look, everyone has selfish instincts. They don’t matter. Which is the real you? The selfish bastard, or the kind, considerate man you turned yourself into?”

  “The selfish bastard, I’d have thought.”

  “Oh. Well, look at it this way: which is the real Chippendale
table, the finished product, or the raw timber he started with?”

  “Hmm. But what if it’s only veneer, not solid wood?”

  “Then for all practical purposes, it’s at least as useful.”

  True or not, it was some comfort. He might as well try to live up to it - if “live” was the right word. “Marie seemed very quiet. Is there a problem there?”

  “Not that I know. She only arrived today, rather shaken. A nasty death, I gather, but Elizabeth’s been looking after her.”

  “Quite a coincidence, she and I both dying the same day.”

  “Not really. They were linked in some way. She couldn’t outlive you. Although the times here and on Earth don’t always directly correspond - I don’t understand how it works in any particular instance.”

  Eric remembered having written that Gaston didn’t believe in an afterlife and would think it an unwarrantable imposition to have one thrust upon him. How had he taken it? “Rather startled at first, but he soon settled down. Henri really helped there. They get on like a house on fire.”

  “A strange friendship, that.”

  “Not altogether. Henri’s no snob. He says he used to have more sensible talks with his coachman than with most of his own class.”

  “No, I meant in Gaston’s having executed him.”

  “Oh, that didn’t bother him. He told you he was glad of a quick death, and as far as I can see he really meant it. In any case, Gaston was only doing his job. It wasn’t his decision.”

  That reminded Eric of the men who did make such decisions. It suddenly struck him that although Robespierre had been mentioned in his story, there had been no sign of him that evening. Was he another temporary absentee? “Robespierre? Oh no, he won’t be coming. He couldn’t.”

  “Why not? And how can you be so sure?”

  “Because he was a real person - a matter of history. Whatever happened to him is nothing to do with you. He’ll be in heaven or hell, and as you used to say, you can’t be in two places at once.”

  Eric thought over this for a while, and was still puzzled. “Where are we, then?”

  “I don’t know what you’d call it; some sort of shadow land, I suppose. Hades, or Sheol. This particular bit of it seems to be based on Henri’s picture of Nauplion in the Peloponnese. His family had a villa there, before it fell to the Ottomans.”

  “What I really meant was why aren’t we in heaven or hell, too?”

  Miriam snuggled up to him. “Haven’t you cottoned on yet?”

  “To what?”

  “Henri more or less told you, Elizabeth is an invention of his own. He and the others are ghosts of characters in one of your stories. So … “

  “So what?”

  “Oh dear. You never used to be so dense. Don’t you see? We’re the ghosts of people in a story someone else has written.”

  “Good lord! That surely can’t be true.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well - for a start, Henri and his friends are well aware of being characters in fiction. I’m not.”

  “They probably weren’t before they died.”

  “But we’re dead, too.”

  “You didn’t think of it. Henri made a point of finding out.”

  Eric was silent for a while, considering the situation, until another thought struck him. “Er - supposing all this is so, that Elizabeth is Henri’s creation, and he and the rest are mine, and we’re someone else’s …”

  “Yes?”

  “How far does this chain go back?”

  “Who knows? So far our author hasn’t turned up here, so he may be real. Or maybe not. We just can’t tell yet. Perhaps we never shall. Now for goodness’ sake, shut up and let’s get to sleep.”

  Return to Contents

  THE HAND

  It puzzled him. The hand lay inert at the edge of his field of vision, a withered, fleshless thing, almost like the foot of some great bird except that instead of gracefully curved and pointed talons, it ended in broken and distorted fingernails. He could not understand what it was doing there, nor why he was completely unable to move his head and trace the wrist, arm and shoulder to which it was presumably attached. Or was it? He remembered something of that old horror story, ‘The beast with five fingers’, about the severed but murderously-animated hand sent for reasons he could not recall to someone who must have mortally offended its original owner.

  This hand however showed no such inclination, but rested placidly on the bed cover. Why had he not noticed its arrival? Of course, he had been asleep. Not only asleep, but dreaming, and for once he could remember vividly quite a lot of the dream.

  He was back in his late teens, rejoicing in being allowed to look after a motorcycle belonging to his mate Arthur, who was doing time after an affray in which someone in a rival gang had been all but killed. Obviously he had to make sure it was kept in good running order, and he did so more conscientiously than Arthur would have approved had he known. It gave him an opportunity to impress Janice next door, whom he had fancied for months without the slightest encouragement. Now she almost jumped at the chance when one Saturday he suggested a run out for a bar lunch at a pub he knew in the countryside.

  It was a beautiful spring day, and on the way they stopped in a forested area at a lay-by well screened from the road by trees. Traffic noise was still annoying so they moved further back from it into a small clearing. Janice was amused by a group of chaffinches, evidently used to being fed, loudly demanding their usual tribute, but he had nothing to give them. She found the spare leathers uncomfortably hot in the sun and took off the top; then she practically invited more familiarities than he would have dared to hope.

  That put a good deal more oomph into his riding when, rather later than he had intended, they set off again. He was showing off, and knew it, but over the meal could not resist drinking a little more than he really should, and afterwards riding considerably faster. He knew the road and was confident of negotiating all its hazards. Janice was exhilarated at first and that moved him to show off even more, to the extent that she tried to urge a little caution on him, but he took no notice; none, that is, until a large car pulled out of a side turning directly in front of him. He was thrown into a hedge and came off fairly lightly, but the bike was a write-off. So was Janice.

  That was the dream. In reality Janice had survived, but hopelessly crippled, and spent the remaining dozen years of her life in one institution or another. Technically it was not his fault, but he knew perfectly well that if he had been less reckless, he could at least have mitigated the crash and probably avoided it altogether. The guilt of that knowledge made him by far the most boring driver among his acquaintance, once he had regained the nerve to contemplate driving at all. As for motorcycles, he now abhorred them.

  Nevertheless, something had clicked in his mind when a particularly obnoxious great-nephew, who knew the story and had recently acquired a machine of his own, taunted him with his timidity and offered a derisive bet that he couldn’t even balance the thing now. He was damned if he was going to stand for that sort of cheek, and to the lad’s horrified astonishment accepted the challenge. It was utterly stupid, of course, and he had come to grief; hence all the strapping round his chest, the plaster on his arm and the neck-brace that prevented him from tilting his head forward.

  A female voice interrupted his recollections. “Come along, Mr. Armstrong ...” (what an absurdly inappropriate name in the circumstances!) “... time for your medication.” Why on earth did he have to be bothered with such things? He didn’t need medication. A penalty for his own folly, he supposed however, and tried to comply. At last, as it feebly moved, he recognised that claw-like hand on the bed cover. It was his own.

  Return to Contents

  THE DORIANINE EPISODE

  The Franklin is one of those hotels where guests returning year after year form almost an extended family with the owners. There are delighted greetings for those who despite age have made it yet again,
and anxious enquiries about those who have not, with exchanges of whatever information may be available: old So-and-so has at last popped his clogs, Miss Whatsername is stuck with looking after a senile relative, and no one has heard anything about Professor Whosit - that sort of thing. The circle, although based on past acquaintance, is far from exclusive, readily expanding or replenishing itself by drawing in any stranger showing interest and not obviously unsociable.

  One such was Raymond Travis, a man apparently in his early forties, who made himself thoroughly agreeable to everyone: charming to the elderly ladies, unfashionably deferent to their companions, affable without undue familiarity to the few of more recent vintage, pleasantly civil to the staff. In fact, as Mabel Arbuthnot commented, for one of his generation he seemed almost too good to be true. Joe Stockard, a notorious cynic, quoted the familiar aphorism about such appearances, and before long, though not quite as he supposed, he was proved right.

  Three days after his arrival, Ray failed to turn up for dinner. Jessie at reception wondered whether to report him missing, but was reluctant to make a fuss about what would most probably turn out to be very little. However, Anne Williams (standing in that evening for the owners) pointed out that if a search had to be started, the sooner before nightfall the better, and the police were duly notified. Someone had heard Ray mention a possible walk to the Coronation Bridge, so that was where the search started, and as dusk approached he was indeed found, stone dead, a little way downstream where he had no obvious business to be. However, it looked as though he might have slipped off the path on the opposite bank at a point where climbing back would be impossible, then waded across the river and collapsed on the negotiable but still steep slope towards the motor road. Appearances, confirmed by the post mortem, suggested a heart attack and there was no suggestion of foul play. In due course a verdict of natural causes was therefore recorded.

  Meanwhile, Anne was concerned that someone in his family, supposing that he had one, ought to be informed. He had not mentioned any relatives or other connections, but his belongings had to be cleared from the room, and so his passport was found with the possibility of an emergency contact. First, though, it presented something of a mystery: the photograph was as clearly his as they ever are, but the date of birth indicated an age incredibly approaching eighty.

  The named contact, his wife Helen, proved difficult to find until she returned from the wedding of a cousin whom, as she said, Ray could not in conscience congratulate on the occasion. That accounted for his presence without her at the Franklin. She, herself a hale seventy-five, looked it and assured investigators that the date in Ray’s passport was indeed correct. The explanation for his youthful appearance was sensational.

  Some years earlier, he had been given the chance to act very unofficially and in strict confidence as a guinea-pig for an unorthodox medical treatment. Highly unorthodox: it involved a compound synthesised for some other purpose but found, through an initially unreported accidental spillage into a batch of animal feed supplement, to increase vitality at the cost of curtailed life. Always keen on physical activity, at seventy-two Ray had begun to feel his age, and the discovery suggested the possibility of concentrating all his remaining vigour to a level approximating to his prime, though with a correspondingly shortened span. The trial was ethically and legally dubious, to say the least, and so was kept secret, but the outcome seemed to have been pretty much as Ray would have wished.

  The news and its implications aroused immense public interest, being enthusiastically welcomed by some, condemned with horror by others. Helen herself mourned her bereavement, about a year earlier than she had been led to expect although she recognised that in the absence of comparable experience the estimate must at best be very rough, and in any case the circumstances had been unforeseeable. Nevertheless, the couple had been spared his possibly protracted decline into decrepitude and her having to watch it, with the consequent anxiety, trouble and inconvenience all round.

  Questions were of course asked in Parliament. In the first instance, what was the legal position in relation to this unlicensed, uncontrolled and unsupervised trial of a revolutionary treatment? Health Ministry officials were looking into it, although it was difficult in the first instance to see what offence, if any, might have been committed. More interestingly, what were the likely economic implications if, after due investigation, the treatment were widely adopted? The direct cost was uncertain: the drug used (provisionally named Dorianine) had been expensive to synthesise although there would no doubt be substantial economies of scale in routine manufacture even if no better process were found. On the other hand, the costs of medical and social care would be substantially reduced, as presumably would be those of retirement pension payments - very much so, it seemed. How would such savings be apportioned between the departments concerned? That would be a matter for future consideration if and when the situation actually arose. What about the ethical position? Ethics were outside the purview of the Government - sardonic laughter from the Opposition benches.

  This aspect was of course extensively debated in the churches. The more pragmatic enthusiastically welcomed the development, apart from some qualms about the premature loss of wisdom and experience. Even among those stricter on doctrine the general view came to be that the sanctity of life applied to its quality as much as its duration, and what might be lost on the one hand would be amply compensated on the other; that principle was already widely accepted as justification for high doses of opiates in pain relief, and unlike those the proposed new treatment offered an actual enhancement of life while it lasted. Fundamentalists who rejected any interference with the natural process of ageing were widely regarded in this case as mere eccentrics, harmless so long as they refrained from forcing their opinions on others.

  The snag was that the drug could not be licensed without exhaustive trials that in the nature of the case might take years longer than usual, especially in the clinical stages; no regular pharmaceutical company was ready in the current financial climate to take them on, especially in view of threats from the more fanatical fundamentalists to prevent or sabotage them by every means within their power. Then someone pointed out the vast number of dog- and cat-owners sadly observing the painful decline of their elderly pets or reluctantly having them put down; there was a market to which there could surely be no ethical objection.

  That proved slightly optimistic, but objections were few and quickly dismissed. Besides the normal commercial benefits in exploiting Dorianine, there would be other major advantages over conventional testing. Widespread use would generate vastly more information over a broader range of conditions than could laboratory trials, admittedly uncontrolled but much more realistic and susceptible to statistical analysis; the cost to the manufacturer would be minimal or negative; and very significantly, the animal rights enthusiasts could have no logical cause for protest, though the lack might not deter the less rational among them.

  As a concession to the Veterinary Association, concerned about the financial impact on its members, it was agreed under protest that sales should not be over-the-counter but only through those members’ practices; as a quid pro quo, these were required to provide accurate records of the outcome. Also, on the insistence of the Department of Health, packets should be prominently marked “NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION.” This requirement was accepted quite happily, since without impossibly rigorous enforcement no one was likely to take much notice of it. Furthermore, on the advice of company lawyers, there was a more discreet (not to say barely legible) notice to the effect that the product was untested and purchasers employed it entirely at their own risk; the manufacturer accepted no responsibility whatsoever for any untoward consequences.

  Nevertheless, when a burglar took a massive stolen overdose and burnt himself out in a frenzy of hyperactivity, his widow sued for damages on the grounds that he was not a purchaser and so the disclaimer did not apply. Although the case went before a judge notorious for taking the most p
erverse interpretation of any principle cited, it was thrown out on the grounds that whatever might be the merits of this argument, it was irrelevant: as the defence pointed out, the plaintiff had not suggested that her husband was sub-human and so an eligible patient under the terms of sale. Her counsel was later overheard regretting that he had not thought of trying that one, since from what he had known of the man, it might if skilfully presented have stood a chance of being accepted; not quite enough, however, for him to recommend an appeal.

  This was a fairly trivial case, except for the burglar’s family. The serious impact of Dorianine, recognised after a delay explicable only on the principle that there are none so blind as those who don’t want to see, was on sport. The drug was detectable in blood tests, but they were not very sensitive, and for long before its discovery gradual increases in the levels of performance had been accepted as normal; if Dorianine was indeed being taken to gain an advantage, doses were kept for a time below the detection limit, and the possibility was managed by the simple expedient of ignoring it. Inevitably, however, one miscreant eventually went too far and something had to be done about it.

  The first consequence was that all sports depending essentially on muscle power rather than skill came under grave suspicion. It appeared to rule out athletics wherever anything substantial stood on the outcome of a contest, until someone suggested a modification to the objectives: instead of competing for the fastest completion of a race, the longest throw of a projectile or the greatest extent of a leap, the criterion should be closeness to a target score within the capacity of anyone in the upper flights of the activity. This was accepted for a trial period; however, it reduced entertainment for spectators to the level of crown-green bowling, no one wanted the television rights, and simply on economic grounds the whole range of events was dropped from any occasion requiring serious expenditure, most notably the Olympics. In fact the movement ceased to be financially viable, and after bankrupting the city that had years before won the right to hold the last series, its public embodiment was given the equivalent of an honourable funeral, although something of the sort persisted as an inconspicuous private competition.

  It was the life-shortening aspect of concentrating vitality that interested the insurance companies, and litigation soon established the validity of a new condition in life policies that pay-outs unrelated to investment would be made only in verifiable cases of relevant injury or other unforeseeable cause.

  Meanwhile a more serious problem had arisen. Dorianine was expensive to make even before the price mark-up at each stage along the retail chain, and so in practice was available only to the relatively wealthy: since it was ostensibly intended for veterinary use only, it could not be supplied under public health schemes, in which administrators already cash-strapped were determined to keep it that way despite arguments that in the long run it would probably save more than it cost. The prospect was therefore of a sharp social division in which the need for geriatric care and support would be concentrated even more than usual among those least able to afford it.

  Once this was generally realised, a furious protest movement built up. One strand, predictably, urged that what was not available to all should be available to none, and took the argument to its logical conclusion in attacks on the production laboratories. They had been foreseen and were mostly repelled with little loss of capacity, but inevitably a further rise in the cost to cover extra security measures. A more civilised suggestion, that the price should be raised enough to cover a free distribution to the poor, ran into two overwhelming difficulties: the numerical proportions meant that the price increase would be astronomical, and the very idea undermined the fiction on which the market was built.

  Some relief came with the discovery of a compound easily converted to Dorianine in a species fairly common in tropical rain forests. However, it failed to resolve the issue since the demographic boundary between those who could or could not afford the treatment was merely shifted downwards. Moreover it intensified arguments over the ethics of despoiling an important natural habitat for the sake of predominantly urban populations in other continents.

  Guests at the Franklin were invariably on the comfortable side of the boundary, though not all chose to take advantage of the fact. There was a fair amount of good-natured chaffing between those who did and others who preferred to let nature take its course, if only on the grounds that there wasn’t enough vitality left to be worth concentrating into a few remaining years or months. As time went by, the nature and tone of the chaffing gradually changed with the “takers” becoming more concerned about how little time they might have left while the slow decline of the “abstainers” often looked as though it could still go on for years before becoming critical. The issue was brought into focus when someone suggested a special dinner to mark the tenth anniversary of Ray Travis’s death, and Anne Williams pointed out with more sense than tact that for several of those interested even a fifth anniversary might be optimistic; if that was what guests wanted, planning needed to be fairly urgent.

  The same kind of doubt had arisen wherever those who had opted for Dorianine treatment began to wonder just how much they were sacrificing in sheer duration; its value was increasingly appreciated as the remaining span of life, whatever it might be, was inexorably eroded. Intense interest was therefore aroused by the discovery that much to the surprise of sceptics, an elaborate statistical analysis on data gathered for another purpose showed an unexplained and very complicated but roughly consistent correlation between the values on the time-chart of a dozen physiological variables and the point at which it came to a natural end. Moreover, it turned out to apply whether or not the patient was taking Dorianine, as its effects on some variables were compensated in others.

  The sceptics were not defeated yet, of course, and argued that with no discernible logical connection between these variables, the Taylor correlation (so called from its discoverer) could really be no more than a highly improbable but not impossible coincidence. What eventually convinced many was the observation that for those who took up Dorianine treatment well into the course of measurements, the plots changed direction in the right sense, more or less in the right place and to an extent that increased roughly in line with the dosage.

  There was inevitably a great deal of random scatter in the plots, and with a healthy individual the early readings showed no clear trend. It was a chicken-and-egg situation: for meaningful results the spacing of measurements had to be a considerable fraction of remaining life, while estimating that remainder was the whole object of the exercise. Quite a lot of preliminary measurements were generally needed before even a provisional test schedule could be set up, and they were not cheap. As with Dorianine itself, applying the Taylor correlation was thus confined to the fairly wealthy.

  Nevertheless a new industry now developed with clinics set up especially to measure the Taylor variables. Not all were as meticulous as they should be, and some were fraudulent, so that until a system of regulation and certification was hastily set up a great deal of confusion ensued. These precautions further increased the cost of the measurements, and attempts by some insurance companies to insist on their use backfired as clients went instead to competitors content with actuarial pot luck. There were situations, however, where the likely further endurance of an individual already advanced in years was seriously important to a corporate institution: the Vatican, for instance, set up its own clinic to which it required all cardinals to subscribe, inevitably arousing some ribaldry about white smoke and mirrors.

  The Franklin’s anniversary dinner came not long after the start of all these developments. Several of those attending had taken an active interest, and there was much comparing of preliminary results which, as Joe Stockard hardly needed to point out, looked pretty meaningless. Mabel Arbuthnot’s, for instance, could be interpreted as suggesting a further twelve years for her, but with an uncertainty of at least as much either way, and that was a good deal more precise than most. J
oe himself, of course, was generally assumed to have dismissed the whole concept as worthless, as had indeed been his inclination. However, in seeking evidence to back it, he had undertaken a course of measurements at a clinic run by an acquaintance he trusted, and it so far proved more than usually consistent with a fairly clear line that looked like ending between ten and twenty years on. He was honest enough to admit that it had shaken him. Harry Armitage, who followed the horses, suggested opening a book on the outcome, but by general consent it was ruled out as distasteful if not actually illegal. The doubtful prospect of the winner’s being around to collect might have been a factor, too.

  One guest who had taken no part in all this discussion was Grace Jenkins. Later that evening Anne Williams, on her round to check security and lights out, found her quietly weeping in a corner of the lounge and took her off to her own private sitting room. The story, reluctantly confided, was that Grace’s own Taylor plot was unusually clear and indicated death within the next year or so. That in itself was no great cause for distress as she had made a point of being always as ready for it as anyone can be; her concern was for an invalid cousin who relied on her for everything beyond basic care. In particular there was a wayward grandson whose antics would have driven Monica insane with worry if Grace had not been able to intercept nearly all of his communications. The few that did get through her defences, when an unexpectedly substituted carer had been on duty, had caused more trouble than enough.

  Fortunately his earlier history in this country had made it too hot for him to risk a visit in the past twenty years, but the last letter had suggested that he was getting desperate enough to run the gauntlet. What, Grace wondered, might happen if she were not there to fend him off?

  “This is too much for you to handle by yourself,” Anne urged her. “You’ve plenty of friends here; they’d be glad to help.”

  “I couldn’t drag them into it,” Grace protested. “It’s none of their business.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind making it theirs. Why don’t I explain the situation to - say - Colonel Morgan and one or two others I can rely on for discretion? Just to get their advice, for a start.” To that, Grace eventually consented. Privately she was immensely relieved.

  Told of the situation, Morgan and his particular cronies immediately agreed that something had to be done, apart from anything else to put a bit of real purpose into what was left of their lives. What it might be depended on the details of the situation, so they had a long session with Grace to gather what information they could. She had the grandson’s latest letter with her, to make sure that it didn’t get into Monica’s hands, and as Morgan had expected it demanded money with vague but alarming hints of unpleasantness if it were not provided. Leaving it to the police seemed altogether too tame for the coterie once they had the bit between their collective teeth, and they suggested that Grace write back with a suitable show of reluctant preparedness to consider his demands and asking how he proposed to negotiate.

  One thing immediately decided was that the encounter had to be on their own territory. If Euan didn’t like it, he could lump it; otherwise, no money. Of course he would smell a rat - “Takes one to know one,” quipped Colin MacPherson - and they would have to think of some way to reassure him until he was within their grasp. How they should deal with him afterwards could be considered later.

  In the event he was surprisingly amenable to Grace’s insistence that she was not going to risk upsetting Monica by having him in her home, and had the decency to make no pretence of family affection towards his grandmother. (His story, that they were scarcely acquainted since his long-dead mother had been estranged from her, was according to Grace quite possibly true.) Neither did he raise any objections to Morgan’s negotiating on her behalf.

  Morgan returned from the first meeting in a strangely subdued and puzzled state. Getting the reason out of him took some time, but with great embarrassment he brought himself to admit that he couldn’t help liking the man, or at least sympathising. Euan Morris had proved to be a quiet, inoffensive character, apologising profusely for the tone of his letter to Monica but explaining that after all his previous pleas had failed he could think of no other way to get a hearing. His wife urgently needed an operation unavailable in the backward country where he had taken refuge, and the funds he wanted were to have it done in one better equipped.

  As for the particularly nasty murder that had caused him to flee abroad, he claimed to have had no connection with it, but evidence against him had been planted in such a way that he saw no way to defend himself, especially since he did have a record of offences as a juvenile involving some fairly trivial violence. It was only for Alice’s sake that he had risked returning. All this was just the sort of tale that might have been expected, as MacPherson was quick to point out, but Morgan was reluctant to dismiss it altogether; Grace trusted his judgement and was inclined to give Euan the benefit of the doubt.

  Moreover, Morgan’s brother had connections with the police and made some discreet enquiries about Euan’s supposed crime. It turned out that the evidence against him had been so lavish as to arouse suspicion of itself, and the not unduly bright thug with the most likely access to it had a reputation for exceptional viciousness. He himself had died in an inter-gang brawl before enquiries could be altogether completed, but the case was considered closed.

  Thus there was no reason for Euan’s continued exile. Grace had to explain the essentials of the situation to Monica, who still felt some responsibility for the quarrel with her daughter and was glad of the opportunity for belated recompense. Morgan felt that Euan shouldn’t get off too lightly for the distress he had caused, and in consultation with Grace proposed a condition that supposing Alice’s treatment to prove successful, the couple should be charged with taking over the care of Monica’s affairs when Grace was no longer in a position to deal with them. They needed accommodation anyway, the house was far too big for Monica alone and needed extensive maintenance largely within Euan’s capability, and a mutually acceptable arrangement was soon worked out, albeit with a supervisory role for Monica’s solicitor to allay lingering doubts about the couple’s reliability.

  Over a celebratory drink or three in the Franklin bar on their next visit, Tim Finlay, Morgan and MacPherson congratulated each other on a project satisfactorily completed. However, Finlay put a finger on a vague unease that it turned out they had all felt about their exploit without identifying. Something was missing: it had all been too easy, with none of the melodramatic element that they had expected. After a taste of intrigue, they hankered after one with a bit more spice, but what it might be eluded them. At the end of the evening, when Anne came in on her round, they explained their problem and asked if she had any suggestions.

  “You really want my honest opinion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then to put it bluntly, it’s about time you grew up.”

  “What?”

  “Forget the comic book stuff. Look, you took on a tricky job and it turned out well – because it wasn’t quite what you thought. Otherwise, from what I’ve heard, there could have been real trouble. You had a stroke of luck; don’t push it.”

  “You mean we should go back to being useless nonentities?”

  “Not at all. Between you, you’ve loads of experience that could be useful to other people. But going around in shining armour’s a bit passé. There are plenty of organisations that would be glad of straightforward help. Less exciting than the John Buchan stuff, but probably a lot more constructive.”

  At a gathering of fellow-hoteliers some weeks later, Anne mentioned the story in outline as an alarming lapse from common sense on the part of people who ought to have known better. She was then regaled with several other tales of geriatric hubris that had actually met or narrowly escaped some form of nemesis, for instance a bunch of rock-climbers rescued from a pitch way beyond their capabilities, the superannuated opera singer who made a complete fool of herself at the Welsh Natio
nal Eisteddfod, and a retired judge who escaped trial for attempted rape only through remarkable forbearance shown by the object of his desires. It apparently wasn’t his only transgression; there were also rumours that the comely barrister, appointed in a misplaced assertion of feminine equality to defend him on the lesser charge of harassment, had practically to fight him off, but that was probably an exaggeration.

  The manager of the Grand Hotel commented that the pattern seemed to be more widespread. One of his guests, in the insurance business, had been worried by an unusual spate of accident claims among the elderly at a national level. It was serious enough for claimants to be circularised by an independent polling organisation with a request to complete, anonymously, a questionnaire on lifestyle habits and medical status. Some, understandably, were suspicious and failed to respond, or simply couldn’t be bothered; what stood out among those who did was the proportion, enough to account for the excess over previous experience, who were undergoing Dorianine treatment.

  Thus alerted, the Department of Health set up a series of tests that showed a pattern of substantially impaired judgement in Dorianine patients. A move in Parliament to have the drug banned from human use ran into the realisation that it already was, supposedly; a proposal for its total withdrawal ran into such opposition from legitimate veterinary users that it was quickly abandoned.

  However, the insurance industry, forced to take action in its own defence, collectively imposed a policy condition that testing positive for Dorianine would automatically disqualify any claim where the claimant’s initial action or reaction to circumstances was a significant factor. The initial response was slow, for reasons that should have been foreseen: most of the users insisted, against all the urging of their kin, that they were very unlikely to make such a claim, and so carried on regardless. When reality came home to them, one way or another, the market shrank so far that unit costs rose too high for most genuine veterinary clients to afford the treatment, and production ceased.