‘I think you’re right,’ I said. I led the way back to the window of our own cubicle and was about to pull it open when some instinct—or perhaps it was because I was now subconsciously looking for the suspicious or untoward in every possible situation—made me shine my torch on the window-frame. I turned to Smithy. ‘Notice something?’
‘I notice something. The wad of paper we left jammed between the window and frame—well, it’s no longer jammed between window and frame.’ He shone his torch on the ground, stopped and picked something up. ‘Because it was lying down there. A caller or callers.’
‘So it would seem.’ We clambered inside, and while Smithy started screwing the window back in place I turned up the oil lamp and started to look around partly for some other evidence to show that an intruder had been there, but mainly to try to discover the reason for his being there. Inevitably, my first check was on the medical equipment, and my first check was my last, and very brief it was too.
‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘Two birds with one stone. We’re a brilliant pair.’
‘We are?’
‘The lad you saw with his face pressed against that window. Probably had it stuck against it for all of five minutes until he’d made sure he’d been seen. Then, to make certain you were really interested, he went and shone his torch into Judith Haynes’s window. No two actions, he must have calculated, could have been designed to lure us out into the open more quickly.’
‘He was right at that, wasn’t he?’ He looked at my opened medical kit and said carefully: ‘I’m to take it, then, that there’s something missing there?’
‘You may so take it.’ I showed him the velvet- lined gap in the tray where the something missing had been. ‘A lethal dose of morphine.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Four bells and all’s well,’ Smithy said, shaking my shoulder. Neither the call nor the shake was necessary. I was by this time, even in my sleep, in so keyed-up a state that his turning of the door-handle had been enough to have me instantly awake. ‘Time to report to the bridge. We’ve made some fresh coffee.’
I followed him into the main cabin, said a greeting to Conrad who was bent over pots and cups at the oil stove, and went to the front door. To my surprise the wind, now fully round to the west, had dropped away to something of not more than the order of a Force 3, the snow had thinned to the extent that it promised to cease altogether pretty soon, and I even imagined I could see a few faint stars in a clear patch of sky to the south, beyond the entrance of the Sor-hamna. But the cold, if anything, was even more intense than it had been earlier in the night. I closed the door quickly, turned to Smithy and spoke softly.
‘You’re very encouraging,’ Smithy said. ‘What makes you so sure that those five—’ He broke off as Luke, yawning and stretching vastly, entered the main cabin. Luke was a thin, awkward, gangling creature, a tow-headed youth urgently in need of the restraining influences of either a barber or a ribbon.
I said: ‘Do you see him as a gun for hire?’
‘I could have him up for committing musical atrocities with a guitar, I should think. Otherwise— yes, I guess. Very little threat to life and limb. And, yes again, that would go for the other four too.’ He watched as Conrad went into one of the passages, carrying a cup of coffee. ‘I’d put my money on our leading man any day.’
‘Where on earth is he off to?’
‘Bearing sustenance for his lady-love, I should imagine. Miss Stuart spent much of our watch with us.’
I was on the point of observing that the alleged lady-love had a remarkable predilection for moving around in the darker watches of the night but thought better of it. That Mary Stuart was involved in matters dark and devious—Heissman’s being her uncle didn’t even begin to account for the earlier oddity of her behaviour—I didn’t for a moment doubt: that she was engaged in any murderous activities I couldn’t for a moment believe.
Smithy went on: ‘It’s important that I reach Tunheim?’
‘It hardly matters whether you do or not. With Heyter along, only the weather and the terrain can decide that. If you have to turn back, that’s fine with me, I’d rather have you here: if you get to Tunheim, just stay there.’
‘Stay there? How can I stay there? I’m going there for help, am I not? And Heyter will be shouting to come back.’
‘I’m sure they’ll understand if you explain that you’re tired and need a rest. If Heyter makes a noise, have him locked up—I’ll give you a letter to the Met. officer in charge.’
‘You’ll do that, will you? And what if the Met. officer point-blank refuses?’
‘I think you’ll find some people up there who’ll be only too happy to oblige you.’
He looked at me without a great deal of enthusiasm. ‘Friends of yours, of course?’
‘There’s a visiting meteorological team from Britain staying there briefly. Five of them. Only, they’re not meteorologists.’
‘Naturally not.’ The lack of enthusiasm deteriorated into a coldness that was just short of outright hostility. ‘You play your cards mighty close to the chest, don’t you, Dr Marlowe?’
‘Don’t get angry with me. I’m not asking you that, I’m telling you. Policy—I obey orders, even if you don’t. A secret shared is never a secret halved—even a peek at my cards and who knows who’s kibitzing? I’ll give you that letter early this morning.’
‘OK.’ Smithy was obviously restraining himself with no small difficulty. He went on morosely: ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised to find even the Morning Rose up there?’
‘Let me put it this way,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t put it beyond the bounds of possibility.’
Smithy nodded, turned and walked to the oil stove where Conrad, now returned, was pouring coffee. We sat for ten minutes, drinking and talking about nothing much, then Smithy and Conrad left. The next hour or so passed without event except that after five minutes Luke fell sound asleep and stayed that way. I didn’t bother to wake him up, it wasn’t necessary, I was in an almost hypernatural state of alertness: unlike Luke, I had things on my mind.
A door in a passage opened and Lonnie appeared. As Lonnie, by his own account, wasn’t given to sleeping much and as he wasn’t on my list of suspects anyway, this was hardly call for alarm. He came into the cabin and sat heavily in a chair by my side. He looked old and tired and grey and the usual note of badinage was lacking in his tone.
‘Once again the kindly healer,’ he said, ‘and once again looking after his little flock. I have come, my boy, to share your midnight vigil.’
‘It’s twenty-five to four,’ I said.
‘A figure of speech.’ He sighed. ‘I have not slept well. In fact, I have not slept at all. You see before you, Doctor, a troubled old man.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Lonnie.’
‘No tears for Lonnie. For me, as for most of pitiful mankind, my troubles are of my own making. To be an old man is bad enough. To be a lonely old man, and I have been lonely for many years, makes a man sad for much of the time. But to be a lonely old man who can no longer live with his conscience—ah, that is not to be borne.’ He sighed again. ‘I am feeling uncommonly sorry for myself tonight.’
‘What’s your conscience doing now?’
‘It’s keeping me awake, that’s what it’s doing. Ah, my boy, my boy, to cease upon the midnight with no pain. What more could a man want when it’s evening and time to be gone?’
‘This wine-shop on the far shore?’
‘Not even that.’ He shook his head mournfully. ‘No welcoming arms in paradise for the lost Lonnies of this world. Haven’t the right entry qualifications, my boy.’ He smiled and his eyes were sad. ‘I’ll pin my hopes on a small four-ale bar in purgatory.’
He lapsed into silence, his eyes closed and I thought he was drifting off into sleep. But he presently stirred, cleared his throat and said apparently apropos of nothing, ‘It’s always too late. Always.’
‘What’s always too late, Lonnie?’
‘Compassion is, or understanding or forgiveness. I fear that Lonnie Gilbert has been less than he should have been. But it’s always too late. Too late to say I like you or I love you or how nice you are or I forgive you. If only, if only, if only. It is difficult to make your peace with someone if you’re looking at that person and he’s lying there dead. My, my, my.’ As if with an immense effort, he pushed himself to his feet. ‘But there’s still a little shred of something that can be saved. Lonnie Gilbert is now about to go and do something that he should have done many, many years ago. But first I must arm myself, some life in the ancient bones, some clarity in the faded mind, in short, prepare myself for what I’m ashamed to say I still regard as the ordeal that lies ahead. In brief, my dear fellow, where’s the scotch?’
‘I’m afraid Otto has taken it with him.’
‘A kind fellow, Otto, none kinder, but he has his parsimonious side to him. But no matter, the main source of supply is less than a Sunday’s march away.’ He made for the outer door but I stopped him.
‘One of those times, Lonnie, you’re going to go out there, sit down there, go to sleep and not come back again because you’ll be frozen to death. Besides, there’s no need. There’s some in my cubicle. Same source of supply, I assure you. I’ll fetch it. Just keep your eye open in my absence, will you?’
It didn’t matter very much whether he kept his eyes open or not for I was back inside twenty seconds. Smithy, clearly, was a heavier sleeper than I was for he didn’t stir during my brief visit.
Lonnie helped himself copiously, drained his glass in a few gulps, gazed at the bottle longingly then set it firmly aside. ‘Duty completed, I shall return and enjoy this at my leisure. Meantime, I am sufficiently fortified.’
‘Where are you going?’ It was difficult to imagine what pressing task he had on hand at that time of the night.
‘I am in great debt to Miss Haynes. It is my wish—’
‘To Judith Haynes?’ I know I stared at him. ‘It was my understanding that you could with but difficulty look at her.’
‘In great debt,’ he said firmly. ‘It is my wish to discharge it, to clear the books, you might say. You understand?’
‘No. What I do understand is that it’s only three-forty-five. If this business has been outstanding, as you said, for so many years, surely it can wait just another few hours. Besides, Miss Haynes has been sick and shocked and she’s under sedatives. As her doctor, and whether she likes it or not, I am her doctor, I can’t permit it.’
‘And as a doctor, my dear fellow, you should understand the necessity for immediacy. I have worked myself up to this, screwed myself, as it were, to the sticking-point. Another few hours, as you say, and it may be too late. The Lonnie Gilbert you see before you will almost certainly have reverted to the bad old, cowardly old, selfish old, clay-souled Lonnie of yore, the Lonnie we all know so well. And then it will always be too late.’ He paused and switched his argument. ‘Sedatives, you say. How long do the effects of those last?’
‘Varies from person to person. Four hours, six hours, maybe as much as eight.’
‘Well, there you are then. Poor girl’s probably been lying awake for hours, just longing for some company, although not, in all likelihood, that of Lonnie Gilbert. Or has it escaped your attention that close on twelve hours have elapsed since you administered that sedative?’
It had. But what had not escaped my attention was that Lonnie’s relationship vis-à-vis Judith Haynes had been intriguing me considerably for some time. It might, I thought, be very helpful and, with regard to a deeper penetration of the fog of mystery surrounding us, more than a little constructive if I could learn something of the burden of what Lonnie had in mind to say to Judith Haynes. I said: ‘Let me go and see her. If she’s awake and I think she’s fit to talk, then OK.’
He nodded. I went to Judith Haynes’s room and entered without knocking. The oil lamp was turned up and she was awake, stretched out under the covers with only her face showing. She looked ghastly, which was the way I had expected her to look, with the titian hair emphasizing the drawn pallor of her face. The usually striking green eyes were glazed and lack-lustre and her cheeks were smudged and streaked with tears. She looked at me indifferently as I pulled up a stool, then looked as indifferently away.
‘I hope you slept well, Miss Haynes,’ I said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Do you usually come calling on patients in the middle of the night?’ Her voice was as dull as her eyes.
‘I don’t make a practice of it. But we’re taking turns keeping watch tonight, and this happens to be my turn. Is there anything that you want?’
‘No. Have you found out who killed my husband?’ She was so preternaturally calm, under such seemingly iron control, that I suspected it to be the prelude to another uncontrollable hysterical outburst.
‘No. Am I to take it from that, Miss Haynes, that you no longer think that young Allen did?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve been lying here for hours, just thinking, and I don’t think so.’ From the lifeless voice and the lifeless face I was pretty sure she was still under the influence of the sedative. ‘You will get him, won’t you? The man who killed Michael. Michael wasn’t as bad as people thought, Dr Marlowe, no, he really wasn’t.’ For the first time a trace of expression, just the weary suggestion of a smile. ‘I don’t say he was a kind man or a good one or a gentle one, for he wasn’t: but he was the man for me.’
‘I know,’ I said, as if I understood, which I only partially did. ‘I hope we get the man responsible. I think we will. Do you have any ideas that could help?’
‘My ideas are not worth much, Doctor. My mind doesn’t seem to be very clear.’
‘Do you think you could talk for a bit, Miss Haynes? It wouldn’t be too tiring?’
‘I am talking.’
‘Not to me. To Lonnie Gilbert. He seems terribly anxious to speak to you.’
‘Speak to me?’ Tired surprise but not outright rejection of the idea. ‘Why should Lonnie Gilbert wish to speak to me?’
‘I don’t know. Lonnie doesn’t believe in confiding in doctors. All I gather is that he feels that he’s done you some great wrong and he wants to say “sorry”. I think.’
‘Lonnie say “sorry” to me!’ Astonishment had driven the flat hopelessness from her voice. ‘Apologize to me? No, not to me.’ She was silent for a bit, then she said: ‘Yes, I’d very much like to see him now.’
I concealed my own astonishment as best I could, went back to the main cabin, told an equally astonished Lonnie that Judith Haynes was more than prepared to meet him, and watched him as he went along the passage, entered her room and closed the door behind him. I glanced at Luke. He appeared, if anything, to be more soundly asleep than ever, absurdly young to be in this situation, a pleased smile on his face: he was probably dreaming of golden discs. I walked quietly along the passage to Judith Haynes’s room: there was nothing in the Hippocratic oath against doctors listening at closed doors.
It was clear that I was going to have to listen very closely indeed for although the door was only made of bonded ply, the voices in the room were being kept low and I could hear little more than a confused murmur. I dropped to my knees and applied my ear to the keyhole. The audibility factor improved quite remarkably.
‘You!’ Judith Haynes said. There was a catch in her voice. I wouldn’t have believed her capable of any of the more kindly emotions. ‘You! To apologize to me! Of all people, you!’
‘Me, my dear, me. All those years, all those years.’ His voice fell away and I couldn’t catch his next few words. Then he said: ‘Despicable, despicable. For any man to go through life, nurturing the animosity, nay, my dear, the hatred—’ He broke off and there was silence for some moments. He went on: ‘No forgiveness, no forgiveness. I know he can’t—I know he couldn’t have been so bad, or even really bad at all, you loved him and no one can love a person who is bad all through, but even if his sins had been black as the mi
dnight shades—’
‘Lonnie!’ The interruption was sharp, even forceful. ‘I know I wasn’t married to an angel, but I wasn’t married to any devil either.’
‘I know that, my dear, I know that. I was merely saying—’
‘Will you listen! Lonnie, Michael wasn’t in that car that night. Michael was never near that car.’
I strained for the answer but none came. Judith Haynes went on: ‘Neither was I, Lonnie.’
There was a prolonged silence, then Lonnie said in a voice so low that it was a barely heard whisper: ‘That’s not what I was told.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t, Lonnie. My car, yes. But I wasn’t driving it. Michael wasn’t driving it.’
‘But—you won’t deny that my daughters were— well, incapable, that night. And that you were too. And that you made them that way?’
‘I’m not denying anything. We all had too much to drink that night—that’s why I’ve never drunk since, Lonnie. I don’t know who was responsible. All I know is that Michael and I never left the house. Good God, do you think I have to tell you this—now that Michael is dead?’
‘No. No, you don’t. Then—then who was driving your car?’
‘Two other people. Two men.’
‘Two men. And you’ve been protecting them all those years?’
‘Protecting? No, I wouldn’t use the word “protecting”. Except inadvertently. No, I didn’t put that well, I mean—well, any protection given was just incidental to something else we really wanted. Our own selfish ends, I suppose you could call it. Everybody knows well enough that Michael and I—well, we were criminals but we always had an eye on the main chance.’
‘Two men.’ It was almost as if Lonnie hadn’t been listening to a word she’d said. ‘Two men. You must know them.’
Another silence, then she said quietly: ‘Of course.’
Once more an infuriating silence, I even stopped breathing in case I were to miss the next few words. But I wasn’t given the chance either to miss them or to hear them for a harsh and hostile voice behind me said: ‘What in the devil do you think you are doing here, sir?’
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