Then in the same instant she recognized what it was and whose it was.
It was Leo Pasquino’s glass eye.
13
What Song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling Questions, are not beyond all conjecture.
The peat fire had broken open and lay like a war-ravaged landscape in the hearth. Peaks and high ground for the moment retained their brown fibrous life but were gradually being subsumed by the red heat below.
Crow sat before the fire, bent forward, peering deep into it like a troubled general poring over a map. He was perfectly still, but Twinkle lying alongside him caught the deep anxieties which beset his master and raised his head, growling.
Crow quietened him with a movement of his hand, then, dissatisfied broke up the fire once more with an old bronze poker. He seemed to like the new disposition even less than the old and rose from his seat and went to the door. The night was dark with cloud, and the rain which had fallen so heavily earlier was now rising again in curls and wraiths of mist. Crow peered into the darkness with the keen-eyed gaze of a watcher on a sunlit peak. North and east he looked as though uncertain which direction commanded his best attention. Once more he returned and stared down into the fire. Once more he went to the door and peered blindly into the darkness.
Twinkle too was on his feet now, scenting an expedition and eager for it. But Crow touched him gently between the eyes and he subsided, showing his disappointment only by a reproachful drooping of his ears.
‘I must make up my mind, lad,’ said Crow. ‘Why do they tell me nowt? Do they think I read thoughts?’
The idea made him smile and the brief moment of humour helped him to come to his decision. He stepped out into the night, chose his direction and started running.
‘If I had a hammer,’ sang Leo Pasquino.
He really does work at the English eccentric bit, thought Lakenheath disgruntedly. But his real emotional state was still one of mighty relief. It had taken some moments to nerve himself to the point of retrieving his torch and confronting the figure in the cellar once more. This time he quickly took in two reassuring factors previously overlooked. One was that the hands clasped round the boiler pipe were firmly manacled; the second was that what he had taken for some hideous disfigurement of the face was caused partly by a thin piece of cord having been pulled tightly round the mouth and partly by the absence of an eye.
Lakenheath quickly unfastened the gag and if the man’s attempts to scrape his manacles open against the pipe were not sufficient evidence of his fortitude, his first words confirmed it.
‘That’s better. Come along then, quick as you can. The manacles.’
‘What?’
‘I presume you intend to continue with the work you have so ineptly and belatedly begun?’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Lakenheath. ‘No, don’t tell me. The description fits. You must be the absent professor. What’s it, Pagliacci.’
‘Pasquino. And what kind of anonymous creature are you?’
‘My name’s Lakenheath,’ he answered.
This seemed to cause Pasquino some visible amusement.
‘Oh, that’s who you are? Well, well,’ he murmured. ‘And how do you know my name, or almost know it?’
‘I’m a friend of Zeugma’s,’ said Lakenheath, thinking that it was almost true. ‘She brought me here tonight.’
‘She’s not here now?’ said Pasquino, alarmed.
‘Oh no. She’s coming later to pick me up, though.’
‘Is she? Good. Then you’d better get to work on those manacles, hadn’t you?’
A quick search round the room produced some useful finds – a square-ended spanner which performed some function on the boiler door, a couple of loose bricks and a stub of candle which he lit to save the torch. Next he made Pasquino lie very close to the pipe so that the chain could be spread flat on the stone floor and the spanner used as a chisel with a brick as hammer. The archaeologist favoured a more subtle attack on the lock, but when he realized his arguments were going to be ignored, settled instead for a question-answer session punctuated by bursts of song.
Ten minutes later, visible progress had been made on breaching the metal. But, Lakenheath suddenly realized, while he had been pumped dry of information concerning his presence here, little explanation of Pasquino’s much more extraordinary situation had been forthcoming.
He put his feelings into words and Pasquino looked at him with quizzical superiority, rattling his chain as though in hope that it might fall apart. When it didn’t, unexpectedly he laughed.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I daresay ignorance can make you potentially more dangerous than knowledge. But you’ll have to keep quiet, you realize that.’
‘Scout’s honour,’ said Lakenheath.
The other man shook his head.
‘No. I mean you’ll be made to keep quiet.’
‘What? For God’s sake, what are you?’
‘Probably the greatest living archaeologist,’ said the other modestly. ‘Do you think you could go on working while I talk? Thank you. I also do a bit of government work from time to time.’
‘Which government? What kind of work?’ demanded Lakenheath, wrapping his handkerchief round the brick to protect his blistered hand.
‘Oh, your government, mine,’ said Pasquino vaguely. ‘I travel a lot. It’s very expensive. You’d be amazed how much it costs nowadays to maintain even the simplest projects. And the universities and academic grants people are rarely as far-seeing as one would expect. So, as I say, I supplement my resources by doing some government work occasionally.’
‘You mean you’re some kind of spy?’
‘No !’ He was indignant. ‘I have skills. I am perhaps the foremost intuitive reasoner since Newton, I read terrain like a book, I’m an expert at interpreting aerial photographs, I travel widely, I am welcome in ninety per cent of the countries of the world, I meet people. That is all.’
‘So who did you come up here to meet? The Upases?’
‘So,’ said Pasquino. ‘You know about them?’
‘Zeugma said that was where you were staying.’
‘Of course. Well, yes, that was one of the purposes of my visit. I had known them before, or more accurately, known the elder brother, Malcolm. Have you met him?’
‘No. Only Jonathan. When Sayer died.’
‘Yes. That puzzles me,’ said Pasquino. ‘Keep hammering, will you? Tell me, has Zeugma had any contact with them?’
‘Why yes. She met Jonathan as well. And that’s where she is tonight. Having dinner and hoping to meet you.’
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Pasquino, alarmed. ‘Why didn’t you say? Damnation, can’t you get these chains off?’
‘What’s the trouble?’ asked Lakenheath, catching the other’s fear. ‘There’s no danger to Zeugma, is there?’
‘Danger?’ he answered grimly. ‘Where the Upases are, there’s always danger. She’ll be all right as long as Malcolm’s there. He’s a cool head, a businessman. But those other two, they’re something else. Listen, I’d better fill you in completely so you’re under no illusions. Anyway, I suppose you’ve got a right to know.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Lakenheath, alarmed.
Pasquino looked at him with a disturbing kind of sympathy.
‘I’ll start at the beginning. Keep hammering, will you? Speed is of the essence. I first met Upas, Malcolm that is, over ten years ago, in Damascus. He was a friend of one of my friends, an interesting young man, well educated, rich, charming. He seemed to have got the best out of both his heritages. I didn’t see him again until several years later when I was back in the Middle East in Cairo. Zeugma was with me then. Upas appeared, or Hasan as he was calling himself then. The British part of his heritage had become somewhat devalued in Arab eyes in the intervening years and he asked me to stick to his Arab name, which I did. Well, pretty soon he began to get very close to Zeugma and I felt it my d
uty to keep some kind of eye on the situation.’
‘You mean they had an affair?’ asked Lakenheath. ‘And you interfered?’
‘I am her guardian,’ said Pasquino, indignantly. ‘In any case, all my interference consisted of was bringing Upas’s name into a conversation I had with a contact of mine in the Egyptian government. His reaction was sufficient to make me institute further enquiries through other channels.’
‘Other channels?’
‘Oh, friends, diplomats, local gossips,’ said Pasquino vaguely. ‘What I learned made me determined to break up this relationship straightaway. Upas, Malcolm that is, moved in all the best circles in most Middle Eastern capitals. He entertained lavishly, catering for all his guests’ needs. All. You understand? To cut a long story short, my information was that Upas made his money out of running an agency for blackmail material. Note the way I put it. He was never connected directly with any blackmail attempt. But a young diplomat or foreign businessman might wake up on the morning after a Upas party feeling rather worried about the previous night’s excesses. But as days, weeks, months, years even, pass they fade to just a pleasant memory. Until one day he becomes important, or is posted somewhere important, or his firm makes an important discovery. He might even feel his new responsibilities strongly, resolve to lead a discreet, blameless life henceforth. But it’s too late. The evidence exists, film, tape, a full dossier. And it comes into the hands of the highest bidder.’
‘But that’s monstrous ! ’ exclaimed Lakenheath. ‘And pretty far-fetched. What about the two younger Upases? They must have been just kids five, six years ago.’
‘Precocious kids,’ said Pasquino grimly. ‘Malcolm liked to keep it in the family. Cut down on overheads, I suppose. It was nothing but a business to him, but those two developed a taste for the exotic at an early stage. I’ve seen some of the pictures.’
Lakenheath launched a violent attack on the visibly weakening chain, putting Pasquino’s wrists at considerable risk.
‘Hold it ! Hold it!’ he protested. ‘I said hurry, but I may have need of my hands on some future occasion.’
‘We’ve got to get Zeugma out of there,’ said Lakenheath.
‘You like her, do you?’
‘Well, yes. I suppose I do, in a way,’ answered Lakenheath, pausing. ‘Brotherly, you understand.’
‘I understand. Listen, don’t be over-anxious. This man Malcolm, he liked her too, I really believe that. I got some friends to apply a bit of pressure so that he had to leave Cairo in a hurry. It really shook Zeugma up, but I got her out of there pretty quickly too, intercepted a couple of letters he tried to get to her and the thing eventually died. But what I’m trying to say is, he’s got no reason to harm her and quite a lot of reason to keep her healthy. So don’t worry.’
‘Okay,’ said Lakenheath. ‘And what about you? What reason has he got for harming you?’
‘That’s easy. The Upases used their father’s family house as a kind of holiday home, a bolt-hole if you like. We know there have been pressures put on Malcolm to let it be used in all kinds of ways. It’d make a useful centre for guerrilla groups, a bomb-factory, any fanatic revolutionary activity that Arabs – and others – might get up to. But he’s resisted, successfully to date. But he couldn’t stop Amine and Jonathan getting up to their old tricks. They’re rather afraid of him, though, and to make their activities seem relatively business-like, they involved one of the scientists working here at Thirlsike.’
‘Healot,’ interrupted Lakenheath.
‘Right. You’re beginning to see a pattern,’ said the other approvingly. ‘Malcolm was furious when he found out, but decided to make the best of a bad job. Then a girl was killed.’
Lakenheath stopped hammering and became very still.
‘A local girl. Sharon Anderson. God knows what happened, but Healot was certainly mixed up in it with Jonathan and his sister. Healot got out quickly. The centre was being run down at that time, so it didn’t look too odd. He made for the States, again a natural thing to do if you’ve been treated the way that most of the best minds get treated in this country. I should know. Well, Healot dropped right into a comfortable, well-paid and highly elevated post in the middle of some nasty American desert. They had been after him for some time, it seems. But the local ladies’ social committee welcome party wasn’t all that was waiting for him out there. A lot of Healot material had already been bought from the Upases on spec and the poor blighter quickly discovered he had taken on two jobs, one with the American government, and the other with a rather different body of men. Or perhaps not so very different after all.’
‘You mean he was blackmailed to pass information as soon as he got there?’ said Lakenheath. ‘Christ, no wonder the poor bastard hanged himself ! ’
Pasquino laughed.
‘Oh no. You’ve got it wrong. Healot was no guilt-ridden neurotic. He was a very able, very self-controlled man, except for one unfortunate appetite, of course. He knew enough about security techniques to be suspicious when helpful acquaintances started offering him his own particular forbidden fruits by the treeful. So he probably gave the Upas residence a good going over when he was there one night. His suspicions would have been confirmed. Cameras, tape-recorders, two-way mirrors — I’ve no doubt he found all the equipment.’
‘Then why the hell did he carry on?’ demanded Lakenheath, hammering with growing urgency.
‘Presumably,’ said Pasquino, ‘because he found something else which made him feel powerful enough to resist any pressures the Upases might bring to bear.’
‘What would that be?’
‘I suspect it was some form of record they kept of all their material. As I said before, some of it wouldn’t be used for years – then suddenly its market price would rocket as Mr X became Minister of Defence. Now, we know Healot himself was a dab hand with a camera. My theory is that he photographed this material and put it away for a rainy day. Well, the rain came as soon as he reached the States. So he probably phoned or cabled the Upases suggesting that if the pressure continued on him, he would knock the bottom out of their business by releasing copies of their records to all interested parties. No one buys what everyone’s got. What he didn’t take into account was that the Upases had no control over material once it was sold and that their customers felt little sense of moral obligation to anyone. In other words, there was no way of stopping the blackmailers.’
‘Except,’ said Lakenheath slowly, ‘by removing the object of the blackmail.’
‘Bright boy. One of them – Jonathan, I suspect, as it was a botched-up job – arranged to meet Healot. What happened at that meeting is hard to say. We can only guess. But at the end of it Healot was dangling from a skylight in a hotel bathroom.’
‘And Upas had the photos?’
‘No. We think not. In fact we’re certain. Don’t ask me how. They’d be too dangerous for Healot to carry around with him, especially going to America. Their Customs officers are ferocious seekers after the odd. So he left them here.’
‘In England.’
‘Warm,’ said Pasquino. ‘In this centre, I believe, or close by. He had an odd sense of humour, Healot. You know, when this place was built, they unearthed an urn-field. Most of the stuff went to the museum at Carlisle. But one not very important urn was kept here, as a kind of memorial, I suppose. Well, that urn disappeared just before Healot left. One of his former colleagues recalls mentioning it to Healot at his farewell party and getting the reply, “There’re some ashes stay warmer than others and it’s not just Pharaoh’s tomb that’s got its curse.” An odd comment.’
‘Hardly odd enough to be committed to memory,’ observed Lakenheath.
‘Efficient questioning leaves no stone unturned,’ said Pasquino. ‘Anyway, it seemed worthwhile having a look around up here. It would fit what we know of Healot’s interests for him to have dropped the photos into this urn and re-buried it somewhere safe. They didn’t want a full-scale search. No, it was a job for a single
expert. So naturally they called on me. I was rather short of funds and I have in mind some rather expensive submarine excavations. Camelot, I believe, will be found beneath the Solway Firth. Those people at Cadbury are wasting their time. So I accepted the task. I should know better at my age.’
‘But where did you start? Here at the centre? I mean, what were you looking for?’
Pasquino sighed, as if he did not particularly wish to carry on along this particular avenue.
‘I had some pictures, aerial photos, for a start …’
‘Mine !’ exclaimed Lakenheath, recalling Zeugma’s reaction when she saw the photos in his office. ‘I bet they were mine.’
‘Yes. Well, I believe they did contrive some other reason for having them taken.’
‘Contrive !’
But Pasquino was pressing on now at full speed.
‘I examined them carefully. You can tell a great deal from such pictures, you know. Particularly when you have a full range in different lights. I spotted all kinds of interesting archaeological features, and got Zeugma started on a dig at some of these promising sites. Then I strolled off to take a look at another area which looked disturbed to me. But much more recently disturbed. I wasn’t particularly hopeful. It could have been anything. Almost immediately I started digging, I thought I was on to something. There was an urn there, or rather a bell beaker, but it was nothing like the urn I had expected to find. But curiously it contained something modern; flour. Recently ground. I realized I was at a burial site. A curious mish-mash of forms, but early Bronze Age mainly. Only the bodies were far from Bronze Age. I only saw a girl but there were others.’
‘A girl?’ said Lakenheath. But he did not really need to say anything. He understood now Pasquino’s reluctance to continue.
‘Yes. I fear that she may have been your cousin,’ said Pasquino, forthright now he had reached this point.
‘Yes,’ said Lakenheath. ‘Yes.’
He sat quite still for a while and the other man offered no complaint at this cessation of work.
Beyond the Bone Page 14
