James smiled grimly. ‘Henry, you must have had much more experience than I have had at smelling out suspicious situations, but some old in-built sense is telling me that whatever Stephanie got into stinks to high heaven. And Errol Colton is at the bottom of it!’
‘Certainly he is to blame for this tragedy in that, had he not existed, it would never have happened. Beyond that … yes, there are some situations that don’t add up. I’ve never actually been a policeman but I know what you mean, and they would know what you mean. There was a thing in Cyprus … but I won’t bother you with details. The point is that, as well as having our instinct for what is shady and unresolved, most policemen develop an equal instinct for knowing when a situation is unresolvable. In other words, they know when to give up.’
‘And you expect me to give up now, after three weeks?’
‘Not give up, but husband your resources, don’t squander ’em on inquiries that more or less cover the same ground. I hate to say this, but it seems common sense.’
‘I might go to Corfu.’
‘With what purpose?’
‘Errol lived there, has an ex-wife there and spent, you say, a short term in prison on a drugs charge. If you turn over enough ground you’re bound to find a few worms!’
Gaveston lit his pipe. ‘Could you manage on your own?’
‘I think so. I might take Mary.’
‘Term time would be difficult for me. But if you’d wait till mid-June I’d be happy to come with you.’
‘Thanks. I might take you up on it. We’ll see.’
Henry said: ‘One Saturday next month Sir Peter Brune – you know, this chap Stephanie knew – is coming to dinner at St Martin’s. It’ll be in Hall, but the Principal is asking a few chosen friends. Peter has helped the University with a lot of money, and, as he’s a distinguished scholar as well, the University has decided to give him an Honorary Degree which will be conferred soon after the end of term. This dinner is just a little preliminary canter to mark his having been a graduate of St Martin’s and his special beneficiences to us. Would you care to come along as my guest?’
‘Thank you. Thanks, but I’d rather not.’
‘Ah well … I’m sure I would feel the same.’
Conversation lapsed. After a minute Gaveston said: ‘I suppose I was thinking …’
‘That I needed taking out of myself?’
‘I’m aware of your dislike of clichés, but yes, in a sense I do mean that.’
‘I’ll think it over.’
‘And you’d meet Peter Brune again. He may not have impressed you when you saw him last, but he’s really a very good fellow.’
‘I don’t say he didn’t impress me. He was courteous and kind.’
‘He told me he’d only met Stephanie twice, at that weekend he gave, and then just before she died.’
‘I know. One just … seeks for the clue, the unexpected remark that sets a new trail …’
Henry pushed at the tobacco in his pipe with a silver thimble he carried for this purpose.
‘Anyway, let’s leave it open. I don’t need to know for another week or so.’
James pressed his button and the chair moved away from the window.
‘I’m not giving up yet,’ he said.
II
Arun Jiva had been born in 1949 in the village of Kamset, near Poona, the son of a minor railway official. His grandparents on his father’s side were orthodox Jains, to whom all life was sacred – so much so that one was taught to brush carefully the seat one was going to sit on to assure oneself that no tiny insect might be crushed or injured. But his father had broken away from all that. Always a man of vehement opinion and passionate temper, he had come to the fore during the communal violence which followed the British withdrawal and had become a leader of the Hindu Mahasabha movement. In 1948 he had narrowly missed arraignment for implication in the murder of Gandhi, and a couple of years later had lost his job because of his rabid anti-Congress views. His death in a riot in 1958 had left Arun to be brought up by a weakly mother and his strong-minded grandparents who tried to discipline him into accepting a pious and ascetic way of life. In this, as with his father, they had failed, though Arun, who had greatly admired his father, was a man of much colder and more controlled a temper. Helped by an uncle, who was a tailor with a substantial business and shared the views of his dead brother, Arun had been sent to the medical school in Delhi where eventually he had qualified as a doctor, with high academic honours. There was even talk of a Rhodes scholarship but it came to nothing.
So he had practised for a year or two in Bombay. Though believing in nothing but secular Hinduism, he continued to show some of his grandparents’ austerity in his own way of life and in his manner of dress and stiffness of speech. Whenever possible he spoke in his native Marathi.
At twenty-eight he began to find the Indian scene less and less to his liking. He talked to English and American doctors and heard of appointments at English, American and European universities; but these were only open to men better qualified than he. A D. Phil. at Oxford, for instance, would open up the world of research for him. He had no desire to go on practising, ministering to the sick and the poor. He had only contempt for such people. Pathology interested him, as did immunology. In the end he had received a substantial grant and found a place. He had come to Oxford and he had now nearly completed his doctorate.
His house in Jericho, a district which sprawled south of Aristotle Lane, in Caxton Street just round the corner from the cinema, was rented from a rich Iranian lady who was studying Astrophysics. Sometimes a fellow countryman would stay with him for a few days, but mostly he lived alone. And now, at this highly inconvenient time in his life, he was leaving, and for an indefinite period.
He was ill-temperedly thrusting some last things into his second bag when the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. Too early for the taxi. Surely nobody had come to pick him up – wouldn’t they trust him that far?
Or was it her father again, on his two sticks, bitter pain in his face, pestering, prying? But there was no obvious car outside.
He parted the dusty lace curtain further and stared down at a man he did not recognise. He was wearing a trilby hat which hid his face, but his hand, as it stretched out to press the bell again, was brown. Arun pattered down the stairs and opened the door.
A face he vaguely knew.
‘You remember me, cousin?’ said the man breathlessly. ‘Naresh Prasad. You remember me. We met at the Hotel Welcome last year. You remember that?’
Arun hesitated, made a movement to shut the door. Then the man gave way at the knees, stumbled, regained himself, propping himself up with a hand on the brickwork.
‘Cousin Arun – I – I want your help.’
Arun recalled the fellow now – he had been in that poker game in Bombay and had lost. There was some connection between them, some vague relationship but he couldn’t remember what. It was certainly not a close one, not one the fellow had any right to put forward as a claim to special favour now. Some aunt or other in Indore had married – he couldn’t recall who and it counted for nothing anyway. But the man was obviously ill.
He stood austerely aside and Nari stumbled in, into the little sitting room, where he collapsed into an armchair. When he took his hat off it showed a forehead beaded with sweat.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want help, cousin. I am very ill.’
‘I am not qualified to practise in England. You must find some English doctor to consult.’
‘I daren’t do that, cousin. I dare not go to an English doctor. Can you give me some little help, shelter for a night, some treatment? I am Indian, not English. You can help me. I came to you as a last resort. For days I have been moving about. I am looking you up in the telephone book and then walking from the station. I thought, Dr Jiva will not turn his own blood away. It is an emergency, Dr Jiva. Please help. I am very ill!’
Arun impatiently put a hand on the fellow’s wrist t
o feel his pulse. It was thin and rapid. And the wrist was hot and clammy.
‘Where have you come from, man? How have you come to be like this?’
‘It is a difficult story I have to tell you, cousin. I am in great trouble. I came from India only two weeks ago …’
Nari retched into a damp handkerchief, gulped, rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Like the capsules that were blocking his bowels, the truth had solidified, inflaming itself with lies, subterfuge, fear, resentment, pain. Now, though the physical blockage remained, the whole sordid story spilled out in that dark little front room.
He had lied to his cousins, the Mehtas, and they had allowed him to stay some days and given him invalid food and warm drinks. One night more after that he had stayed in Birmingham in a sleazy dosshouse where no questions were asked. Then as a last chance he had come by train to Oxford and sought out the cousin he had met last year in Bombay. Now he had found him, and he was a medical man, who could surely help him in his dire trouble. He would surely understand how Nari had been trapped into this terrible mission and see that it was in no way his fault.
Arun Jiva listened unemotionally to Nari’s tale, which was interrupted every now and then by spasms of colic. Jiva fiddled with his pince-nez and lifted his glance to the clock. Here was a situation, complicating things at the last moment. As if everything was not sufficiently infuriating without this!
When at last his visitor had fallen silent and had temporarily finished his retchings, he said brusquely: ‘You cannot stay here. I am leaving England this afternoon and returning to India for a stay of several weeks. The house will be empty. There is no one to treat you here. You must have an English doctor. There is a man called Hillsborough …’
‘I cannot do that: you must know I cannot! For it will be discovered that I am carrying the capsules! Then it will be prison for me – a long term, no doubt, and goodness knows what else. Then deportation after and ruin!’
Arun Jiva took off his pince-nez and wiped them. Without them his short-sighted black eyes seemed to have no light, no expression at all, as if thought, intelligence, feeling, reposed only in the lenses.
‘Open your jacket.’
Nari unbuttoned his coat and jacket and shirt, unzipped his trousers. Jiva bent over him. Nari shrank in agony when the thin practised fingers probed his swollen belly. Such treatment, he knew, would bring back the crouching beast which was only waiting to pounce.
Arun Jiva said: ‘ When did you last pass a motion?’
‘On Tuesday a little. But just watery, nothing in them.’
‘Let me advise you to take no more aperients, because they could well be absorbed into the packages and make them burst.’
Nari said: ‘I was given many aperients in London!’
Jiva considered him a moment. He thought him lucky to be alive. ‘Your health would not be likely to be their first consideration.’
‘My God …’
‘Quite so. But look, an enema at the local hospital would be a likely solution to your problem. I have a taxi coming shortly – in twenty-five minutes – to take me to Heathrow. I can perhaps just find the time to give you a lift to the hospital where I am studying. That will be best for you.’
‘I thought you could do something for me! My own blood cousin!’
Jiva considered again. Here there had to be a sudden decision. It could not be something to be pondered over. He said: ‘I can give you an injection to ease the pain. That is simple. But I cannot miss my plane … Look here, I have another idea. Perhaps I can get a friend of mine to see you …’
‘What is this friend of yours? Is he a doctor?’
‘No, but he has doctors who would treat you. He is a friend. If I telephone and ask him –’
‘But as to the capsules –’
‘I do not think he would feel it necessary to tell anyone in authority. If I ask him, I believe he will help.’
‘How can I find him?’
‘I will telephone him. You will have to stay here until he sends someone round to pick you up. You understand?’
‘Yes, Cousin Arun! Now you are my friend!’
Arun licked dry lips. ‘I will ring him now. You will have to stay here and wait until he sends for you. It may be some hours, it may be tomorrow; it depends how busy he is, if he is at home. But if you wait here you must promise to stay in the house. There is milk and tea. You would be well advised not to take anything else. Telephone no one. Answer the door to no one else. You understand?’
Nari pulled up his knees. ‘And you will give me something to ease this pain?’
‘Yes. But remember you must do whatever my friend says. I think it is your best chance.’
Chapter Six
I
James had been in charge of the operation, and his helpers were two farmers, a post office boy, a medical student and an electrician. They were all in ragged clothes, which was part disguise and part necessity; they looked like tramps and they had sabotage in mind. Apart from James, who had had a rudimentary course before he left England, the only one with any useful practical knowledge was Marcel, the electrician.
They had laid the charges overnight, with simple trip fuses to demolish the bridge at the right time. The problem was to know exactly when their quarry was to be expected. This line was used for passenger services to and from Lyon, business men, even schoolchildren. It would be a calamity if the wrong train were passing over the bridge at the time.
Their objective was a train due to leave Lyon for Bordeaux at eight in the morning carrying tanks and anti-aircraft guns to strengthen the defences of the Biscay coast, and word was going to be sent through from Lyon to the farmhouse about two miles from the bridge. Unfortunately, some other members of the Resistance who were not aware of these plans – and it was always the custom to work in self-contained units so that capture and torture did not involve more than the members of a single unit – had decided that night to cut the telephone wires out of Lyon going west.
So no quick easy telephone message could be sent.
The explosives did not need to be touched: they were well hidden and admirably sited. But the trip fuses had to be set.
James had been out on his bicycle as soon as dawn broke, reconnoitring the land east of the bridge. The line ran straight for a mile, then curved through a gully, with a tunnel and cliffs. He had worked it out that if he posted one of his men at the exit from the tunnel, he could be seen – just seen – by another man standing beside a tree on raised ground near the bridge. If one signalled to the other and he signalled to James, James would have about four minutes to run along the edge of the bridge and set the fuses.
It was now well after 7.30, and a cloudy breezy morning. Undulating fields, grazing cows, a distant road lined with poplars, glimmers of a green sky and a pencil or two of sun. They waited.
And waited. It occurred to James that he would not be disobeying his general instructions if he simply blew up the bridge. This would wreck the main line west from Lyon and effectively disrupt communications. But the lure of destroying the tanks and the guns was just too great.
Two railmen began to meander across the bridge from the other side, talking and gesturing and spitting as they went. As they got halfway one stopped and pointed with the stub of his cigarette at something on the line. It was the trip fuses, roughly if effectively disguised as foghorns but not sufficiently well hidden to deceive railmen. As James started up he saw Marcel standing against the skyline with both hands raised above his head. It was the signal.
James ran along the bridge. ‘Halt! Ne touchez pas! Nous sommes le maquis!’
The man with the cigarette was kneeling looking at the fuse wire, trying to pull off the adhesive tape.
James took out his revolver. ‘ Stop or I’ll kill you!’
The Frenchmen looked at each other. Cigarette shrugged. ‘This is for the Boche? But how do you know? The eight-twenty is now due. That is –’
‘It is not that! I have the signal!’
‘Nom de Dieu,’ said the other Frenchman. ‘Those on the eight-twenty are students, housewives, young children – all French …’
He bent to yank at the fuse and James hit him on the head with his revolver. The man collapsed on the tracks.
‘Get him out of the way!’ As the other hesitated, ‘Do you want me to shoot you?’
The railman threw away his cigarette. ‘À Dieu ne plaise! How am I to know? This could be an outrage!’ But he bent to do as he was told.
As they picked up the man they could feel a quiver in the railway line. Even then James stopped to check that the fuses had not been broken. They lugged the man towards the end of the bridge as the train snorted and rattled into view.
Somebody started firing, and bullets flew near the three men, who fell in a heap at the end of the bridge, rolling to take cover in the long grass. The great engine came towards them across the bridge, thundering, unstoppable. And it did not stop. With horrible frustration James saw the train coming safely across. Then there was a flash of light, an ear-splitting boom – the men were flung backwards – and the middle of the bridge began to give way.
The momentum of the engine had carried it beyond the collapse as it poured white smoke into the great blue-black column of the explosion; then the train slowed to a stop and with extraordinary deliberation the bridge behind it came apart, and one by one the trucks and carriages fell with the bridge into the ravine below.
II
As he slid and sidled painfully but peacefully into his estate car James wondered what had brought that adventure so vividly back today. Perhaps it was a dream he had had last night which was that he could walk and run as easily as he had once done.
He had learned to run as never before on that morning long ago, for with twelve Germans dead and a score more injured and enormous damage to railway stock and the bridge, the saboteurs had to be found. Marcel was shot and killed early on, but the rest got away, including Captain James Locke. Somehow he had got away, running doubled through the tall hay. Somehow he had made it – otherwise he would not be here, bereaved of a beautiful daughter who would then never have been born, prepared to go out and persevere obstinately on this most discouraging quest.
Stephanie Page 15
