And they are gone.
9
WARNINGS
“How long have you known?”
“Known what? My dear Arcadia, you could be referring to most of the contents of any decent encyclopaedia.” On the other end of the line, Magnus pauses for a moment. “But from the strain in your voice and your accelerated breathing I would guess that this is something personal. Was it a blood test?”
“How could you not tell me?”
“Ah, it was a blood test. But it was always self-evident, surely? Mother has hazel and Father has brown eyes; you and I have grey. The nose is all wrong, the earlobes detached, and fifteen other characteristics. And yes, it is far simpler to keep calling them Mother and Father. I debated it myself for a minute or two when I first found out. But calling your parents by their first names at age seven raises all sorts of awkward questions.”
So Magnus has known since he was seven. Sixteen years her brother has known and not told her.
“I’m afraid that I couldn’t tell you, sister dear. Mother swore me to secrecy — though I knew you would find it out for yourself. Eventually.
“And to answer your next question, I’m afraid that I am indeed AB positive also. We could do a DNA test to be certain, but I doubt that it would surprise anyone who knows us both to find out that you and I are, in fact, biologically related.”
It is Thursday morning, the day after the concert. She reassembled her phone to call her brother, who insisted on hanging up and contacting her on what he said was a secure line through their computers. There is a slight delay, but the sound is clear enough to hear the strain that her brother’s weight is putting on the chair in his rooms at Cambridge.
“But related to whom?”
“Yes, well legally one has to be eighteen before getting access to one’s birth records,” Magnus responds. “To be frank, for some years I was not particularly bothered to find out. Mother and Father refused to speak about it and begged me not to dig into the matter. I let matters lie but as you began to gurgle your first words I became curious about the sister who had so unexpectedly landed on our doorstep.
“At the time I had the habit of browsing periodically through certain government databases. I had constructed the online identity of a middle-aged man and every now and then would help certain agencies resolve problems that they confronted. It was simplicity itself to enter into the General Register Office and locate our original birth records.”
“And was the mother’s name,” she says, “Sophia Alderman?”
“Hmm? What a curious thought. No it wasn’t. Who, pray tell, is Ms. Alderman? A new teacher? Don’t tell me Headmaster has finally decided that women can do more than teach art, music and perhaps French?”
She rebukes herself. Of course it was ridiculous — at the time Magnus was born Miss Alderman could only have been in her early teens. “It was just a thought,” is all she says.
“Yes, well, carrying on. The names of the parents on both our birth records are John and Euphemia Hebron. Despite the slightly unusual name — not that you or I should be casting stones in that area — they were both Scottish. He was what they refer to as a ‘main street lawyer’, which I believe is the polite thing to call a lawyer who doesn’t make much money. He had a small practice in Banbury. She was an administrator at a nearby comprehensive school.
“They were both reasonably well educated, with degrees from lower-tier universities, but nothing really to distinguish them as exceptional intellects. What did distinguish them was that Euphemia suffered from severe depression and the family was unable to cope with the responsibilities of child-rearing. This, at least, was the reason given on the adoption forms that they completed when they put me up for adoption.
“Ignatius and Louisa are, you may have deduced, unable to have children naturally. They had been on a waiting list for some time — the essay they wrote on their reasons for wanting to raise a child is really quite touching.”
“What happened to the Hebrons?” she asks. “You were using the past tense to describe them.”
“I was getting to that, Arcadia,” her brother replies. “Seven years later they had another child: you. Soon after your birth at the John Radcliffe Hospital, however, they died in a car crash. You were only a few weeks old. Fortunately, I suppose, the same officer was put in charge of your case and he contrived to approach Louisa and Ignatius — Mother and Father — about adopting a sibling. They agreed and here you are.”
“But did the Hebrons leave anything? Did they at least write a letter?”
“Not that I know of, Arcadia. They don’t seem to have been the most reflective sort.”
“What about relatives. Have you spoken to them?”
“What would be the point?”
Her brother’s apathy is exasperating. “Aren’t you even curious to know more about your heritage, where you come from?”
“Arcadia, all we share with the Hebrons is some DNA. If they were alive I can imagine a certain interest in meeting them — much as your own development as a child gave me the opportunity to reflect on certain of my own qualities. But their own parents and siblings get further and further removed to the point where any link would be purely sentimental.
“I concede that a full medical history might one day be of interest. Here I regret to inform you that the late Mrs. Hebron’s depression most probably did have a genetic component — though, again, the fact that you and I are predisposed to melancholy is not exactly ‘news’.
“So, dear sister, I’m afraid that I appear to be your only biological family. Not terribly reassuring, I imagine. But there you have it.”
She digests all this. “What about the surveillance cameras at our house? When I mentioned them to you the other day you nearly destroyed my phone.”
“I did nothing of the sort. I merely exercised reasonable precautions, as I always do, to avoid leaving a messy digital trail. But I have made a few inquiries. I hope to know more today or tomorrow.”
“Thank you. There’s something else. I realise that this might sound paranoid, but I discovered that Headmaster is keeping a secret file on me. He has also recruited students to report on my behaviour. In a fragment of a letter, he describes me as ‘the subject’ and how one of these students followed a protocol in order to test my reactions. This Sophia Alderman has some connection also — and when I staged a meeting between her and our parents, it was clear that they had met before.”
“Arcadia, to anyone else it might sound paranoid, but I am presently sitting in a college bedroom that I have used wire mesh to convert into a Faraday cage as protection against electronic surveillance. To your question, Mr. Milton’s approach to education was always a little eccentric. Many of the cameras at school were installed while I was still a yearling. Does he still watch them directly himself? One wonders how he finds hours in the day.
“Let me look into that also. Infuriatingly, I have to leave college on an errand, so I’ll text you later in the day. Which reminds me: you can leave your phone in one piece. I don’t know what you were thinking that would achieve — you aren’t exactly hard to find. Cheerio.”
Later that morning she has English with Mr. Ormiston. They finish their discussion of Edgar Allen Poe just as the bell rings to indicate the start of lunch.
“I thought that you might enjoy Poe, Miss Greentree,” Mr. Ormiston says, walking over as she is putting her books away. “I always liked Poe’s stories about C. Auguste Dupin myself.”
“His methods are certainly interesting,” she replies absently.
Mr. Ormiston looks to see that the other students have left the classroom, then says more quietly: “Arcadia, is everything all right? You haven’t seemed yourself for the past few of days.”
Is she that transparent?
“I know that you’re highly strung at the best of times,” Mr. Ormiston continues, “but violence at school, daydreaming in class… Is there anything I need to know?”
Is there anything he does
not already know? Given the way in which Miss Alderman has manipulated him, however, it is possible that he is not aware of the machinations underway. How might she test for this? Clearly Miss Alderman and Headmaster must know about her parentage. Does Mr. Ormiston?
A risk, but one worth taking. It should appear spontaneous. “I just found out that I was adopted,” she blurts.
Mr. Ormiston appears lost for words. He takes half a step forward, perhaps considering a hug or some other gesture, then stops. “Oh, Arcadia,” is all he says. “Oh dear. That must be — that must be a shocking thing to discover. I’m so sorry.” He is not a good enough actor to be faking his surprise and concern, which is therefore genuine. “Did you just find out?”
“Yes,” she replies. “My parents confirmed it last night.”
“Look, Arcadia, you know the school has counsellors for this sort of thing. But my door is always open to you. How are you feeling about all this at the moment?”
“It was a bit of a shock,” she says truthfully. “But I’ll be OK.”
“If there’s anything I can help with, please let me know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ormiston.”
She is about to leave when Miss Alderman herself enters. “Good day, Arcadia,” the substitute teacher says coolly. “What a nice coincidence meeting your parents like that last night. I did catch up with Headmaster, by the way. How strange, though: he didn’t recall asking you to fetch me.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I must have made a mistake.”
“Perhaps you did.” Turning to Mr. Ormiston: “William, I wondered if you might like to join me for lunch?”
“Why thank you, Miss Alderman,” Mr. Ormiston looks down at his feet. There has been some kind of cooling between them also; perhaps he is thinking of his wife. “Unfortunately I’ve got a lot of marking to do today. The students have submitted their essays on Poe. Arcadia and I were just discussing it.”
“We were,” she adds, watching Miss Alderman closely. “One of them, ‘The Purloined Letter’, is about a woman who possesses certain information that she seeks to conceal. Yet she unwittingly puts it in the hands of a person who can use it to their advantage.”
If Miss Alderman is in the slightest perturbed, she does not reveal it. She is by far the better actor of the two teachers. “I think I recall the story,” she says, meeting Arcadia’s gaze. “Isn’t it the one in which the thief thinks he is so cunning by hiding it in plain sight? The woman’s agent finds the letter, however, replacing it with a fake. So in the end, it is the woman who has the thief in her power.”
Touché. Arcadia inclines her head to acknowledge the minor victory. All she says is: “Miss Alderman, Mr. Ormiston, if I may be excused?”
“Of course, Arcadia,” says Mr. Ormiston. “And remember what I said. Please feel free to call on me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She leaves, but does not go far. The classroom is on the ground floor and on one side its open windows face a small copse of trees. It is a plausible place for a girl to sit and read with her back to the wall, underneath a window. Magnus and so many others assume that surveillance must depend on high technology. Yet the origin of the term ‘eavesdropping’ is precisely that one can learn a lot from loitering under the eaves of a building and listening. So it is that she overhears the ongoing conversation between Mr. Ormiston and Miss Alderman.
“I’m sorry, Sophia,” Mr. Ormiston is saying. “I’m really not comfortable continuing like this.”
“Not comfortable?” Miss Alderman sounds unimpressed. “You seemed to enjoy all the comfort you could get from me on Monday night.”
“That was a mistake. It won’t happen again.” He is trying to end the conversation. “Look, I’ve helped you as much as I can. I got you this job. But from now on, we just have to be colleagues. Can we try that, please?”
There is a pause. Is she thinking? Calculating. “I guess so,” she says at last. Then, a little too innocently: “What were you and the Greentree girl talking about? It didn’t look like you were discussing Poe.”
“Oh she’s just had a bad week,” Mr. Ormiston replies.
“Anything important?” She is fishing.
“Some personal matters. She’s got a lot of thinking to do — and some long conversations to have at home, that’s all. But she’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” Miss Alderman says.
“Me too. Anyway, as I said, I have these papers to grade. ’Bye, Sophia.”
“Goodbye, William.”
Mr. Ormiston leaves the classroom first, but Miss Alderman stays. The sound of a clasp opening — her handbag. The gentle tap of a number being dialled on a touch phone. There is no way to hear the other party, but most of her side of the conversation is clear.
“I have an update. She suspects something. The stunt last night was only the beginning. I followed them to the car and the talk was mostly sentimental, but it seems like they’re planning a big heart-to-heart this weekend.”
She did not notice the teacher’s presence at the car park. Another skill to add to her résumé.
“There’s something else. She intimated that she knows something about my role. Ormiston remains oblivious, of course. But as you’ve said before, the girl is very observant.”
There is another pause.
“No, I can’t predict what they might do. … You will go and see them yourself? Very well. ’Bye.”
Monsieur Dupin was also skilled, lulling his adversary into a false sense of security and then diverting their attention with a distraction. It might not have been a gunshot on the streets of Paris and she might not have the purloined letter in her hand, but she is at last starting to build a picture of her adversaries.
Though the school prohibits the use of mobile phones, she keeps hers in her pocket on silent mode through the day. Yet it is only after dinner when a vibration finally indicates the arrival of a text from Magnus. She is back in her dormitory room when she reads the message:
Arcadia, do let me know if you’ll come up this weekend, watch the boat races and stay for dinner? Out of interest, for once you were right; our Mother and Father did brag to me about your concert. “Parents” as they say! Magnus.
Her brother always writes text messages in full sentences, but the incorrect use of a semi-colon and the ironic application of an exclamation point are clear indications of a second message. Taking each word after a punctuation mark reveals:
Do watch out for our “parents”. Magnus
Well this is unhelpfully ambiguous. “Watch out” implying that she should guard against some danger to them — or that they are a potential source of danger themselves? She quickly types a response using the same simple code to let her brother know that the person Miss Alderman phoned was going to see them:
Thanks Magnus. She did enjoy concert. Called earlier but you were out — someone I know? Going to be a busy weekend, to be sure. See you soon. (“Parents” indeed!) Arcadia.
She does not want to alarm her parents and in any case will be seeing them herself tomorrow night. At that point some more pieces of the puzzle may reveal themselves. She is about to return to her Latin when the insistent buzzing of her phone gets her attention once more. Not a text, it is Magnus calling her directly.
“Why Magnus,” she begins. “What an unexpected — ”
He cuts her off in a tone of urgency that she has never heard from her corpulent brother. “Arcadia, I’m afraid that our parents are in grave danger. I have tried calling the house but the phone is disconnected. Their mobiles are off or disabled. I have phoned the police and persuaded them to look in, but they may take some time to reach the house.”
She sees the danger at once. Potential revelation of whatever plot is underway. Concerns escalated from Headmaster to Miss Alderman to the unknown party whom she called earlier in the day. A promised visit. But could physical violence really be a possibility?
She is already putting on her shoes with one hand, holding her phone with
the other. “I’m going home myself,” she says. “It’s only a short drive from school. I can slip out and get a taxi.”
“Arcadia, be careful. Even I have had difficulty investigating this. Whoever is involved knows how to cover their tracks — and such people generally dislike having those tracks revealed.”
“I understand. I’ll phone you from home.”
She hangs up, puts the phone in her pocket, and heads out into the night air. Getting a taxi at this time will not be simple, but first she has to get out of the school grounds without being stopped. The staff parking lot is the best option. Secured by a gate her master key should open, it has its own exit onto the adjacent street.
“Miss Greentree?”
She has not gone ten yards from the dormitory when she hears her name. It is Mr. Ormiston, also walking towards the parking lot. The time is a little after 8pm. There must have been a staff meeting. It is impractical to run. None of the most plausible lies would be of much assistance. For the second time today, she settles on the truth.
“Mr. Ormiston, I fear something terrible has happened at home. My brother has phoned the police, but we can’t get through to our parents. I was about to see if I could go there myself. Could you help me get a taxi?”
Her teacher looks at her closely. School rules are fairly clear on when students are allowed off campus, and there are protocols to follow when seeking exceptions. Forms to fill in.
“No,” Mr. Ormiston says after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll drive you myself. Come on.”
They quicken their step towards the staff car park. Mr. Ormiston opens the gate and they climb into his Jaguar. The engine purrs and then roars as they leave the school grounds.
“You had a staff meeting?” she asks.
Mr. Ormiston nods, his attention on the road.
“Were Headmaster and Miss Alderman there?”
Mr. Ormiston turns his head for a second. “Yes, why?”
“Just curious.”
The car screeches to a halt.
“Arcadia,” Mr. Ormiston begins. “I’m breaking about fifteen rules in our code of conduct by doing this. The least you can do is tell me the truth.”
Raising Arcadia Page 13
