“I liked your aunt so much, Richard.”
“She’s pretty ancient, isn’t she?”
“But so young really—in spirit, I mean. And what a lovely house, looking right down over the river. And those acres of rhododendron shrubberies. I’ve never seen such an enchanting place.”
“I doubt whether she finds it enchanting to keep up. The place is big enough for a regiment.” He ran a hand down the side of her cheek slowly and she moved and bit one of his fingers gently. “She did say something to me about selling up and going to live with an old school friend of hers in Shrewsbury. Very sensible too, I should think.” He was silent for a while and then, wondering how she would take it, he went on. “As a matter of fact she made a suggestion to me. You really liked the place didn’t you?”
“Oh, of course I did!”
“Well—when you were walking ahead with Dolly, I told her about buying a place for a hotel in the Dordogne and she said what on earth did we want to go there for?”
“Well—why do we?”
“I thought you were all set on it?”
Sarah laughed quietly. “Not if she said the same thing to you as she did to me when I was freshening myself up in her room before lunch.”
“What was that?”
“You must know. She told me and she told you separately so that we could both think it over and then . . . and then like now.”
“You mean about letting me have it cheaply so that we could turn it into a hotel?”
“Yes, darling. Wasn’t she a cunning old dear?”
“You mean you’d like to do that? Change your mind about living abroad . . . about the Dordogne?”
“Why not? It’s an ideal place. Plenty of rooms and parking space. Fishing in the river . . . two tennis courts——”
“Full of weeds. And a hell of a lot to be spent to bring it into shape.”
“But not too far away from Daddy and Dolly. And it’s England. We’ve both been away too long. Oh, love—I really could be happy there. It said something to me right away. And after all it is a kind of family house—yours and . . . well, that will make it mine as well.”
He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her and grinned. “You two cooked it up between you, didn’t you?”
“Of course not!”
“Of course yes. She told you before lunch—but me after lunch.”
“Does it matter, darling?”
“Not in the slightest. I think it’s a first-class idea.”
Later, lying in his own bed, knowing that sleep was still far from him, thinking about his aunt’s Shropshire house and the things they could do with it, he was suddenly aware of the change which had come over his life in the last very few weeks. From somebody who had been content to be a nobody without destination he had become somebody who knew where he was going. Not a cloud on the horizon . . . well, yes, perhaps the Bellmaster one. But really that was out of his hands now. Old Geddy would take official advice and he would abide by it. Since talking to Geddy he had had moments when he could have wished the diary had not existed, moments when he knew that the strength of his feelings against Bellmaster before seeing Geddy had begun to change. It was all old history and he felt uncomfortable in his own mind at the strength of his. . . what? Vindictiveness? Something like that. Nothing could bring back the dead. Revenging himself on Bellmaster could never alter the fact that Sarah had passed eight years in a convent or that Lady Jean had been his creature. And come to think of that— why had she been? She had been a woman of character and self-will. She had gone along with Bellmaster surely not entirely unwillingly. Poor old Branton was the one who had come off worst. But would he have been any better off, any happier if he had never married her? He could not see it. Like him he did— but there was no denying the obvious innate features of his character. He would have been happier to have married someone like Dolly right from the start. When Geddy telephoned him (he had made it clear that he, himself, should not call him) he would tell him that he now did not care to make a fuss about the Bellmaster business any more. No good, though, was it? Once you started something and it became official then everything was out of your hands. What a mix-up. He should have put the diary on the fire and burnt it.
Funny thing, too. Right from the start with Geddy he had begun to have the feeling that the old boy was wishing him anywhere than in his office. Well, he could see that. Bellmaster was his client from time to time. Not a nice thing to have to handle.
To stop himself thinking about it any more he switched on his bedside light and picked up a book. But before his eyes could comprehend the print he knew quite suddenly and certainly that he had done wrong and that there was now no changing the course of whatever events would come. As old Branton would have said with his Latin tags—hominis est errare.
* * * *
Kerslake, having made an appointment with Geddy, drove down to his house in the Cotswolds the following morning. The meeting place had been Geddy’s suggestion.
They sat now in Geddy’s study, a pleasant book-lined room. On the mantelshelf a glass-domed display case full of brightly coloured tropical birds was flanked either side by silver-framed photographs of relations and one—the features clearly recognisable—of Geddy as a schoolboy in Eton jacket and a straw boater. The electric fire was burning against an unseasonal nip in the air and they sat before it either side of a low scallop-edged table on which Geddy’s housekeeper had put the coffee tray.
Coffee pot poised to pour, Geddy hesitated and said, “It’s a bit late in the morning. Perhaps you would prefer sherry, Mr Kerslake?”
“No, thank you. Coffee’s fine.” He watched Geddy pour and saw there was no shake to his hand. An old, wise bird who knew how to control himself even though he had now to be far from happy.
“I asked you here because the less you are seen at the office the wiser, I think.”
“I understand. Anyway, after tomorrow you won’t be troubled with me again.”
Geddy made a wry face and said, “Not by you, no. But troubled still nevertheless. Is it absolutely essential?”
“You know it is, Mr Geddy. We don’t like it at Birdcage any more than you do—but it is essential. Anyway, your involvement will be absolutely minimal.”
Geddy shook his head. “Comforting words—but not true. A human being is going to be killed—there is nothing minimal about that.”
“You’ve handled it before I understand, during the War.”
Geddy smiled unexpectedly. “Oh, yes. I was trapped into it. But the young woman did happen to be fair game and since it was wartime it was open season. But don’t worry, Mr Kerslake, I shall do everything asked of me. It’s curious. . . I think I was falling in love with her. She was very Italian in her looks. She lay there in the morning with her dark hair over the pillow and the bloom on her cheeks had a dusky peach flush. I couldn’t believe she was dead. It was a long time ago and I have to confess that the memory only rarely troubles me.”
“There will be no trouble about this. If even the edge of it begins to show Birdcage will cover it no matter with whom— the police, the politicians or the press. The world is full of unsolved mysteries.”
“Your confidence warms and comforts me. Nothing is impossible for Birdcage and its high priests look after their altar servers and acolytes. And, far from being cynical, I even think a very valid, almost ethical, case could be argued for its existence in the world today. Given the death—for that is what it has become—of the holy spirit in man, then he is left to defend and succour his own by using the weapons—or more effective ones—that his enemies turn against him. Sometimes at night you must have taken comfort from that.”
“Of course.”
“May I jump a few preliminaries and ask you whether it is to be at your hand?”
“Yes, it is.” Although Geddy was being tiresome he was patient with him because he understood him and sympathised with him, though such understanding could make no difference.
“For the
first time?”
“Yes, Mr Geddy, for the first time,” Kerslake said, his tone, he knew, reaching near to curtness for he preferred to preserve a near immunity at the moment to the thought of the coming moment which would bind him to Quint and the others for the rest of his life. He went on, looking down at his untouched coffee cup, a thin film, as the liquid cooled, now formed on the top, wrinkled like a relief map, “And now—shall we just confine ourselves, sir, to the exact details of the matter in hand?”
“By all means. ‘I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury,’ said cunning old Birdcage, ‘I’ll try the whole cause and condemn Farley to death.’ Lewis Carroll wouldn’t forgive me. But there—because I treasure my own place and skin I am entirely at your service.”
Vaguely, knowing that dimly Lewis Carroll meant something to him somewhere . . . school perhaps . . . Kerslake considered the possibility of unreliability in Geddy but quickly dismissed it. The man had too much to lose to try any kicking over the traces.
He said, “I would like you—while I’m here—to give Mr Farley a call. Briefly you are to say that so far you have not done anything about approaching the police or any authority, nor spoken to anyone about this matter. Your reason is that— while you don’t doubt his word—it has occurred to you that you must satisfy yourself first that the diary exists. It’s a precaution any sensible solicitor would take to avoid going to the police with a hare-brained story. He’ll understand that, won’t he?”
“Of course he will. And—my professional pride makes me add—it had not escaped me that I should have to do just that. Mr Farley is a sensible man and will, I’m sure, co-operate.”
“Also, that you think it advisable not to meet in your office but at some spot in the neighbourhood, reasonably secluded but unremarkable like a beauty spot or the car park of a country pub or hotel. I would suggest—in fact, I would personally wish it to be tomorrow, say in the afternoon. There is no virtue in delaying things unnecessarily.”
“None at all.”
“Also that he is to say nothing to anyone of this appointment. And again if, say, Miss Branton or anyone else should show curiosity about his receiving a telephone call and ask who had made it he should say frankly that it was from you saying that you had heard about his coming marriage with Miss Branton, that you gave them your congratulations and—if you could be of help legally and so on—you would be very willing to oblige them. Or however you would put that.”
Geddy smiled. “I would put it something like that. And where would you like this meeting to be?”
“I leave that to you, sir.”
“Very good. Are you fond of scenic views? For I presume that it is you who will be meeting him?”
“I don’t care about the view—as long as the place is reasonably secluded. And, yes, I shall be meeting him.”
“And I presume that this will not be a noisy business or involve any activity likely to attract attention?”
“Neither. I shall be sitting alongside him in his car—having explained why I have come instead of you. The sound will be no more than a loud hiss and death charitably almost instantaneous.”
“Ah . . . let us be glad of a little touch of charity.” Unexpectedly stung by the sarcasm Kerslake said, “I happen to have liked what I saw of Farley. I think when you did your first elimination you were in a somewhat similar position.”
“Almost. Except that I thought I was merely drugging the girl so that I could search her luggage. However, I did not mean to upset you. I have a great understanding of your position and shall be as fully guilty as you will be. I’ll ring and see if Mr Farley is in.”
Geddy went to his desk and telephoned. As he waited for a reply he fiddled gently with a small bronze Taiwan temple horse which he used as a paperweight. As luck would have it —since Dolly and Sarah were out and Colonel Branton had gone to London—Farley answered the telephone. His talk with Farley lasted only a little more than five minutes, and the meeting was fixed for half past three the next day. Rising from his desk Geddy went to one of his bookshelves and took down a Royal Ordnance large-scale map to show Kerslake the rendezvous which had been picked.
Opening it he found the spot and explained to Kerslake, “Above Pains wick—here—there is a beauty spot called the Beacon. Most lovely views from the top. A golf course runs up most of the southerly slope. The club house is just here—at the bottom of the Beacon. Just beyond the club house is a cemetery with a wide strip of grass parking space along its front. This bit here . . . which gives a view across the far valley. More important, you are screened at the back by the cemetery wall and its shrubs and trees. Lovers and picnic parties favour it. But at this time of year there should not be, at the most, more than three or four cars there.”
“Thank you, Mr Geddy.”
“You won’t expect me to say that the pleasure is mine. Where will you be staying the night?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, I would suggest somewhere around Stroud. You would only have a few miles to motor. There are plenty of hotels in the district.”
“I’ll do that and drive by the spot on my way there today.” Kerslake stood up and, refraining from any gesture to shake hands, said, “I am obliged to you, Mr Geddy.”
Geddy shrugged his shoulders, then turned to the door to show Kerslake out. That night Kerslake stayed at a hotel on the Common above Stroud. He lay in bed awake for some time seeing in his mind the long stretch of grass verge outside the cemetery which he had visited. Barnstaple, as Quint had once said, was a long way away. The car he had driven up from London had false number plates, its true origin long obscured by Birdcage. While using it he had worn wash-leather gloves and would do so up to the last moment and also when he went to sit in Farley’s car. He had telephoned Quint that evening and arranged a meeting place close to the M4 motorway where a Birdcage car would pick him up. Five minutes after they left his car and were speeding down the motorway a timed device would set it on fire. In the Birdcage underground shooting gallery he had sat beside the dummy mock-up of Farley and three times had taken from his pocket the miniature weapon— the latest in a long line of Birdcage sophisticated accessories, its bulk almost obscured in his hand—and from two inches had fired it—with less sound than a heavy sigh—into the left-hand higher portion of the dummy’s skull, the trajectory slanting upwards.
Farley would die almost instantaneously, unaware that death was taking him. Quint had stood by and nodded approvingly. But both of them knew that this was only the shadow of the reality to come. Neither of them marked with open words that in that coming future finger-pressure would rest the fruition or otherwise of Kerslake’s long apprenticeship.
Many a man and woman in Birdcage had come to this point before him and, in the few seconds before moving to take action, had discovered the real truth of their own natures. Ruefully he thought that Geddy had been lucky. Oh, Lord forgive me for I knew not what I was doing.
Kerslake put out his bedside light, turned on his side, and thought of his secretary Joan. To escape the true turn his thoughts wished to take, he escaped into a slowly increasing erotic comfort of imagination and finally slept.
* * * *
At three o’clock the following afternoon Farley went out to his car which was parked in the drive. He had already put the newspaper-wrapped diary safely in his car before lunch. Colonel Branton was away in London still so there had been no problem in taking it from the safe.
As he was about to get into the car Sarah came round the comer of the house wearing gardening gloves and carrying a small trug with a weeding trowel and fork in it.
She came up to him and said, “Richard? I didn’t know you were going out.”
“Yes, love. I’ve got a little business to deal with.”
“Oh, could I come too? I could easily do my gardening chore later.”
Smiling Farley said, “No, you can’t come, Sarah.”
“Oh, why not?”
He leaned forward and kissed h
er lightly on the cheek. “Because I don’t want you with me. And don’t frown. Among other things it happens that in a few days it will be the birthday of someone I love and it’s customary to mark such days with a gift.”
Sarah laughed. “Well, yes, of course that is rather special. Would you like me to make a few suggestions?”
“I think I can get by on my own. So why don’t you buzz off and join Dolly and give the herbaceous border hell between the two of you?”
Sarah kissed him and as he got into the car said, “Drive carefully, darling.”
“I will.”
As she stood watching the car go down the drive, feeling her love for him a warmth inside her, Dolly came up behind her and said, “Where’s he off to?”
“To buy me a birthday present.”
“Did you make a few suggestions?”
“No. I like surprises.”
Dolly nodded. “So do I. But I don’t often get them. Your father never varies. Birthdays mean either Chanel or Arpege. And every trip to London a box of chocolates, very expensive, and always hard-centred—which he likes and I don’t much. All right—let’s go and attack this bastard of a border. Used to be two permanent gardeners here——” she chuckled, “——so we’re up to strength for today anyway.”
* * * *
As Lord Bellmaster came down the steps from the entrance of his St James’s Street club, where he had been looking out for Colonel Branton’s taxi, Branton had the strong, almost euphoric feeling that the gods were with him. Even if they should decide eventually to turn away from him it wouldn’t matter a damn. But there was no reason why a man shouldn’t give thanks for a chance to keep his own hide intact. From his own club the previous evening he had telephoned Bellmaster and suggested that they might meet to talk over Sarah’s wedding arrangements. Since they were both engaged for lunch Branton had suggested that he drop by Bellmaster’s club and pick him up and they could go on to the flat and talk. The day was Thursday and he had picked it deliberately, knowing from long experience that this was the weekly day off of Bellmaster’s manservant. No help from the gods there. But Bellmaster might easily have been lunching at home and then, he, Branton, would have had to face the hall porter and cover his real identity. He was going to kill the man, but he saw no reason why—if it could be avoided—he should jeopardise his own life. He would have faced that risk, minimally covering it by wearing a false moustache and saying he was a reporter from The Times—could his Lordship spare him a few moments to comment on . . . well whatever came into his head. Bellmaster was publicity-hungry enough to fall for that. But the gods had been good, and with luck now the hall porter would scarcely register him as he came in with Lord Bellmaster.
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