by K. M. Peyton
And wait for his father.
But when he went to the bank to get enough to pay the staff, the bank told him that his father’s account, and his own, had been frozen. No money was available.
The bank manager was very apologetic. ‘I’m afraid it’s out of my hands. I can’t help you.’
‘Who closed it? By what authority?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot disclose the details. Not to you, sir. If your father were to come in we might be able to discuss it.’
‘I’ve got to pay the staff.’
‘Perhaps when your father gets home – we might arrange something. I’m so sorry.’
Antony told the staff to stay on holiday until his father came back. He did not tell them the reason why. In fact, he was relieved to have the house to himself, but deeply worried about what was happening. He supposed it was to do with the police visit when they had gone through all his father’s effects. What had they found? he wondered. And that very strange phone call … was his father in some sort of trouble? The indications certainly suggested it.
And the revolver.
Maybe when his father came home Helena’s demise might be a minor mishap compared with what else he had to face. After all, he had scarcely set eyes on the girl in all her life, so her departure would scarcely make any difference to him. If his father had feelings Antony had never seen them revealed.
Now everything was over Antony felt a certain peace descend. He was beginning to believe that his own behaviour would be less pressing upon his father than the fact that his bank account had been frozen. All the same he was alert for the sound of a taxi pulling up in the front drive: the likely date his father had given for his return had arrived. He stayed in the house, waiting.
He waited for two days, without going out.
On the third day he began to think that his father was not going to come back. He had tidied up Helena’s effects and knew that if he sold the jewellery and paintings he would have enough to live on for a good long while, so the closing of the bank accounts was no worry. He had a house to live in – and he quite liked it now he had the whole place to himself, so silent, undemanding. The amazing summer weather bathed it in unusual warmth, the sunshine winkling its way in for all the architect’s apparent desire to keep it out. Antony manoeuvred comfortable chairs into the pockets of sunshine and basked contentedly, all the while listening for the sound of his father’s return. He was not afraid of his father any more. He sensed that his father was in more trouble than he was himself.
Quite early one morning, early in August, he heard at last the sound of motor tyres on the gravel drive. Antony looked out of the front windows and saw a taxi delivering his father, so went across the hall to open the front door. The taxi man was dumping his father’s suitcases on the doorstep and Sylvester was taking out his wallet to pay him. He looked up as the door opened.
‘Hullo, my boy.’
He was very brown and looked to Antony as if he had shrunk, the fat of good living completely stripped away. He looked more active, sharper; his eyes were furtive, glancing everywhere.
‘Are you alone?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Good.’
The taxi man retired. As he went back to his vehicle another car appeared at the end of the drive, approaching the house.
Claude Sylvester looked up quickly and swore. ‘I thought I was being followed! Shut the door, quickly.’
Antony slammed it.
‘Bolt it, bolt it. Don’t let him in.’ And he scurried away across the wide hall like a hunted animal and straight into his office. ‘Bolt all the doors,’ he flung back over his shoulder at Antony.
Antony did as he was told, feeling completely bewildered. Then he followed his father into the office.
‘What the hell’s been going on here?’ His father had pulled open the top drawers and seen how everything was all awry. He pulled out the top papers and flung them down in disgust. ‘Who’s done this?’
‘The police came. They emptied everything out. I couldn’t stop them.’
‘Did they take anything away?’
‘No. I told them they had no right.’
‘Too bloody right! But they’ll be back. Here already, if I’m not mistaken. Go and have a look and see what’s arrived. Don’t let them see you. I’ve got to sort a few things—’ And he was sifting rapidly through the drawers, pulling out some papers, pushing others aside.
There was a heavy banging on the front door as well as the loud pealing of the bell. Antony slipped out to take a peek through a small window in one of the towers the house boasted on either side of its entrance, but saw only one man making the racket. His car was parked on the gravel and its chauffeur was already pulling out a newspaper, as if to settle down for a long stay. The man on the doorstep was tall and commandinglooking; if a policeman, he was not in uniform, but dressed in a formal suit and a trilby hat. Antony went back to report to his father, who was busy stuffing some of his papers into a Gladstone bag that was usually lodged under his desk.
‘Just one man,’ Antony said. ‘And a chauffeur in the car, reading a newspaper.’
‘Only one, eh? That’s very relaxed.’
‘What’s he after?’
‘Me, of course, for all the crimes I’ve committed. Which are serious, you might as well know, Antony, I’m afraid. Life is about to change for you.’
‘What crimes?’ Antony felt as if the floor had shifted suddenly from under his feet. His father was smiling. Antony felt he was seeing another man entirely, not his father at all, but an intruder, sharp as a fox, quick and active, moving about his papers, smiling.
‘You’re a man now, Antony, and well able to live your own life. I shall have to go away, a long way away and never come back. But I think you will cope, so no grieving. We’ve never been close, you won’t miss me.’
‘But—’
‘Just look after Helena, like a good chap.’
‘But Helena’s—’
The knocking at the front door interrupted Antony, and his father turned and said, ‘Go and let him in now, for God’s sake. The man’s no patience.’
Antony thought his father had gone mad. He left the office and went back across the hall to the front door, his mind reeling. He could cope with minor crimes, but major crime had never crossed his path. Surely his father was joking? He slid back the bolts on the door and opened it to the impatient gentleman waiting on the step.
‘I have reason to believe Mr Claude Sylvester is at home?’
‘Yes.’
Antony was going to say ‘Come in’ but the man was already in. ‘Take me to him.’ They crossed the hall. ‘And you are?’ he barked at Antony.
‘Antony Sylvester, his son.’
‘Ah.’
When Antony opened the door to the study he saw his father sitting at his desk looking very relaxed. He looked up as if in surprise.
‘Ah, Mr Higgins, I think?’
‘Chief Inspector Higgins of the CID, based in Westminster. I think we have met.’
‘Fleetingly, yes. Do take a seat. Antony, you can leave us.’
Antony went out. He felt faint, and went outside and sat on the lawn looking at the lake. To think he had been nervous of facing his father with the news of Helena’s demise! And here was his father with not a thought in his head about his daughter, or his son either, come to that, but embroiled in what he declared without shame as major crime. Where does that leave me? Antony wondered. His father was going away and never coming back. Did he mean to prison? It didn’t quite sound like it. But the policeman was already there, presumably to arrest him. None of it made any sense at all.
He felt a bit sick. The place was deserted, as it had been since all the staff had been sent home. Even old Gabriel hadn’t been around, and the flowerbeds were spilling out with blooms, tangled and fallen across the paths. Lily hadn’t been tidying as usual; Gabriel must have kept her away. What were they going to do for money if they had no job any m
ore? What was he going to do, come to that? Go away? Go where?
He groaned and lay back, looking at the sky, which was still blue and cloudless as it had been for weeks. The party felt like a decade away now, lost in the mists of time. It had been a great party until Helena … but her accident no longer seemed of any importance. It might well be true that her death had been a blessing, as he had heard whispered at the funeral, the words sadly, kindly, on everyone’s lips. If she had lived with only himself to look after her, then certainly it had been a blessing. He doubted he could even look after himself. That really hadn’t come into it at Eton; the pampered lot he had grown up with were mostly as heedless as himself. He was now on a sinking ship, unless his father was playing some amazing joke.
After a while he decided to go back into the house and make himself a cup of tea. He could put his nose in and offer one to the policeman, see how things were going, get an idea of how the land lay. He mooched about while the kettle boiled: the great kitchen range had gone out since the staff left and he had to use the new gas contraption that his father had been forced to buy after harangues from the cook. While it was boiling he went out into the hall to check on the policeman’s chauffeur and saw that he was now snoozing with the newspaper over his face. He went back and turned off the boiling kettle and at the same moment he heard a sharp crack from the direction of the office. He thought for a moment it was something to do with the gas cooker, but nothing was amiss there. He went out into the corridor towards the office with a terrible fear rising suddenly into his beleaguered brain. Surely it must be his imagination? But he knew the neat little revolver was still lying in the bottom drawer of the desk.
He went out into the corridor and saw the office door open. His father stood there with the revolver in his hand. It wasn’t his imagination.
His father was quite cool. ‘I’ve got to leave, Antony.’
Antony shoved past him through the doorway and saw the body of Detective Inspector Higgins lying on the floor with an expression of amazement on his obviously dead face. There was no sign of blood.
‘He had come to arrest me. He thought I would go quietly, like a good civil servant. Wrong, the idiot. Come on, Antony. Is your little aeroplane fuelled up?’
‘What?’ Antony couldn’t believe what was happening.
‘I’ve got to leave here in a great hurry, can’t you see? Before the chauffeur comes enquiring, before anyone finds out. I can’t go out the front way obviously. Is the plane ready to go?’
‘Yes, Tom refuelled it after the … party, and I haven’t taken it up since …’
‘Thank God for that. I’ll just get a bag. You get your helmet and goggles or whatever and we’ll be off. Good lad.’
It was as if some great lark were taking place. Antony waited speechlessly as his father gathered together some stuff off the desk and shoved it into his small leather bag, pulled what appeared to be wads of money from a drawer he had to unlock, stuffed it on top of the papers and laid the revolver on top. He buckled the bag up.
‘Get your gear.’
‘It’s in the plane. The keys are in my pocket.’
‘Antony, move! Wake up! Do as you’re told – fast!’
Antony ran. He thought he was going to be sick. The body of the police detective was nowhere near as peaceful as Helena’s had looked, the dead face seeming full of hate and pain, a rictus leer stretching the smooth, rather handsome features, blood now beginning to pool beneath his body, and Antony wanted to be rid of the sight. Soon he was across the lawn and pushing the fastest of the skiffs out into the water.
His father was nimble as a rabbit. ‘You row, smoothly now. Not as if we’re in a panic, in case someone’s watching. Taking your old father for a trip out to the grotto, that’s what we want them to think.’
‘The chauffeur was asleep,’ Antony said, hoping to calm him down. His father was a man he had never seen before, on the verge of laughter, alight with excitement. Antony thought he was enjoying it, his life of crime erupting on his boring home stage. What on earth had he been up to in South America? Had he killed before? ‘Dad – you’re going to … hang.’
‘Only if I’m caught. I’ve done this sort of thing before, believe me, but it’s taken them a long time to catch up with me. Now the cat’s out of the bag though, it’s time to leave.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Le Bourget. Paris. I can get on farther from there, no trouble.’
‘Across the Channel! I’ve never flown across the Channel!’
‘A good time to start then. The weather’s perfect, piece of cake.’
Piece of cake. The words went round and round in Antony’s head. Nothing made sense to him any more.
16
If his father had chosen a time to kill someone and fly to France he couldn’t have chosen a better day for it. It was still quite early in the morning and the sky was cloudless as usual: a perfect day to cross the Channel. Antony was now more concerned with the thought of flying across the Channel than with his father’s amazing transformation into a crook. It was as frightening as anything that had already happened that morning.
He knew the way to Dover. One just followed the road. He had hovered many times over the port thinking about making the crossing, but had never actually found the courage to do it. He despised himself for his lack of pluck, and had always convinced himself that if he had had a willing passenger he would have committed himself. Cedric had been keen enough to go and study French cows, but Simon and John had never even taken a flight with him, and Antony had never thought Cedric was quite the right companion for a trip to France (although, strangely, he seemed to have changed a lot recently: he had been extremely useful at the party).
From the plane France beckoned, apparently quite close.
His father appeared to be enjoying the flight, although the engine noise made conversation virtually impossible – thank goodness, Antony thought, not in any way wanting to be a confidant of this killer in the passenger seat. He made as much height as he could, heading south, wanting to be as far away from the water as possible. Thank God there was no wind and no problem in seeing where to go … the sands of Calais lay white in the sunshine, and tiny fishing boats dotted the blue silk sea.
It was beautiful! Why ever had it taken a mad father to coerce him into this trip when he could have done it long before? For a few minutes Antony was euphoric. Then, as Calais loomed up amazingly fast, he realized he had no idea where to go next. Where was Paris? He had no idea. His little plane continued like a cheeky robin looking for ‘abroad’ and it was for him to give it directions: thank God Tom had looked after it so assiduously, for its engine never gave him a moment’s doubt. Lots of pilots got killed by their craft giving up on them. Looking for an emergency landing place was always instinctive.
Now his father was poking his shoulder and passing him a note:
Follow the coast down to the Somme and then the river inland to Amiens. Then the railway line to Paris. Easy as pie.
Lovely beaches to land on all the way. France seemed altogether much larger than England and Antony was now actively enjoying this amazing experience, peering over the cockpit edge at the alluring little villages below. Everything was far more spread out in France, and less intensively farmed, all much more relaxed somehow. Even the river Somme, with the terrible connotations in the very name from the war that had ended only four years ago, picked a lazy route through wide expanses of sand, sparkling all the way, to find the sea, and beside it was a railway line as well as a big road, all marking the route to Paris. Further on, the ravages of war were still only too apparent but, overlaid by struggling new growth and basking in sunshine, the wounds were receding. The river led him all the way. How simple! Why ever hadn’t he come before when it was so easy? (Without a killer in the passenger seat.)
Strangely he felt little compassion for his father, or even interest in what was to become of him. He had been a distant figure in his life, never displaying the sli
ghtest interest in his son; there seemed little reason now for the son to feel anything but a passing anxiety in his plight. Getting rid of him would be a relief, but there might be a welcome party at Le Bourget if word had got out. Telephones might have been ringing. But with luck the chauffeur at the front of the house was still asleep and had never seen their exit, or heard the plane take off. There was no one in the house to come across the dead body; it was probably still lying there, growing cold, undiscovered. It was hard to work out how long ago the shot had rung out. It seemed to Antony about five minutes ago, but it must be getting on for at least two hours now, even three.
A large town that must be Amiens – or what remained of it – loomed up beneath them. Road and river led them on. Antony knew that Le Bourget airport, was several miles north of Paris, so hoped his father would recognize it before they reached the capital. He began to feel nervous about making a landing in a strange airport, but trusted his father to do the talking. Did his father speak French? Antony had no idea. His was sketchy, not for lack of teaching but for lack of his own application.
His father prodded him again and pointed out to the left, and Antony saw the airport with its generous landing strip heaving into sight, with its windsock showing him that he could fly straight in. He searched the sky in all directions to make sure that no one else was coming in, and there was no action whatsoever on the ground to suggest anyone taking off, only a few craft sitting like flies outside the hangars, so to his relief his landing was very simple to complete. He touched down without a bump, the airstrip a great improvement on his rough home landing, and taxied on for what looked like the reception area. A few workers were standing around chatting and smoking and no one made a great show of greeting the incomer.
His father was already opening his door to jump out, his leather bag in his hand. ‘Here, Antony, old chap, I’m sorry the way things have turned out. Take this – it’ll keep you solvent for a few weeks. Go and see your Aunt Maud – she’ll see you through.’
