The Satan Sampler

by Victor Canning

  “I don’t know—and that is the trouble.”

  “Kerslake’s gone. Everything will be regulated.”

  “An ugly word—fit only for clocks. Yes, I saw Kerslake go from my window. And I don’t think I was standing there accidentally. One of Fate’s little fingers could have given me a small prod. A niggle in the mind. Sir Manfred Grandison went with him. I saw him. And I checked at reception—he met Kerslake there.”

  Quint was surprised but hid it.

  “So—is that surprising? He had to go sooner or later to see Felbeck, who is at Seyton Hall. Now and again he has bouts of strict economy over cars. Waste big, economize little—the logic of all government departments.”

  “I need no comforting.”

  “Then I give none.” Quint went back to his desk, poured himself a sherry and raising it admired the colour, compared it in his mind to a crystal ball and then dismissed any thoughts of finding any enlightenment in it. Warboys was the crystal ball.

  And Warboys as though he had read his thoughts, said, “I have the feeling that something has been said to me which I should have understood. Or, no—maybe it was a slip. But I think not. I think it was deliberate.”

  “And what was said?”

  “And there you have me because it has gone and I’ve been trying for hours to recall it.”

  “Said by?”

  “Grandison, when I told him that the game was up.”

  “You are afraid perhaps that he will take the tapes and film from Kerslake when he has collected them?”

  “No. He could do that, of course. Kerslake would think it nothing odd. He’s still the great Panjandrum—except to you and me. And the tapes and film mean little now. Except that they would be useful on file for some time in the future and in connection with quite unrelated matters to the one we have in hand. The material for blackmail is always useful . . .”

  “. . . ‘to know the family secrets, and to he feared accordingly’. Juvenal, I think.”

  “Something like that echoes in my mind. And I think it was meant to. Whatever Grandison may be he is compounded of the same emotions as all men. No god. Just one among all us other bi-forked mortals, except for a rare habit of thought which makes him delight in uncommon subtleties.! am sure that he said something to me which I was meant to understand and now I don’t know what it was. Didn’t at the time, except something like a breath of wind stirred the dry summer grasses of my ageing fancy.”

  “You think the bugger’s up to something?”

  “Yes. But no more than yes.”

  “So what?”

  “Nothing—you cannot make honey without pollen.”

  * * * *

  Going through the small town of Ledbury some time after six o’clock, Grandison made Kerslake stop and they went into a hotel for a drink. Kerslake could have wished it otherwise for he was in some awe of the man and yet—ambition to do well in the service clear in his mind and this a rare opportunity to make some direct standing in the man’s favour—he did his best to give a good account of himself when Grandison began to talk to him about his Devonshire days and his ambitions. To his surprise he found himself, after a few minutes, put at his ease and when Grandison discovered that his father had been a pigeon fancier was surprised at the man’s knowledge of the birds.

  Grandison said, “When I was a young man I kept a loft of birds—blue checkers. In Devon, too. But South Devon on the coast, near Plymouth. The casualty rate on flights was sometimes high for those were the days when the peregrine falcons nested on the cliffs. You know, I would sometimes watch the high stoop of the killer and find so much beauty in it that I could only furnish my heart with a token sorrow for the loss to my loft. Death is a noble thing when it comes from the heavens suddenly . . . like the judgment of God.”

  Kerslake grinned. “I don’t think my old man would have agreed with you there, sir. He loved his birds and hated hawks and falcons. Used to take his gun to them when he could.”

  “You’ve killed, haven’t you? What would your father have thought of you?”

  “Yes, sir. I have killed. And he would have thought nothing of me because, had he known, he would have wiped me from his mind and his heart.”

  “Yet he would have shot a falcon whose life is as dear in the sight of God as any man’s. Faulty logic. To condemn you for what he had done himself. Still, we will not confuse this by no means chance conversation with spiritual considerations. Do you really think I travel with you for minor economic reasons . . . a small saving in our house-keeping money?”

  Kerslake smiled. “Frankly, no, sir.”

  “Have you any idea why?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A guess, perhaps?”

  “Oh, that . . . yes, I could make a guess, sir.”

  “A guess? Is that the full truth?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then let me have the truth. That bright, shining jewel which all men crave for—until they have it in their hands and find it like any other metaphysical concept a different thing from the treasure that fancy promised.”

  “Well, sir . . . a little while ago I happened to look in the back mirror. You had your big brief-case open on the seat and I could see right into it.”

  “And you saw it?”

  “I think . . . no, know now that I was meant to see it. You wouldn’t carry it for your own use. Not in your position.”

  “You please me. No. I wouldn’t normally carry it and I have never used one. Nor will. It is for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve used one before?”

  “Yes, sir. Shortly after they were first issued. And once since. They——”

  “I know the technical details. Quick, silent, and as near instantaneous as the flick of the eyelids of the Angel of Death. When we reach the Dower House you will take it in with you and when Seyton has handed over his package to you you will kill him. There will be no servants in the house. You will then bring his stuff out to me and then drop me at the Hall and go straight back to London. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No questions?”

  “I obey orders, sir. Not ask questions.”

  “A discipline becoming rare in other walks of life. So, let us go back to the car for there is no going back to anything else.”

  They drove out of Ledbury into the fast-growing darkness and in the back seat and because it was Ledbury that had made his memory stir to make an apt connection which pleased him, Grandison recited to himself the words of John Masefield.

  Man with his burning soul

  Has but an hour of breath

  To build a ship of truth

  In which his soul may sail—

  Sail on the sea of death;

  For death takes toll

  Of beauty, courage, youth,

  Of all but truth.

  Kerslake, he knew, would never fail him. His only hope was that others would not fail him. After all, a man could write his own requiem at any time after the age of twelve, or if precocious ten. No, there could be no failure on his part. For others he could not speak . . . though he had spoken and tossed the coloured teasing words like balls in the air. Whether they fell to the ground or were caught by ready hands was almost a matter of indifference to him. No, that was not true. It was a matter of life and death, but the choosing of which . . . well, perhaps he was expecting too much from a few simple words spoken lightly to veil a wish which might never come true. A delightful, deadly game which only a Birdcage mind could invent.

  Some time later in London, Warboys rang Quint in his room and said, “I’m glad you are there still. It’s been worrying me ever since I left you. This Grandison thing. He took it so well about having to resign . . . and then we chatted, and I’ve been trying to piece it together. I asked him what he would do when he retired. And just now it came to me—not that it’s any help, though I’m sure he was underlining something, some thought or some hope. And now it’s just come to me. About his retir
ement. What would he do? And I suggested he wrote a biography. It’s something he’s always talked about.”

  “So?”

  “He said . . . well, no. Not right away. He wanted something more immediate . . . something sweeter far than flowing honey. Yes, that’s it. You know him. Wrap it up and let you puzzle over it. It’s the kind of humour—maybe black—which he would relish at a moment like this. Something sweeter far than flowing honey. What does that stir in you?”

  “You’re rushing me, dear Warboys. Give me a little time. Somewhere it rings a bell.”

  “So it does with me, but only distantly.”

  “I shall pour myself a drink and put my thinking cap on.”

  “I hope to God I’m not chasing straws in the wind. They’ll be there by now almost.”

  “I’ll ring back if anything stirs in my mind.”

  Fifteen minutes later Quint rang back.

  He said, “You and I often play a light-hearted game with other people’s words. And now, suddenly it’s a deadly one. I won’t give you the Greek, but it’s from the Iliad and runs—Revenge is sweeter far than flowing honey.”

  “Christ! Revenge!”

  “Seyton?”

  “Of course—he’s the cause of his ruin.”

  “Yes, but there could be more to it than that. I’ll come up and talk to you. Though we may be too late. They could be there by now.”

  * * * *

  As they crossed the river and turned right along the valley road which would take them to the Park entrance gates, Grandison said from behind, “Don’t stop outside the Dower House. Run up the side road which leads to the private chapel. It’s only a short walk back. As I said, there are no servants in the house. That was arranged.”

  “So I was told, sir.”

  “And this car? Covered?”

  Kerslake nodded, the white-painted open gates of the drive coming up into his headlights. “Yes, sir. Not traceable—those were Mr Warboys’ orders.”

  An owl, like a great white moth, floated through the dipped lights ahead, and there was an indifference in Kerslake which he knew he could never have accepted so evenly when he had first entered the service. But now it was routine. Sometimes they told you why—and sometimes they said nothing. He would walk into the Dower House, empty except for Seyton, would talk and maybe have a drink and then be handed whatever had to be handed to him . . . and then with one small movement of his hand from his pocket, holding the little sophisticated weapon . . . almost a toy, but deadly, looking enough like a packet of cigarettes to lull even a moment’s suspicion, and noiseless . . . Well, Seyton would go without time for surprise or protest. . . no change of expression, no wince of pain. He had done it all before. The swift flight of life; and then the body in death standing for a second or two as though it still lived and then slowly collapsing . . . dreams, hopes, animal vigour and appetites switched off like a light. This he would do because it was required of him as part of his duties . . . rare, and never enjoyable, but now easily bearable. And this time: Seyton, who had bedded Georgina, known her body, maybe had her love, or something as near to it as she could ever give—but its being Seyton gave him no joy springing from jealousy. The only joy he knew was in power, not his own, but that delegated to him and to be exercised free—if not from a few wayward considerations of morality as now (Quint had once said that no man ever managed to avoid them, no matter how hard or hardened)—then free from guilt on the soul, though some quirk of the body sometimes arose, like looking at a woman, wanting her, undressing her in imagination but finding that the flesh knew no stir . . . but even that passed with time . . .

  Driving on side lights, he avoided the Dower House and went up the back drive and parked a few yards from the lychgate of the chapel and switched off the lights.

  Grandison said, “Don’t rush things. Get what you have to get, and let him see you to the door. Do it there. When the heart fails he will pass over his own threshold and through a greater. And—if you still have the smallest hankering for the conventional—may God forgive us all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kerslake got out of the car and began to walk towards the Dower House.

  When he was gone, Grandison left the car and walked up the moss-grown path to the chapel. He went in and taking a small torch from his pocket walked towards the altar and the side transept and stood below the memorial plaque to Sarah Satan. Flicking the light up he read the inscription and smiled. Quantae sunt tenebrae! vae mihi, vae mihi, vae! Into the darkness . . . woe is me, woe is me . . . woe . . . Well, the great darkness waited for everyone. No man could tell his own day for going. Though others might be able to. Kerslake walking down now to Seyton. . . One day he might write her biography. It all depended. But one biography could not fill out the span of years left to him. Either they must be filled or shortened . . . Well, he had done all he could, had even spoken a Delphic oracle and made himself a hostage to fortune. He felt no sorrow for Seyton. Revenge was sweet, sometimes bitter sweet . . . or sometimes sweeter far than flowing honey. Those who knew him might or might not be able to read the rune. Did he want that? He could find no answer in himself. He was content to wait and know it.

  He went back to the car, lit a cigar and waited. The night was full of soft rain noises and the steadier sound of the river close by rushing through shallows. Kerslake would go far, but never to the top. Pigeons and falcons. He smiled, remembering himself as a boy . . . cycling along the coast road with his birds in a hamper strapped to the carrier. Saw them on the roof of his loft, cock birds with puffed gorges, rainbow coloured, courting the hens . . . could remember the time when he had stolen money from his mother’s purse to buy a new bird and braved out with convincing sincerity his lack of guilt when challenged . . .just as he had braved out so many sins thereafter.

  He waited, and the rain began to fall heavier, and the car grew cold so that he took his whisky flask and, ignoring the flask top cup, drank from it straight. He drank slowly but continuously until he had emptied the flask. Celebration or consolation? he wondered. The gods would give their answer.

  He did not hear Kerslake return until there came the sound of the car boot being opened and the thump of a suitcase being dropped into it. Kerslake came round to the front and opened the driving door. He took off his raincoat, shook the drops from it and tossed it on to the front passenger seat. He got in, closed the door gently, and switched on the dim interior light. He turned and looked at Grandison. In the dim light his face looked drawn and jaundiced.

  “Well, is it all done?”

  “Yes, sir. Everything that I was ordered. The stuff is all in a suitcase at the back.”

  “No trouble?”

  “No, sir. Everything is as you wanted it to be.”

  Grandison was silent for a moment or two and then he laughed gently. He said, “My dear Kerslake, what a splendid machine you are. Programmed you work perfectly, not even a shade of emotion when you say ‘Everything is as you wanted it to be’. Not even the faintest emphasis on the ‘you’. Well, there it is. I may have hoped, but did not expect Warboys to let me down. And neither do I expect you to now.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Well, a little sorrow does not come amiss. So remember this to tell Warboys . . . All pains are nothing in respect of this, All sorrows short that gain eternal bliss. So now, do me the last favour of making it short.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kerslake’s hand came from his pocket and there was the faintest hiss of sound, as brief as a sigh. Grandison sat, unmoved, unchanged, a faint ironical smile engraved on his face. And then he slowly toppled sideways.

  Kerslake leaned over his seat and pulled the body to the floor and spread the car rug over it. Then he lit himself a cigarette and drove off, his hands steady on the wheel. He had nearly a five-hour drive before him. Once free of the Park he turned the radio on, found music and let it swamp his thoughts.

  * * * *

  Sitting at his desk, his back to Warboys,
who stood staring out of the gap in the almost drawn curtains at the street and car lights reflected on the rain wet ground, Quint listened as Kerslake’s voice came reedily over the telephone. He sat very still, tense and still, not from strain or anticipation, but from the iron fast grip of sadness. Years of deep friendship and loyal service were now ended. Grandison had gone.

  He said to Kerslake, “I’m sorry you were landed with it. You did well. Bring him in. We want it to look as though he collapsed here in his office. I’ll see you later.”

  He put the receiver down and turned to Warboys.

  “Well?”

  “Kerslake was puzzled. Said he was sure that Grandison was expecting it and made no move. He even gave him a message for you and it is word for word. Kerslake forgets nothing. He told the old man what he had to do and Grandison answered, ‘Well, a little sorrow does not come amiss. So remember this to tell Warboys . . . All pains are nothing in respect of this, All sorrows short that gain eternal bliss.”

  Warboys said nothing immediately. He went to a side table and poured brandies for them both, handed Quint one and then raised his glass. “To Grandison—a man whose trust in us we nearly failed, for he relied on us to do for him what his own Catholic faith forbade him the right to do for himself.”

  “And if we had failed?”

  “He would have accepted the fall of the dice. Had his revenge, sweeter than flowing honey, on Seyton, destroyed the tapes and films and come back here unruffled, knowing we would have no power to deny or denounce him without proof.”