Siding Star

by Christopher Bryan

  Hold on!

  The domed tower!

  The tower of his Dream, the tower he always knew he’d seen

  before but could never recall!

  How could he not have remembered?

  It was the tower that stood before him.

  The tower of the Anglo-Australian Observatory. He drew a sharp intake of breath—so sharp that Thaddaeus

  looked back.

  “You okay, Dr. Brown?”

  Charlie forced a smile. “Just excited!”

  But he wasn’t okay.

  So was the dream about something he’d found at the observatory, or was going to find? He shook his head. His subconscious was surely muddling things that ought not to be muddled.

  The dream had depressed him as always. But now its breaking through into the fabric of his life, his real life, the fabric of his work, the fabric of his passion—that alarmed him.

  He must pull himself together. Apart from anything else, he had students depending on him.

  He tightened his lips resolutely and looked around him.

  Low buildings reared from the forest on either side of the road. The minibus was turning left into a courtyard. There it stopped.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  Why did one always say that, when one could not possibly be anywhere else?

  Zaziwe and Thaddeus got out of their seats.

  siding stAr 61

  Welcome to the Land of Oz. Damn that dream.

  FiFteen

  Monday, October 20.

  T

  he promised report on the life and works of Henry Wheatley was on Cecilia’s desk before lunchtime. Career at grammar school impeccable, crowned with an open scholarship to Wadham College, Oxford. Gained something of a reputation as a marksman at the university shooting club, but academic career as an undergraduate somewhat disappointing, finished with a Second. But then brilliant research paper led to widespread recognition.

  From which, Cecilia gathered, Henry Wheatley never looked back.

  Among his many impressive positions was his current post with the Ministry of Defence, which involved the highest possible security clearance. There was no record of his ever having had any connection with a murder trial either as a witness or in any other capacity.

  The detective sergeant had attached a note:

  As you know, our computerized records don’t yet go back before 1985: but in view of your age and Wheatley’s, that surely ought to be enough in this case?

  64

  ChristoPher BryAn Incidentally, DS Sims, who is addicted to reading the grizzlier nineteenth-century murder trials, informs me that there was a Henry Wheatley of Old George, Mortlake, who appeared as witness for the prosecution in the trial for murder of Kate Webster, accused and subsequently convicted of the murder of her employer, Mrs. Thomas. Cut her up in little pieces and put her in a box. As this happened in 1879, I doubt it’s much help. Sorry.

  So much for that idea. And just what, exactly, did little Miss Perfect mean by in view of your age?

  The inspector shrugged and went to lunch.

  Yet her doubt was not allayed. She had seen Wheatley’s name somewhere. Somewhere suspicious. And not in the record of a nineteenth century murder trial.

  But where?

  Her question persisted throughout the day and into the evening.

  She sat in the armchair by the window, an unread book on her knee, and gazed into space. Figaro gazed at her thoughtfully, then came and sat on her feet. It didn’t help.

  At half-past nine Papa came round. He looked tired, and had obviously called just to make sure that she was all right but she told him her problem anyway. They spoke Italian, and what she had to say sounded even vaguer and more farfetched than it had in English.

  “Why don’t you pay this fellow Wheatley a visit?” he said when she’d finished. “Then you’ll get a feel for him. You have strong instincts about people, and they’re usually right.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Well, yes, Papa. I could do that.”

  Of course, to ask the kind of questions she needed to ask,

  siding stAr 65 based on no evidence, would require permission from her superior officer.

  Damn.

  Yet her doubts remained, and Papa’s suggestion the only way she could see of doing anything about them.

  sixteen

  Heavitree Police Station. Wednesday, October 22.

  Superintendent Hanlon was destined for great things and in the meantime occupied a position already too small for his many talents. Of all this he assured his subordinates so often that it was impossible they should either doubt or forget it. He had dark, curly hair, a winning smile, and a nice body. He’d been to an expensive school and to Cambridge. He had friends in high places and a beautiful wife. He regularly said all the right things about the contribution of women to good policing and the importance of equality of opportunity.

  At their initial interview when she came to work for him Cecilia hoped he’d be all right. Now she knew her instinct that he wasn’t had been right. Since he was her superior officer, she in any case owed him respect, loyalty, and obedience, and these she would still give, only slightly modified by the fact that she regarded him as a treacherous toad.

  Her appointment was for 10:00 a.m. Knowing that he would keep her waiting for up to an hour—this time it was forty-five minutes—she scheduled no next appointment and tucked a book into her shoulder bag.

  Hanlon had no apology for keeping her waiting but was all friendly grins and good humor as he waved her to a chair.

  68

  ChristoPher BryAn “Good morning, Cecilia! Or—of course, these days I should say, good morning, Inspector! Everyone tells me you’re doing very well. I’m pleased. And I’m really glad we managed to get it through for you.”

  She said, “Thank you, sir.”

  It wasn’t easy.

  Because this, of course, was the treacherous toad part. The

  truth was, her promotion a couple of months ago had been a close-run thing, but not for the reason he implied. She too, as it happened, had friends in high places (well, one friend, who’d once been Papa’s student) and so she knew that Hanlon had fought her promotion tooth and nail, until he was finally over-ruled by the Chief Constable of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.

  “Well, Cecilia, what seems to be the problem? How can we help you?”

  “I’m afraid I need to question Henry Wheatley, sir.”

  She explained her suspicions as best she could. Unfortunately, even though she never specifically mentioned the superinten- dent, she could hardly avoid implying how contrary to normal procedure it had been that someone had released evidence pertaining to the ongoing investigation. She sensed Hanlon’s mounting defensiveness even before he spoke. His mouth was tightening. This was a mistake. She ought to have known—

  “Cecilia, I really am not at all sure that I can allow this. Dr. Wheatley holds a top-secret, senior government post. It was entirely proper to release his property to him. And we really cannot allow ourselves to harass an important man such as this just because of something that will probably turn out to be just a matter of police incompetence.”

  “I see. So I’m to understand that he couldn’t have got his book back and it would have been all right to harass him if he wasn’t important?”

  The words were out before she could stop them. She was at

  siding stAr 69 once aware of his sharp intake of breath. She’d blown it. She’d surely blown it. How could she be so—

  Brrrrrrrrrring!

  Hanlon, now looking at her as though he could chew up nails and spit out rust, snatched up the phone, said, “I told you—” and then was clearly interrupted by someone far more important than he was.

  What followed was something Cecilia could not have hoped for. Even from where she sat she could hear the angry voice, although she could not hear what it was saying. Still, it was evident that someone was (as Sergeant Wyatt would have
put it) giving Hanlon a right bollocking, and didn’t care who heard it.

  Hanlon was squirming in his chair.

  “Yes sir… of course sir…. I quite understand sir….”

  Cecilia, to tell the truth, was doing a bit of squirming on her own account. She looked up at the ceiling. She looked down at the floor. And all the time she was struggling not to chortle.

  Hanlon finally managed to get in a “Just one moment sir”— and then, surely eager to get rid of her at any cost, said, “All right, Cavaliere, do your interview if you must. But be discreet. I don’t want any trouble about it. I want that understood.”

  “Oh yes sir! Of course, sir. Discretion’s the word!” Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Three bags full sir! Grazie a Dio!

  She went back to her office and at once emailed him that she would “act promptly on your recommendation that I interview Henry Wheatley”—thus covering her back should he change his mind or forget what he’d said. (Sergeant Wyatt had taught her a rather more vivid expression for it.)

  That done, she decided to take an early lunch.

  Mind you, she’d have loved to know what the bollocking was about.

  Maybe Sergeant Wyatt would know.

  Maybe it was about Hanlon’s releasing the book to Wheatley in the first place? He had, after all, ignored procedure. Maybe someone had noticed? Someone who mattered? Someone who wasn’t as sensitive about frustrating important people as Superintendent Hanlon was? Actually, that was another puzzle. Hanlon had sounded like an automaton when he trotted out his ridiculous explanation. Did even he really believe it? And if not, why on earth had he released the book? She shook her head. There were too many questions here.

  Like the sensible Italian she was, she would go and eat.

  seventeen

  London. The same morning.

  I

  t was a brilliant autumn day, mild enough for spring. Sparrows chirped around the pavements and gutters of the Bayswater Road. Taxis and buses answered with cheerful honks and growls. On the steps of the academy stood the chairman. It was not his habit to leave the building during the morning and he was not entirely sure why he had done so now. He looked at the elegant Victorian terrace houses opposite him, then along to his right at the trees in Hyde Park, visible at the end of the road, dark, leafless, and barren against the sky—or rather apparently barren, for doubtless life still lurked within them. Directly opposite him were two pretty children with a young woman, the children gleefully riding little scooters in the sunshine. In vain the young woman kept cautioning them— ”Be careful, darlings! Not too near the edge, darlings! Mind other people, darlings!”—in vain, for she herself could not help laughing with them in their pleasure, and so her messages were hopelessly mixed. And the “other people” were smiling, happy to step aside and make way for the joy in their midst.

  The chairman shook his head. He was glad that from here he could not see into the park itself. He did not like parks, for many things grew in them. He did not like things that grew. He did not like children.

  So he stood, looking at the children and meditating his dislike.

  Then, as if from nowhere, there came the blue butterfly. Quite how it came was a mystery. It was surely the wrong time of year and the wrong place. The color—glowing, iridescent— was fitter for the blazing noontide of a tropical island than an autumn day in London. Yet there it was, fluttering delicately in pale sunlight.

  The chairman caught his breath, entranced. To his amazement it came to him. Like a gift, like a benediction, like the breath of an angel, it flew closer and closer until at last it settled, trust- ing, upon his sleeve. He gazed at it, marveling. It was exquisite: a tiny living jewel, innocent, vulnerable, perfect, its wings trembling, its antennae moving gently. Never, it seemed, had he seen anything more graceful or more beautiful. He smiled. His hand closed over it. Now he could feel the dainty flutter of its wings against his palm, and even, he fancied, the touch of its antennae. His smile broadened. Slowly, slowly, savoring the moment, he pressed his hand against the cloth.

  The sparrows continued to chirp. The taxis and buses honked and growled. The young woman and her children went on their way.

  Still smiling broadly, the chairman turned and went back into the academy, brushing the tiny ruin from his sleeve.

  eighteen

  Exeter. Wednesday evening, October 22.

  T

  hat evening Cecilia Cavaliere made her visit to Henry Wheatley, taking with her PC Wilkins, who would doubtless benefit from the experience. Wheatley’s was a large, handsome three-storey house, dating from the 1930s and set back from the road. The drive leading up to it was occupied—in effect, blocked—by a blue Lexus LS 600h L sedan. Cecilia parked her own car in the road, and together she and PC Wilkins walked up to the house.

  Henry Wheatley quickly made clear the enormous value of his time, and the extent to which he was inconvenienced by unnecessary and thoughtless interruptions. But Cecilia was long past being put off her stride by such a display as that. Indeed, she noticed in herself a tendency on such occasions to slow down rather then speed up. The truth was, it amused her to play the plodding, slow-witted police officer.

  “I know sir, these things are irritating for all of us. I always think that death is very annoying and inconvenient. But, just a few questions, sir. I understand you’d lent a book to Kakoyannis? A notebook that was found among Kakoyannis’s effects?”

  “Yes, Inspector. I’ve already told your colleague at the station all this. And your superintendent released the book to my care.” “Yes, of course, sir. But if you’ll just indulge me a moment or two longer. You did lend this book to Kakoyannis, then?”

  “I just said so.”

  “Yes, sir. Quite right, sir! Thank you, sir. And when would that have been?”

  “Oh, about a year ago. I don’t keep a record of these things, you know.”

  “Of course not, sir. Very understandable. And you were both—where?”

  A fraction of a second’s hesitation? Of course, he could just be trying to remember.

  “We were at a conference together. On religion and science. Organized by the Academy for Philosophical Studies in London. Last… June? I remember now—of course. It was last June.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s most helpful. You have a note of that, Constable?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” PC Wilkins said. “Academy for Philosophical Studies. In London. Last June.” He was playing along nicely.

  “That’s right, Constable. Now sir, where exactly is this book?”

  “In my desk. Would you like to see it?”

  “Well, yes sir, I would, actually.”

  “Very well.”

  The book that Wheatley took from his desk and handed to her was hand-written in what looked like Hebrew.

  “Well now, this is very interesting sir. Although I’m not a scholar myself, you understand.”

  “No, Inspector. Would you like to take the book with you? Then perhaps you could get a scholar to examine it?”

  “That would be very obliging of you sir. There have been a couple of unexpected developments in this matter, and it may be helpful for us to look at it further.”

  “Oh really? What kind of developments, Inspector?”

  “Sorry, sir, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  siding stAr 75 “Then of course you shall have the book. I hope it proves useful. I’m always delighted to help the police.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  She and Wilkins started to leave.

  “We’ll return the book to you as soon as possible, sir,” she said in the hall. “And apart from that, I hope I shan’t have to trouble you again.”

  Henry Wheatley looked her in the eye.

  “None of us has to do anything, Inspector. We do what we choose to do.”

  “Yes, sir. I dare say, sir. It was a manner of speaking.”

  “Ah. A manner of speaking. That can be very deceptive, Inspector. Especially self-deceptive.” He smiled. �
�If things are as you suggest, it seems to me that perhaps the police should not have released this book to me in the first place.”

  For a moment Cecilia considered how pleasant it would be to punch that smug, intelligent face. Still, something had happened. Urbanity was gone. The man was mocking her. Why?

  Frowning, she peered at the book for a moment, then looked up at him.

  “Are you quite sure this is the right book, sir?”

  “Of course I’m sure Inspector. Do you think I don’t recognize my own writing?”

  Touché! Wheatley’s voice, somewhat high-pitched anyway, had risen very slightly. And, just caught by her as she glanced up, there had been a second’s hesitation, a momentary distancing of the eyes.

  Cecilia, flicking through pages, continued as though she had noticed nothing. “And you are fluent in this—Hebrew, isn’t it sir?”

  “Mostly Aramaic, actually. Some Hebrew. Yes, officer, as it happens, I am. They are just languages, like any other. The fact that some regard them as sacred doesn’t change that. Actually, they’re rather simple languages once you get past the alphabet, which is a little strange to us.”

  Voice normal. The crack, if crack it was, had been quickly hidden.

  “I see, sir. Thank you.”

  “Hebrew in particular is also rather beautiful, I think. Would you like me to read some of it for you?”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir. You’re interested in Judaism, are you?”

  “I am interested in superstitions, officer. Of which Judaism is an example. So is Islam. Christianity, of course, is another—in the case of Christianity, a particularly virulent and dangerous superstition that brought down the Roman Empire.”

  “Sir?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s all in Gibbon, if you want to learn about it. Another superstition, of course, is Law.”