The note she wrote to Quoyt was not disrespectful but it still boiled down to, “There’s nothing wrong with this. Please don’t waste my time”—if he had the wit to see it.
eighty
Friday afternoon, January 30.
The Cavalieres arrived at St. Andrew’s with dog beds and suitcases. Pu, whose hobby was food, discovered the cat’s bowls within ninety seconds. She was quickly joined, of course, by Tocco and Figaro. Felix and Marlene, to their credit, treated this disgraceful behavior by retiring to the upper part of the house.
Michael, already dressed in his best clericals, showed them their rooms. Supper was laid out for them in the dining room. He expected to be back by half past eight. Charlie Brown was not expected to arrive before nine. And there was time for an early glass of something before he went if they wished. They did. Surely they were all conscious on some level of the meeting they had agreed to have later “because of a serious situation.” But no one asked about it, for which Michael was grateful. Sufficient unto the day—or in this case, the hour—was the evil thereof.
While Michael was filling their glasses, Cecilia noticed the Cranston College invitation propped up on the mantelpiece and picked it up.
“There’s a spare seat here,” she said as he was replacing the stopper in the decanter.
334
ChristoPher BryAn “What did you say?”
“It says ‘The Venerable and Mrs. Michael Aarons’.” “So it does. It often happens to me. Everyone still assumes a
respectable Anglican archdeacon must be married. Why?” “Well, who are you going to take?”
“No one, I suppose.”
She raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Well, I don’t have a wife, do I?”
She continued to stare.
“Oh! Well, I could take you. I mean, if you’d like! Would you
like to come?”
“I thought you’d never ask! Of course I’d like. And think how
much use I’ll be as an extra pair of eyes spotting evil works.
I expect I’m better at spotting evil works than you, anyway.
After all, it’s my job.”
“Well…”
“Mama and Papa wouldn’t mind being deserted for a bit,
would you? There don’t seem to be seats for you. But you could
stay here and dog- and cat-sit.”
Andrea had just completed a long week at one educational institution, followed by a drive from Exeter to London in heavy weekend traffic. The idea of a couple of hours spent quietly with Rosina (not to mention, of course, Tocco, Pu, Figaro, and— should they choose to reappear—Felix and Marlene) was infi- nitely more appealing than a jaunt to some affair at another educational institution.
“Speaking for myself, I wouldn’t mind in the least. Sounds like a good plan. What about you, cara?”
Rosina smiled. “Oh, very appealing.”
“There you are, Michael,” Cecilia said. “Professor Andrea Cavaliere and Senora Rosina Cavaliere both think it’s a good idea to stay here, and I’d like to go with you. How about that?”
“I should be delighted.”
siding stAr 335 “Right! I’ll change, then. Can you give me fifteen minutes?” La bella figura! Michael barely repressed a smile.
“We don’t have to be there until six. These things never start
on time anyway.”
Cecilia was almost at the door when she turned back. “I say, Michael, you’re sure you don’t mind? I mean—I sometimes forget, not everyone wants a copper barging in on them all over the place. You weren’t planning to go and be serious with bishops or something?”
“I make it a practice never to be serious with bishops.” Only after she’d left the room did it occur to Michael that he was actually quite excited at the prospect of turning up at Cranston College with Cecilia Cavaliere in tow.
He must be losing his mind. If Charlie was right, the world was probably going to end shortly.
And in any case a woman like Cecilia Cavaliere must have her pick of eligible men flocking after her.
And he was probably too old for her anyway.
eighty-one
Later the same evening.
Cranston College was strikingly, even aggressively, contemporary. Passing through the transparent doors was like entering an airline terminal. Money had been spent lavishly
on the décor: thick carpets, concealed lighting, exotic indoor
plants, and running streams. The assembly hall held several
hundred people, all of whom rose to their feet as the principal
entered with the Minister of Education and a number of others
whose faces Cecelia didn’t recognize.
The first part of the proceedings—the official opening—was
entirely formal. Proper things were said. Proper ceremonies
were performed. Proper people were thanked. The Minister
of Education said nothing in particular for about ten minutes.
And the thing was done.
Then came the principal, a heavy, slightly bulbous man in
his fifties.
“Mr. Minister, My Lord Mayor, Your Worships, distinguished visitors, ladies and gentlemen…”
His delivery was monotonous, and Cecilia found herself
focusing on an enormous indoor plant that stood in front of
her. She was good with house plants, but she’d never managed
anything like that. How on earth did they do it? It was gigantic.
It was magnificent. It was—
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ChristoPher BryAn
Plastic. She glanced around her. Politely attentive faces. Glassy eyes thinking distant thoughts. Michael’s face a mask.
The principal appeared to be reaching his conclusion. He was speaking with fervor and perhaps just a shade louder than the circumstances demanded. She pulled herself together. She had practically made Michael bring her. The least she could do was pay attention.
“At this time, as never before, it is imperative that we be faithful to those principles which life itself has placed so firmly in the grasp of our generation, for in them lies the key to progress. A wise man once said, there is no sin but ignorance, and indeed…”
Was it really possible that this boring man, uttering platitudes that must surely seem overworked by the feeblest standards, was part of a terrible plot? That his college was involved in a dark design? She pursed her lips and frowned. That, after all, was what they were trying to find out. What we can’t show, we don’t know. Hello—what was that? A ladybird was scuttling along the floor. The insect stopped, then turned. It was peril- ously near to a softly tapping foot in the next row. Turn back, you stupid thing! Oh, no—it was actually going towards the danger! Ah—at the last minute it had spread its wings and shot away. Now where was it? On the wall to her left? Oh, no. Here it was again —
A sudden burst of applause.
He’d finished. Well that, at least, was a mercy.
The principal sat down, mopped his brow, and poured himself a glass of water. The applause continued as he drank it. Several of the audience rose to their feet.
“What did you think of that?” Michael asked as they moved out.
A momentary temptation to prevaricate was resisted.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” she said. “After all the fuss I made to come, I wasn’t listening to most of it.”
Michael chuckled. “I don’t think you missed anything.”
siding stAr 339
They made their way through the crowd. “Michael, before we do anything else, do you mind if we just go outside for a few minutes?”
“Not at all. But why?”
“It seems I’ve got a ladybird in my hand.”
“Is it awake?”
“It certainly was awake. It nearly got stepped on.”
“That’s odd—they’re usually dormant ‘til March. Then they wake up.”
“Well, this one
woke up early.”
“I suppose it might be the heat in the building. Let’s put him outside somewhere sheltered and maybe he’ll go back to sleep.”
“How do you know it’s a ‘he’?”
“I don’t. I gather even ladybirds get it wrong sometimes.”
“Good heavens!”
“Yes, I’m sorry—I should have said, ‘he or she.’”
“I forgive you.”
“Thank you. Now, shall we go and find somewhere to put him or her?”
“Yes!”
They deposited Cecilia’s ladybird under some leaves in the churchyard opposite and returned to the reception in a further hall.
“Oh good! They’ve got nibbles,” Michael said. “I like nibbles.” But just as he was about to help himself to cashews, Cecilia put her hand on his arm.
“This is no time for antipasti mediocri,” she said. “There’s work to be done.” She tucked her arm through his. “This way!”
“Where are we going?” he asked as she steered him between double swing doors and out onto a wide, empty area of open tarmac between the hall and another large building.
“Exploring,” Cecilia said. “Looking for evils, of course. Isn’t that what you came for?”
“But we can’t just go wandering about the place as if we owned it.”
“Of course we can. Look at me—wandering about the place as if I owned it!” With that she stuck her nose in the air and flounced ahead of him with a mincing walk that made him laugh. She looked back and grinned. “There you are,” she said, “Nothing to it!”
He caught up with her.
“Now, if anyone asks what we’re doing,” she said, “you just play the idiot priest and leave the rest to me. Let’s go over here. Just stroll. Not a care in the world. Chin up. Perfect right to be here. That’s it.”
A few minutes later Michael found himself walking with her through an arch and into a long quadrangle surrounded by what were evidently laboratories, offices, and workshops, a mass of glass and aluminium that gleamed in the yellow sodium glare. Signs of recent construction were obvious. A heap of scaffolding. Several pieces of machinery. It was quiet, though, after the hubbub of the reception. They walked across freshly laid paving.
“A stream used to run under here,” Cecilia said, “but they’ve diverted it into the Thames, higher up.” She took a piece of paper from her handbag.
“How on earth do you know that?”
“Google.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” he said.
“I told you, I’m the expert at spotting evils.” Now she was lining up her paper with the buildings. “Anyway, I’ve got help…. Ah! Let’s go through here. It ought to get really interesting.”
There were lanterns on each side of the porch, and she paused by one of them to peer again at her paper. The light framed her figure, shining on her hair as it fell forward. Then she looked up at him, her dark eyes bright with intelligence and fun. “Come on!” she said. “This way!”
He followed her.
She led the way to a corner of the quadrangle, through a narrow space, and out into a wide area. There were halls of residence on each side and between them a chaos of rubble, building materials, tools. Fifty yards ahead of them was a high barbed-wire fence with a well-lit sign.
DANGER
THIS IS A HISTORIC SITE AND ITS PRESENT CONDITION IS EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. ABSOLUTELY NO ADMISSION UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
GUARD DOGS AND SECURITY MEN PATROL. “That,” she said, “is Hadrian’s Grave. It’s what your young men who vanished were on about. Apparently it was called that in the sixteenth century—nobody knows why. But nobody thinks the place really had anything to do with il Imperatore Adriano. For a long time there was an inn here. Apparently there’s a witticism in Boswell about ‘making an end at the Grave’. It seems to be an odd name for a pub, but there you are. The place had some connection with the Hellfire Club—though everyone’s a bit vague about that. Then it was burnt down and afterwards there was a warehouse.” She peered again at her notes. “Oh, yes. Someone found some Roman brickwork while they were building an extension in 1937. I knew the Italians were in on it somewhere. That’s all. Come on.”
God in heaven—he really was losing his mind!
They got within a few feet of the barbed wire. Beyond it were earthworks and a dark entrance, but there was no obvious way in through the fence.
“I suggest we walk along the fence to the left,” Cecilia said. “Michael, do you notice—“
“You two! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
A man emerged from the shadows to their left. As he headed towards them the wind seemed to change direction and Michael became aware of a very strong, very unpleasant smell.
“Can’t you people read?”
Before Michael’s eyes, Cecilia became an entirely different person. She fluttered and flapped toward the advancing figure. She oozed good-natured incompetence.
“Oh—good evening, we’re so glad to see you. We seem to have taken a wrong turning.”
“Well, this is out of bounds.”
“Oh, really? We are sorry, aren’t we, Father?”
“Ah—”
“This is Father Aarons. He’s an archdeacon, you know. Anyway, I’m afraid I was feeling a little faint—so very warm inside, you know—and he very kindly brought me out for some air, and we seem to have taken a wrong turning and so as you see here we are. I suppose this is all to be part of the new college? Are those excavations? They look very interesting.”
“Yes, miss. At the reception, are you?”
“Oh, yes—dear Father Michael, he’s so interested in education. Only the other day he preached a veryfine sermon about it. ‘Knowledge is the key to life,’ he said, and I do think—“
“Well, the reception’s back through there, miss.”
“Oh, thank you so very much. That is kind. And I’m feeling much better now, thank you. So very kind of you. And such a beautiful reception. A most interesting speech! Delicious hors d’oeuvres. Everythingof the first quality. Well, we mustn’t keep you talking. Come along, Father. Good night, then.”
Michael padded along behind her. Dear God, she could make a living at this.
Cecilia said nothing until they were back in the car, then she grasped his arm. “Michael, do you remember what Mama and Papa told us about last November—when that… that thing happened at the house?”
“Of course.”
“I really think there may be a connection between what happened then and this place. Remember they said there was an awful smell—like something rotting, a dead smell, Papa said? Well, did you notice the smell tonight? Just after the man started shouting?”
“Dreadful. I’ve never smelled anything worse.”
“That’s right. A sort of… well, Papa’s description would fit, a dead smell. And there’s something else It was in a mass of routine stuff I skimmed through a few days ago because I asked for everything on the night of the academy fire no matter how triv- ial—and there was an odd report by two Met officers quite near here. They said they’d seen something very strange moving along the East India Dock Road—something that disappeared before they could identify it, but at the same time there was a ghastly, unpleasant smell. They reported it mainly because they thought the sewer might need attention, but the moment I smelled that smell back there, I thought there might be a connection. I know it’s not much to go on, but it’s something. I would have looked further if that man hadn’t interrupted us. At just the wrong moment! I could have killed him!”
“You hid your rage remarkably well.”
“Oh, well, he was shouting and then we were busy.”
“You certainly were. An amazing performance! I was impressed.”
She laughed. “Oh, you liked my Miss Bates act, did you? With apologies to Prunella Scales! ‘Svergognata’—‘shameless hussy’! That’s what Mama would call me.”
He chuckled, turned on the ignition, a
nd began driving them home.
It was nice that she’d held his arm. It was a gesture of trust. To be sure, she could have no idea how much pleasure it gave him. Indeed, he rather hoped she didn’t have any idea.
Still, trust was precious and he could try to deserve it.
That at least was allowed.
Even perhaps required.
eighty-two
The same evening.
They had been back at St. Andrew’s for about half an hour— time to drink a glass of wine, eat a little more of the cold supper Michael had provided, and tell Andrea and Rosina the latest news—when the doorbell rang. Michael answered it and ushered Charlie in. Introductions were made and the duties of hospitality fulfilled. Figaro and Pu were friendly, but Tocco seemed delighted by Charlie, prancing around, offering kisses, and curling at his feet when he sat down.
The council began.
At Michael’s request they started by telling Charlie their stories—all they knew or could guess of events the previous All Hallows’ Eve. Then Charlie told his story: the observations at Siding Spring, their likely significance, the Dream and its recur- rence, and his meeting with Michael.
At the end of Charlie’s recital nobody said anything for several minutes.
Cecilia found herself nonplussed. Almost detached. It was all so absurdly simple. If they were really to believe this quiet young man, then they and everyone else probably had about ten days to live. The policewoman in her appreciated perhaps better than Charlie the real nature of the diplomats’ dilemma. She could picture only too vividly the scenes of chaos that would follow when the world knew.
In the meantime, she knew. And what of it? Well, it certainly put her little upset with George in perspective. She had thought he’d betrayed their future together. But it was all an illusion. There wasn’t going to be any future.
“Michael—why have we been told all this?” Rosina said. “Why have you got us here? What’s the point of it?” “Because there’s something here that links to you—to what happened on All Saints’ Eve.”
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