Into the Blue

by Robert Goddard

  ‘I can’t understand it either, but she did.’

  ‘You say she went to the Skein of Geese on the tenth of September. Did she dine there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No. Dr Kingdom accompanied her.’

  ‘Did he? Have you met Dr Kingdom yet, Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s your opinion of him?’

  ‘Professionally cool and aloof, but surprisingly easy to rile.’

  ‘You think he’s hiding something?’

  ‘I know he is. You see, I recognized him. From Rhodes. He was in Lindos five days before Heather’s disappearance.’

  Whilst Harry recounted the circumstances of his brush with Kingdom at Papaioannou’s trinket shop, Dysart listened attentively. Then his gaze moved again to the Commonweal School group photograph. ‘You know, Harry, when I met Dr Kingdom, it seemed to me he was altogether too self-possessed to be true. This proves the point. He presents himself neatly combed to the world. But you’ve caught him out – in a tousle-haired moment.’ A smile of grim satisfaction. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘He’s supposed to have been at the Versorelli Institute in Geneva from the fourth to the fourteenth of November. I’m in touch with someone who should be able to tell me exactly when he was at the Institute – and when he wasn’t.’

  ‘You think they’ll find he was absent on the eleventh as well as the sixth?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘One visit to Heather on the spur of the moment could be innocent enough,’ Dysart said musingly. ‘Psychiatrist concerned for his ex-patient, that kind of thing. There’s nothing sinister in her not having mentioned it to you. But if he was away from the Institute the day she disappeared … That would be different. If you do find that’s the case, I’d like to know straightaway.’ His expression was unmistakeably serious. ‘Will you contact me in that event, Harry? Wherever I am, I mean. It could have very serious implications.’

  ‘Yes. I will.’

  Dysart had left the chair again, this time to stand by the window, gazing out at the view which had met Harry’s bleary eyes every morning of his childhood. The backyards and rear walls of the houses fronting on Bristol Street, with the distant roofs of the railway workshops looming behind them: a domestic vista of brick, slate, chimneypot and curling smoke, as irksomely familiar as it was strangely precious. ‘Have you found out anything else?’ said Dysart, without looking round.

  ‘One other thing, yes.’ One other thing he could admit to, at any rate. What he felt most inclined to do – warn this man who was his best and oldest friend that his wife was not to be trusted – he had given his word he would not. ‘Have you been to the Skein of Geese since you took Clare there last year?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or spoken to Rex Cunningham?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then he won’t have told you what he told Heather about the evening you dined there.’

  Dysart turned round and stared enquiringly at Harry. ‘Which was?’

  ‘It seems he surprised Clare gazing lovingly at a photograph of a man whilst you were away from the table. A man he recognized as a fellow member of the Tyrrell Society: Jack Cornelius.’

  An upward twitch of the eyebrows was the only signal of surprise Dysart permitted himself. ‘Jack Cornelius?’

  ‘Yes. I wondered if you’d introduced them.’

  ‘Well, they may have met through me, yes. I’ve invited Jack to a few receptions which Clare would have attended, but even so …’

  ‘Heather seems to have taken it as a confirmation of her belief in the significance of the Tyrrell Society.’

  Dysart frowned in puzzlement. ‘That’s beyond me. The Tyrrell Society was just one of a dozen drinking and dining clubs at Breakspear College twenty years ago. It attracted people of similar views and backgrounds and it’s no surprise – or shouldn’t be – that such people still mix in the same circles now. I suppose it’s remotely possible Clare was romantically involved with Jack Cornelius, although it doesn’t say much for my powers of observation that I was unaware of it, but it’s equally possible Rex Cunningham has simply jumped to the wrong conclusion: he was ever one to do that. Either way, what of it? Clare was a free agent. And if Heather thought there was something sinister about her relationship with Jack Cornelius – assuming there was a relationship – why did she never ask me if I knew anything about it?’

  ‘Because you were a member of the Tyrrell Society as well.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course.’ Dysart sat down on the end of the bed. ‘How do you account for Heather’s obsession with a long forgotten student club, Harry?’

  ‘I don’t, unless she thought the Tyrrell Society was somehow an unlucky influence. Ramsey Everett. The car crash. Then her own sister.’

  Dysart nodded, considered the point for a moment then said: ‘Some might say it was a sign she hadn’t recovered as well as we’d hoped.’

  ‘Yes. Some might say that.’

  ‘A more unlikely candidate for Clare’s affections than Jack Cornelius …’ Dysart shook his head. ‘He’s always struck me as something of a misogynist. But perhaps even misogynists can kick over the traces. That steely Irish charm of his would appeal to some women, I don’t doubt. Perhaps Clare was one of them. It is possible. Just possible. I can’t deny that.’ He looked up at Harry. ‘What do you think Heather did after Cunningham put this idea into her head?’

  ‘I imagine she confronted Jack Cornelius.’

  ‘And you propose to do the same?’

  ‘Yes. Once I find out where he teaches.’

  Dysart smiled. ‘Hurstdown Abbey, near Taunton. It’s a Roman Catholic boarding school attached to a Benedictine Monastery. Very exclusive and very expensive. Not quite Eton or Harrow with incense thrown in, but close to it. Jack must have been there, oh, ten years or more. He teaches history and coaches rugger: his two great passions.’

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘I did do, certainly. After leaving Oxford, he went back to Ireland to teach. He was in Belfast when the Troubles began, then I heard he’d gone to Italy. Next he cropped up at Hurstdown. He lured me there a couple of years ago to talk to his sixth form group about the Irish Problem. He seemed completely in his element, though all those monks flitting round the place rather gave me the creeps. I thought it odd at the time that he should feel so at home there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’d been a novice monk himself once, in Ireland, before be went to Oxford. He was older than the rest of us at Breakspear, you see, having tried for some years to make a go of a religious vocation before abandoning it in favour of teaching. He always used to speak so bitterly about his experiences as a monk that it seemed bizarre to think of him working alongside them at Hurstdown. But, then, time is a great healer, isn’t it?’ In this case, Harry was far from sure that it was. ‘Yes. Go and see him, Harry. If Heather did track him down, we need to know what he told her. I’d speak to him myself, but—’

  Harry was convulsed by a second bout of sneezing. This time, it did not dissolve into a coughing fit. Dysart smiled at him sympathetically as he hurled a bundle of damp tissues into the bin by the bed and plucked a handful of replacements from their box.

  ‘I think it’s time I let you get some rest.’

  ‘I’m all right, really.’ But Harry could tell by the blocked and croaking sound of his own voice that he was not.

  ‘When you are, see Jack Cornelius – and let me know what you learn about Dr Kingdom. Meanwhile …’ Dysart moved across to the desk and stooped over it. He had taken something from his jacket pocket and Harry could see that he was writing on it.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I know you insisted you didn’t need any money, but I’m sure that isn’t really the case. I’m as interested in what you can discover about Heather’s state of mind as you are yourself, so it’s only fair I should contribute to your expenses. The Skein of Geese doesn’t co
me cheap, for a start …’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘You have the time and I have the money, Harry.’ Dysan turned back from the desk smiling broadly. ‘So don’t argue.’ He slipped a cheque under the base of the bedside lamp. ‘Besides, it comes with a condition attached, so don’t think of it as a gift.’

  ‘What condition?’

  ‘As soon as you find out anything that suggests Heather is still alive, as soon as you learn where she might be or whether she’s in any danger, contact me at once. Is it a deal?’

  It seemed the least Harry could promise. ‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s a deal.’

  ‘She may be relying on our efforts, you know, so we must be sure we don’t let her down.’

  ‘I don’t intend to.’ Harry looked for the first time at the cheque where it lay beside him, flattened by the base of the lamp. A thousand pounds. It was more than he needed, but not less than he could use. What, it occurred to him, was the difference between accepting this contribution to his expenses and taking the kind of bribe Jonathan Minter had offered him? Some would say none at all, but he knew it was not so. A gift from Dysart was a gesture of friendship, from Minter an act of corruption.

  ‘As a parting thought, Harry.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This photograph Rex Cunningham supposedly saw in Clare’s possession: the one of Jack Cornelius. Don’t place too much store by such evidence.’ Dysart was standing, had he but known it, within inches of the pictures Heather had taken, the pictures on which Harry would rely if all else failed. ‘As you should know from your own experiences’ – he glanced up at the framed portrait of Commonweal School staff and pupils, September 1948 – ‘the notion that the camera never lies is a fallacy. It doesn’t set out to lie, of course, but it sometimes succeeds. It sees everything – and understands nothing.’ He looked back at Harry and smiled. ‘So take my advice: don’t believe everything it tells you.’

  The day after Dysart’s visit, Harry began to feel distinctly better. By Tuesday, he was able to venture out of doors for the first time since arriving home, late and ailing, on Thursday night. An expedition to the bar of the Glue Pot convinced him that, apart from a hacking cough and a tendency to tire easily, he was very much his old self.

  On Wednesday, he swallowed his pride, banked Dysart’s cheque and purchased a car with most of what remained from the cash he had brought back from Rhodes. His experiences at Barnchase Motors meant he was well aware how seriously to treat the sales patter at the Sapphire Garage, ‘Wiltshire’s premier value-for-money used car outlet’. A Vauxhall Viva resprayed in unspeakable tangerine to conceal a multitude of rusty sins and described as ‘a sound and reliable workhorse’ looked to his eye more like a duck very near death’s door. Still, for two hundred and fifty pounds he had no room for complaint. He reckoned it would take him where he wanted to go – at least for a few weeks.

  Returning to Falmouth Street in his new acquisition – and already encountering some resistance to engaging first gear – Harry listed in his mind the excellent reasons for buying a car. Mobility. Convenience. Flexibility. The following day he would underline all three by driving it to Hurstdown Abbey. There was another reason, of course, but he was not prepared to admit even to himself that it had played any part in his decision. In a car he would be safe from the man on the train and the messages he carried. He would be rid of him at last. But that, he was determined to believe, had nothing to do with the matter. Nothing whatsoever.

  31

  HARRY TURNED OFF the car engine and wound down the window. Then he took the wallet of photographs from his pocket and leafed through them to the ninth picture in Heather’s collection. The match was perfect. In miniature gloss-printed image and sparse grey winter-lit reality, Hurstdown Abbey lay before him. He climbed from the car, slammed the door and leaned back against it, giving his imagination as well as his vision time to absorb the place and its setting.

  The village of Hurstdown was a straggle of drab cottages either side of the main Taunton to Williton road. A pub, a post office, a garage, a war memorial, a litter-choked horse trough and an Anglican parish church whose size and proportions were more suited to a Nonconformist chapel. As a settlement, it was nothing. And the reason was not far to seek. Hurstdown Abbey, an arched and buttressed temple to Victorian Gothic, soared above the village in grand and lofty superiority, leaving all else to huddle at its feet in subjugation. Around it were gathered the cloisters, quadrangles, halls, dormitories and playing fields of the school, stretching away up a gently sloping flank of the Quantock Hills. Here, its high walls and castellations seemed somehow to declare, the temporal power of the Church was not a distant memory but a present-day reality.

  Harry crossed the road, passed through an ancient arched gateway and started up the drive towards the school. What he had judged from the photograph to be red-brick he saw now was deep red Quantock stone, used in the construction of the Abbey and all its surrounding buildings. Its colouring, combined with the dismal weather, the heavy-handed architecture and the beech trees dotting the grounds, created an atmosphere by which he felt instantly oppressed. It was as if the whole weight of the Abbey’s sombre traditions were bearing down upon his shoulders and he was shrinking beneath the load.

  After a hundred yards or so the drive divided, leading in one direction towards a classroom block, in the other fanning out into a courtyard where cars were parked either side of the main entrance. Harry’s original intention had been to approach Cornelius via a secretary or administrator. He had timed his arrival for shortly after midday in the hope that lunchtime would find the staff free of commitments. Now it came to the point, however, he sensed a reluctance within himself to confront any member of this self-important establishment on his own ground, far less his own terms. He crossed the courtyard hesitantly, unsure what his next move should be.

  Then he saw – or rather heard, for the clip of their bootstuds on the flagstones was what first caught his attention – a file of boys in football kit making their way along a covered path linking the courtyard to the playing fields that lay behind the school building. As his route and theirs converged, Harry remembered that Dysart had said rugby was one of Cornelius’s ‘two great passions’. He doubted if these boys had been playing soccer – Hurstdown’s sporting young gentlemen would surely scorn such a plebeian game – and, sure enough, the boy bringing up the rear, older and taller than the rest and evidently in charge, was clutching a rugby ball to his chest. Stepping into his path, Harry enquired as innocently as he could if Mr Cornelius was anywhere to be found.

  ‘Yes, sir. You’ll find him on the practice pitch.’ Catching Harry’s uncertain look, he added: ‘Wynne-Thomas will be happy to take you there. Wynne-Thomas!’

  Harry’s guide was a small fair-haired lad whose purple-and-orange hooped shirt reached nearly to his knees. He led the way along a series of paths, up assorted flights of steps and out across a seemingly limitless expanse of finely mown rugby and hockey pitches that climbed the hillside in stepped succession.

  ‘There’s Mr Cornelius.’ Wynne-Thomas pointed towards two men standing together on the next pitch. One was tall and grey-haired, thin but broad-shouldered, wearing a voluminous cricket sweater over baggy grey trousers. The other was an overalled attendant of a line-marking machine, whose accuracy the pair seemed to be debating. Wynne-Thomas presumably thought it unnecessary to say which of them was Jack Cornelius. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Harry could not help smiling at the boy’s excessive politeness. ‘Thanks.’ He was tempted to add, but did not, ‘You can cut along now.’ Not that it mattered. Wynne-Thomas cut along anyway.

  As he moved towards the two men, Harry savoured the moments of secret observation that preceded their awareness of his presence. Dysart had said Cornelius was older than his contemporaries at Breakspear and this man did indeed look nearer fifty than forty, unruly iron-grey hair framing a gaunt high-boned face, the brow hooded enough and the nose
sufficiently hooked to add a sinewy hint of predacity to his relaxed and smiling features. Physically strong, Harry judged, and mentally agile: the Corinthian sportsman and the patrician academic, with some diabolical ingredient thrown in that curdled the mixture.

  It was, in testimony to his alertness, Cornelius who saw him coming first. He turned away from the other man and grinned crookedly in greeting. Then, before Harry had even rehearsed an opening remark, he said: ‘You must be Harry Barnett.’

  Instantly, the tables were turned. Harry was suddenly the victim of the surprise he had hoped to exploit. ‘Yes, I am,’ he stumbled, ‘but—’

  ‘Alan Dysart phoned me a few days ago.’ Cornelius shook Harry by the hand. His grip was firm and self-assured. ‘He warned me you’d be paying me a visit.’ The warmth and perfection of his enunciation were marred only by his faint Irish accent and the artificiality which it seemed to impose on his genial tone. Harry sensed a harshness, an edge, a flinty ruthlessness buried beneath the practised charm. ‘I have an undeserved reputation for brusqueness, Mr Barnett. I think Alan was hoping to ease your passage. ‘

  Surely Dysart had never suggested he might do such a thing? For the moment Harry could not be certain. Perhaps illness had dulled his recollection. ‘Did he tell you why I’d be coming?’

  ‘You want to speak to me about Heather Mallender.’ No prevarication, then, and no evasion either. ‘I can spare you half an hour before my presence is called for in the refectory. Why don’t you come to my room?’ Without further ado, he started off towards the school buildings. Harry fell in beside him, struggling to keep pace with his rapid strides. ‘I read about her disappearance, of course, and your part in it. The episode has placed Alan in a difficult position. The papers can’t find anything in it to use against him, but, all the same, it leaves his career in something of a vacuum.’