Day of Vengeance

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Darling, what is it? You sounded terrified. And you’re crying.’ He brushed a tear away from my cheek.

  ‘I can’t find it!’ I wailed.

  ‘It’s all right. You’ll find it in the morning. I’ll get you a glass of water.’

  He was only a moment, but it was long enough for me to shake away the clinging veils of my dream.

  Reality was even worse.

  ‘Alan, I was looking for something, something desperately important. I didn’t know it in my dream, but now I’m awake, I think it was Walter. Alan, where is Walter?’

  Where’s Walter? That thought was never out of our minds the next day. As I fed the cats, made coffee, took Watson out for a walk, the refrain kept repeating: Where’s Walter? As Alan sat in his den, preparing for Monday’s meeting of the commission, I saw him ignoring the papers in front of him and staring into space, and I knew he was thinking: Where’s Walter?

  Jonathan called to report in, only to say there was very little to report. ‘I talked to Jed. Nice old bloke, one of the real characters of London. A dying breed. Christened Jedediah, and had to tell me all about the name and his dear old parents and grandparents and so on, before we could get down to it.

  ‘He said he let Walter into the office, all right. He likes Walter, doesn’t like Mr Lovelace, detests Mrs Steele. He said Walter got there at about twelve ten. He was pretty specific about the time because he leaves for his lunch at half twelve, and was watching the clock. He didn’t stay to see what Walter did. Why should he, he said; had his own work to do, didn’t he? His work, as far as I could tell, consists of keeping the office floors swept and the desks dusted. A crew of cleaning volunteers does the church itself, polishes the brass and all that. Old Jed isn’t overworked, I’d say.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Alan thoughtfully. ‘He sounds like the sort of old retainer who’s kept on out of sentiment. But I wouldn’t have suspected either Lovelace or Mrs Steele of being guilty of sentiment.’

  ‘That thought occurred to me, too. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out Jed knows more than he’s telling. Not about Walter, but about what’s going on at that church.’

  ‘So you think something’s “going on”?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Something doesn’t smell right, and I mean to track it down. But as to Walter, I’m not much further on. Jed let him in and then went back to the little hole where he hangs about. He left promptly at half twelve, and when he got back, Walter was gone, and he, Jed, got a dressing-down for leaving the office unlocked. He told me about that in great detail, which I won’t repeat, especially as Dorothy is undoubtedly listening in.’

  ‘I am indeed, and I’ll bet I’ve heard all the words before.’

  ‘No doubt. He seems to have given as good as he got, and relished the battle.’

  ‘Did he say whether Walter was still there when he, Jed, left for lunch?’ asked Alan.

  ‘He’s not sure. The office door was open, and the light on, which Jed took to mean Walter was there, but he didn’t take time to check.’

  ‘And when he returned?’

  ‘The same. Door open, light on, but this time Mrs Steele was there, with fire in her eye. She’s next on my list to question. I don’t look forward to it.’

  ‘Jonathan, dear, a man who can face a burning building full of terrorists can face one determined woman. Exercise your well-known charm.’

  ‘Dorothy, you are a dreamer. And what would Jemima say if my charm had some unexpected result? I’d better ring off. It’s been twenty-four hours now; we can call in the police. They’re short-staffed as usual, and won’t be able to do very much, but it’s a start. Then I’ll head for the lion’s den.’

  ‘So Jemima and Jonathan are still an item?’ I asked Alan when he had hung up. ‘I hadn’t heard anything for a while.’ Jemima was an old friend of Jonathan’s, almost as close as a cousin, and though they’d been estranged for a good many years, a crisis had brought them together. I hoped they’d marry one day. They needed each other.

  ‘I suppose they are,’ said Alan. He was obviously still worrying about Walter, so I dropped my attempt to change the subject and went back to fretting.

  That was Saturday. Alan and the dean were to go to London together on Monday. We spent Sunday as usual: church, Sunday lunch – and then worry. We heard nothing from Jonathan, nothing from Sue. There was only one thought running round and round in my brain like a squirrel in a cage: Where’s Walter? Alan had to move that concern temporarily to the back of his mind while the front was occupied with the bishop search.

  ‘Dorothy, should I tell the commission members my suspicions about Lovelace? They are only suspicions, as yet, and a man is innocent until proven guilty.’

  ‘In a court of law, yes. But we’re not talking about a court of law. I think it’s your duty to tell them what you think. Of course, you’ll have to explain why, and I think that explanation will have to include Walter’s disappearance.’

  ‘The whole thing may be a mare’s nest.’

  ‘But it may not be. You don’t think it is. Nor does Jonathan. And you’re both policemen with a keen sense of smell for the unsavoury.’

  ‘I’ll ask the dean what he thinks.’

  ‘Do. But I think he’ll tell you to follow your conscience.’

  ‘My damn conscience is telling me this whole disaster is my fault!’

  He went off in the morning to meet the dean and catch their train, still in that same mood. I sighed and said a prayer for them, and then returned to my obsession: Where’s Walter?

  When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I crossed my back garden and knocked on Jane’s door. A wild clamour of barking greeted me. Jane came to the door, holding back the dogs. ‘Don’t know why they always bark at you. Ought to know you by now.’

  ‘They’re just saying they’re happy to see me, aren’t you, dogs? Down, Archibald. I love you, too, but I don’t want to pick you up.’

  ‘Any news?’ said Jane, automatically filling the kettle while the dogs circled, hoping for a treat.

  ‘No, and I can’t stand the inaction any longer. Jonathan is doing what he can, but he hasn’t made any real progress. The police are looking, too, but there’s no word yet from them. Jane, you know Walter better than anyone. If he had to run somewhere, had to hide, where would he go?’

  ‘Here,’ said Jane.

  ‘But he didn’t. So maybe there was a reason why he couldn’t. Where else? What other family does he have?’

  ‘None.’

  I wished Jane wouldn’t be quite so laconic. The monosyllables were beginning to toll like doleful bell. ‘Friends, then? Someone who would take him in and ask no questions?’

  She shook her head. I couldn’t tell if that meant ‘no friends’ or ‘don’t know’. I wanted to shake her. I decided to try persuasion instead. ‘Jane, you’re the most sensible person I know. You can’t just let yourself sink into depression like this. Look at the situation logically. There are only two possibilities: Walter has been taken somewhere and is not at liberty to leave, or he’s gone somewhere of his own accord, in response, we think, to some danger. If someone’s made off with him, there’s not a lot we can do. But if he’s hiding out, we need to find him.’

  ‘One more possibility.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no point in thinking about that. If that’s the case, nothing we can do will make any difference. But if Walter’s alive, we have to do what we can. Now, once more, where might he have gone?’

  She took her time. She spooned tea into the pot, poured the boiling water over it, set out mugs and sugar and milk and a plate of biscuits. They were store-bought, something I’d never before seen in Jane’s kitchen. She was truly disintegrating.

  ‘Spent nearly all his time at the museum, before Sue came along.’

  ‘The BM? But that was an internship, wasn’t it? I mean, he wasn’t getting paid, was he?’

  ‘No. Liked his job. Loved his job.’

  ‘What I was getting at was he wouldn’t
have had any keys to the museum, would he?’

  That caught Jane’s interest. It was about time she snapped out of it, I thought. ‘No keys, no. But he has a good friend there.’

  ‘Right.’ I put down my mug. ‘Finish your tea, woman. We’re going to London.’

  She held out a cautioning hand. ‘Dogs.’

  Oh. Yes, with both of us gone at the same time … ‘Margaret. She won’t mind, just for the day.’

  I made the necessary arrangements with the dean’s wife, and Jane and I made it to the station just in time to catch the train to Victoria. Then it was a quick hop to Tottenham Court Road Tube station and the Museum.

  The British Museum has been one of my favourite places ever since my first visit, years and years ago with my first husband. There are exhibits I visit every time I’m in the building, old friends I must pay my respects to. Not today. Even the Rosetta Stone was going to have to do without my homage.

  ‘What department?’ I asked Jane.

  ‘PAT.’ When I looked mystified, she translated. ‘Portable Antiquities and Treasure. What used to be called treasure trove.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s exciting! When someone finds a hoard of Roman coins, or whatever, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s this way.’

  The museum has done a great job of making the galleries and displays lighter, brighter, and more inviting. The innards of the museum, however, where the work is done, are labyrinthine. Jane led me to an uninviting door, which was clearly marked ‘No Admittance’. Ignoring the sign, she turned the knob and stepped inside, with me at her heels.

  ‘Public not admitted, madam,’ said the bored man at the desk inside the door.

  ‘Looking for Walter Tubbs,’ she said. ‘Grandson.’

  ‘Oh! You’re Jane!’ The man sat up. ‘Sorry. I’ve heard about you. Walter talks of no one else. Well, except for Sue. But he isn’t here right now.’

  ‘Know that. Hunting for him. Who’s his best friend here?’

  ‘Hunting for him?’

  I hesitated for only a moment. ‘Walter seems to have gone missing, Mr –’ I looked at his name badge – ‘Mr Johnson. We’re trying to talk to anyone who might have heard from him.’

  ‘Oh. Oh! Oh, dear! I do hope nothing untoward has happened to him. Nice chap. Hard-working. Yes, well. Your best chance is Ahmed. I’m afraid that’s all of his name I can manage, but that’s what everyone calls him. He and Walter are really good friends. Here, let me give you visitor badges, and then he’s through there. I’d take you through, except I’m supposed to stay by the door for the next hour or so.’

  ‘Trusting fellow, isn’t he?’ I murmured as we made our way back along a narrow corridor. ‘We could be anybody. Terrorists, thieves …’

  Jane stopped and looked me over, from my straw hat with the pink roses down to my sensible shoes.

  She didn’t need to make any other comment.

  We found Ahmed without difficulty, and when we introduced ourselves, the first thing he said was, ‘Have you found him? I’ve been stewing ever since Sue called.’

  ‘No. Hoped you could help.’

  Jane’s clipped style can make explanations somewhat difficult. I stepped in. ‘You see, we hope that perhaps he’s hiding out somewhere, keeping away from some sort of danger. We thought his friends might have some idea of where to look. You’ve known him for a long time?’

  ‘Not long. Two years, but we became very close. Before he met Sue, we spent a lot of time together. After that, of course …’ He spread his hands and smiled.

  ‘Yes, I see. But tell me, where did you spend time together? A favourite pub? The theatre?’

  ‘I am Muslim, Mrs Martin. I do not drink alcohol, so pubs don’t appeal to me, and Walter drinks only a little. No, but we are both fond of music, so we went to concerts a good deal. Free ones in the parks, when we could! Neither of us has a great deal of money. He is an intern, and though I am paid, it is only a pittance.’

  ‘Concerts.’ I must have sounded as disappointed as I felt. A concert hall – or, for that matter, a park – wasn’t a likely place for a hideout. Then I wondered just what I’d expected. Oh, yes, Mrs Martin, we used to go to an opium den. It’s very hard to find. He’s probably hiding there.

  ‘Other friends?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Not close friends, but there were some uni students. We sometimes went to one of their flats to watch football on the telly. They’ve taken their degrees now, and I don’t know where they are.’ He paused for a moment. ‘There is one boy who joined us now and again. A rather silly young man; I didn’t much care for him. He has a good deal of money, I think, and spends it foolishly. His parents live in Kent in a manor house – very posh. He took Walter and me there once for a weekend. It was not a success.’

  I waited.

  ‘His parents did not like my colour, or my religion. I did not like their snobbery, nor did Walter. But the house is very fine, and very large. It might be possible … but it is very far-fetched.’

  ‘Name?’ asked Jane brusquely.

  Ahmed looked apologetic. ‘I cannot remember his surname, if I ever knew it. I am not even sure of his first name. Walter called him Jack, but that could mean James or John or …’ That hand-spreading gesture again.

  ‘Or it could even be unrelated to his real name,’ I said. ‘C. S. Lewis was known to his friends and family as Jack, and his given names were Clive Staples.’

  ‘Reason enough for a nickname, one would think,’ said Ahmed with a little smile.

  ‘House?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Name of the house. The manor.’

  ‘Oh, that I do remember! How clever of you to think of that! Yes, it is called Ashhurst, and it is near Tunbridge Wells.’

  ‘And do you think Walter might be there?’

  A shrug. ‘No, I do not think it is likely. He did not enjoy his stay there, and I think he does not like Jack very much. But it is the only place I can think of where one might be able to hide, if hiding were necessary. I live in a bed-sitter, and so do our other friends. We are not rich, any of us, except for Jack.’

  We thanked him profusely, gave him our phone numbers in case he had another idea, and left, surrendering our badges to the bored young man at the door. ‘Do you think it’s a possibility?’ I asked Jane as we made our way back to the main door of the museum.

  ‘No. But worth a try.’

  ‘Right. Now all we have to do is try to find a house called Ashhurst, whose exact location we don’t know. Nor do we know the names of the owners. Child’s play. And I don’t know about you, Jane, but I’m starving, and there’s the Museum Tavern right there in front of us, and I intend to have some lunch. And a pint, since I’m not a Muslim.’

  FOURTEEN

  There are more difficult jobs than finding a large country house. The hunt might have taken a very long time indeed before the days of the Internet and Google, but after we left the Museum Tavern, Jane and I set out in search of a library, since neither of us has a smart phone or any other Internet gadget. We had actually eaten very little. I’d thought I was hungry, but with food in front of me, my throat had seemed to close up. I kept wondering when Walter had eaten last.

  We found a library, did the search, and lo! Ashhurst was about halfway in between Tunbridge Wells and Wadhurst. It was owned by a titled family named Everidge. Built circa 1625. Open to the public Sunday afternoons only, June through August, admission three pounds. No children or dogs.

  The accompanying map showed a maze of country lanes. There was no railway station nearby, and Jane’s car and mine were back in Sherebury.

  ‘Phone,’ said Jane.

  ‘But if he’s hiding, the Everidges may not even know he’s there. And if they do, they’d hardly tell some unknown woman on the phone. And they don’t sound like very friendly people.’

  Jane’s reply was to pull her phone from her handbag and punch in the number showing on the computer screen. Her face was grim. It gre
w even more so as she held the phone to her ear and finally punched it off.

  ‘House closed until June. Ring then for opening hours.’

  ‘Drat! That’s just the number to book a house tour, then. The family must have a private number. Let’s search some more.’

  There were a good many Everidge families, it turned out. We searched through pages and pages of websites, but at last had to concede defeat. If the Everidges of Kent had a phone number, it wasn’t readily available online.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, but your time is up. This computer is needed by another patron,’ said the librarian. ‘And the use of mobile phones is prohibited in the library,’ she added, pointing to the sign on the wall.

  We retired, defeated, to the reading room.

  I wished Alan weren’t tied up in that tiresome meeting. I wanted to consult him, ask him what we should do. I wondered if they were accomplishing anything in the meeting, while I sat here needing him. I felt useless and helpless without him, but he was as far out of reach as if he’d been on the moon.

  But – ‘Jonathan!’ Jane and I said at the same moment. We were glared at by the librarian, who had put us on her list of Suspicious Persons and was keeping a close eye on us. I meekly approached her desk. ‘Do you have a London telephone directory?’ I asked in properly muted tones.

  She handed it to me from under the desk, saying firmly, ‘You will need to copy down the number. You may not—’

  ‘Use my mobile in the library. Yes, I know.’ Then I bit my lip. Snippy would get me nowhere. And it wasn’t very nice, no matter how irritated I was. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude,’ I said with a placatory smile. ‘My friend and I are rather upset. Her grandson is missing, and we have reason to think he may be in danger. We’re trying to figure out where he might be.’