‘Can I come up?’
‘No. Stay where you are. I’ll come down.’
She appeared a few minutes later, clad in black from her Doc Martens to her beret, fleeced collar pulled up against the wind. For all the shabby-chic clothes, nostril-stud and chewing gum, there was a mature practicality in the glance of scrutiny she gave him.
‘There’s a place round the corner where we can talk,’ she said, leading the way.‘Are you the monk or the bureaucrat?’
‘Tom told you about Basil and me, did he?’
‘Sort of. Two aunts and two uncles were mentioned. Basil would be the monk, then?’
‘Former monk.’
‘Does that make you a former bureaucrat?’
‘Could be. I’ve not been at my desk in quite a while.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Family troubles.’
‘Are they why you’re worried about Tom?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Here we are.’
Sasha turned in at the door of a muddily decorated café where one or two people were leafing through Sunday papers over steaming mugs to a soundtrack of subdued jazz. Sasha knew the girl behind the counter, merely nodding in answer to the question,‘Usual?’ Nick ordered a coffee and they sat down near the window.
‘I can’t stay long. Rick’s a bit—you know.’
‘Rick?’
‘You don’t want to get me started on him. Tell me about these family troubles of yours.’
‘Tom’s father and grandfather have both died recently.’
‘Shit.’ Sasha winced.‘That’s rough.’
‘Very.’
‘How—’ She broke off as Nick’s coffee and her herbal tea arrived.‘Thanks, Meg.’
‘I gather you and Tom broke up a while back.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Una Strawn.’
Sasha smiled and sipped her tea.‘If you’ve spoken to Una, you probably know it all.’
‘She mentioned a woman called Harriet.’
‘Harriet. That’s right. The one I couldn’t compete with.’
‘This her?’ Nick showed Sasha the photograph.
‘Yeah. That is her. Where’d this come from?’
‘It was sent anonymously to Tom’s mother. I think someone was trying to warn her that Harriet could be a bad influence on Tom. He’s been behaving strangely. Even before the two deaths in the family.’
‘How did they happen? The deaths, I mean.’
‘A fall, in my father’s case. Not unexpected, given his age and frailty. As for Tom’s father, my brother Andrew, he died in a road accident.’
‘Farmer, wasn’t he?’
‘He was.’
‘Well, it’s tough, but, look, Tom finished with me back in January. I don’t—’
‘Finished because of Harriet?’
‘Not according to Tom. But when I saw him with her soon after, it was obvious.’
‘Do you know her surname?’
‘Elsmore, I think. Yeah. Harriet Elsmore.’
‘What else do you know about her?’
‘Nothing. It was just the one encounter. And not what you’d call a warm one. He was under her thumb, somehow. Cowed. Not the Tom I knew. That’s not just jealousy talking either. I’m over it now. I’m seeing it like it is. When I came back after the Christmas vac, he was different. Cold. Almost a stranger.’
‘Thanks to Harriet?’
‘Who else? She’s got her claws into him somehow. And you’re worried about how deep, right?’
‘That’s more or less the size of it.’
‘Well, I don’t know. She’s a weird one, for sure. And not Tom’s type, I’d have said.‘Course, I thought / was his type. He told me he was staying on in Edinburgh so we could be together until I graduated this summer. He even wanted me to move in with him. He was keen, right? Then Harriet comes on the scene and he’s suddenly ice. I mean, who is she? How does she make a living? She must be what, thirty five? It doesn’t stack up.’
‘Did you ask Tom about her?’
‘I asked. He didn’t answer.’
‘Does she live in Edinburgh?’
‘Not sure. But I don’t think so.’
‘He’s done a bunk since I got here. I wondered if he could be with her.’
‘More than likely. But where would that be—’ Sasha shook her head expressively.‘That photograph was sent to Tom’s mother, right?’
‘Yes.’ Nick wondered if he was going to regret the lie he had instinctively told.
‘Any idea who by?’
‘None.’
‘Only ’
‘What?’
‘You’re not the first to ask me about Harriet Elsmore.’
‘Who was first?’
‘Some old guy, about ten days ago. Well-spoken, well dressed, a bit camp.’
‘Give a name?’
‘Harmsworth. Something like that.’
‘What did he want to know?’
‘Anything I could tell him about her. Which, like I’ve told you, isn’t much. He buttonholed me as I was leaving a lecture. Said he was anxious to contact her and understood I might be able to help. Managed to make “understood” sound really sinister. Called me “my dear”, which didn’t win him any favours. I asked him if he knew Tom and he said yes, he was an old friend of the family. That true?’
‘More acquaintance than friend. His name’s Julian Farnsworth. He’s a former colleague of my father.’
‘An archaeologist, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He didn’t look like one.’
‘What do they look like?’
‘Not like him.’
‘No, well, sinister is right. He’s up here staying with a friend you may have heard of. Professor Vernon Drysdale.’
‘Professor of Medieval History as was. Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Retired years ago, but still slinks around the Uni.’
‘I’m thinking of paying him and Farnsworth a visit. Happen to know where this is?’ Nick showed her the card on which Farnsworth had written Drysdale’s address and telephone number.
‘He lives at Roslin, does he?’ Sasha nodded.‘That figures.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ever heard of Rosslyn Chapel?’
‘No.’
‘Spelt differently, but it’s the same place. Roslin’s a village a few miles south of here, just outside the city. Rosslyn Chapel’s its main claim to fame. Dates from the fifteenth century. Incredibly ornate stone-carving and a whole heap of legends. Tom took me there once. It’s something else, that’s for sure. Gave me the creeps. Crops up in a lot of those books about the Knights Templar and the Ark of the Covenant. You know, the Holy Blood and the Holy Whatsit—that kind of crap.’
‘They seem to have slipped past me.’
‘Yeah? Well, I bet it won’t stay that way if you drop in on the Prof. He wrote one, you see. Shades of Grail. Some sort of academic overview. Sold more than all his other stuff put together, so they say.’
‘Read it?’
‘No.’
‘What about Tom?’
Sasha thought for a moment.‘I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a copy at the flat. Can’t remember him talking about it, though. He might have bought it after we visited the chapel. I don’t know.’ She thought some more.‘This Farnsworth. Could he have sent Tom’s mother the photograph?’
‘It’s possible, given that he’s here, where the photograph was taken.’
‘And sniffing after Harriet.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What’s Tom got himself mixed up in, Nick?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Something bad?’
‘Could be.’
‘Shit.’ Sasha stared into her tea.‘Just when you think you’re over someone you have to start worrying about them.’
They left the café shortly afterwards. Sasha made straight for the newsagent-cum-grocer a few doors down and Nick started to take his leave of her, but she insisted he tag along.‘
There’s something at the flat I want to give you,’ she explained as she grabbed a pint of milk and a Sunday Times.‘When are you thinking of going to Roslin?’
‘No time like the present.’
‘Guess not.’
‘What’s the best way to get there?’
‘Oh, just follow the Penicuik road until you see the turn for Roslin.’ Sasha paid and they stepped out on to the pavement.
‘Actually, I’m on foot.’
‘Then it’ll have to be the bus. The thirty-seven, from opposite the Odeon. There’s one every half-hour.’
‘Thanks.’ They turned the corner into Rankeillor Street.‘What are you giving me, Sasha?’
‘I should return them to Tom, anyway. If you see him, say I asked you to pass them on. If you don’t see him—if he stays away—it’s up to you what you do.’
‘What are we talking about?’
‘Wait out here.’
Sasha went ahead of him into number 56, closing the door behind her. Nick did as he had been told, with rapidly mounting puzzlement. Then he heard the second-floor window squeak open. He looked up and Sasha met his gaze. She tossed some small object down to him. In the instant before he caught it, he realized it was a bunch of keys.
There were three keys, tied together with string: a mortise and two Yales. Nick stared at them, nestled in his palm. Then he heard the window close.
Standing at the bus stop in Clerk Street, fingering the keys in his pocket, Nick promised himself he would not use them unless he had to. But the promise only begged a question: when might he have to?
The chirrup of his mobile came as a welcome distraction. And the sound of Basil’s voice when he answered was also welcome, even though how much to tell Basil was a scarcely less delicate issue.
‘Good morning, Nick. How do I find you?’
‘Confused.’
‘About what?’
‘Tom.’
‘Why so?’
‘He’s behaving oddly.’
‘Bereavement can have that effect.’
‘Well, let’s hope that’s all there is to it.’
‘And what of the “development” you reported when last we spoke?’
‘It’s kind of connected.’
‘With Tom?’
‘Yes.’
‘Telecom Italia’s international tariff is not set with elliptical communication in mind, Nick. Would you care to be specific?’
‘I can’t be. As soon as that changes, I’ll let you know.’
‘Until then you’d prefer me to twiddle my thumbs?’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘No need to apologize. As it happens, I disregarded your preference in the matter and called at cousin Demetrius’s residence yesterday.’
‘You did what?’
‘I presented my compliments at the Palazzo Falcetto, a residence sufficiently grand to suggest its owner is unlikely to be greatly bothered about the inheritance of a modest house in Cornwall.’
‘For God’s sake, Basil, I asked you to—’
‘You need not worry. Apparently Demetrius regularly flees Venice during the Carnival. He is expected back on Wednesday and will be informed of my visit. It hardly amounts to a great deal.’
‘Maybe not, but—’
‘Seen anything of Dr Farnsworth?’
‘Well, yes, we’ve met.’
‘With what outcome?’
‘None really. He insists he’s here to see an old friend.’
‘You are telling me everything, aren’t you, Nick?’
‘I’m telling you as much as I can be sure of. I just need a little more time to pin things down.’
‘Then Demetrius has done you a favour. You have until Wednesday. Meanwhile, the display on this telephone indicates that my credit is draining away like sand. Goodbye, Nick.’
‘Listen, Basil—’ But it was too late. The line was dead.
The 37 bus did not divert to Roslin on a Sunday. Nick had to walk the last half a mile into the village from the main road. It felt colder now he was outside the city. A chill wind was blowing down from the Pentland Hills to the west. There was a dusting of snow on their whale-backed summits, making the grey clouds massed beyond them look bruised and threatening.
Roslin herself seemed an unremarkable place: a mix of old and new housing centred on a few shops and a couple of pubs. A man walking his dog directed Nick to Roseburn Lodge. On his way there, Nick passed a sign for Rosslyn Chapel and glimpsed a structure of some kind in the middle distance, screened by trees. But the chapel could wait. He had more pressing concerns than old buildings and ancient legends.
Roseburn Lodge was a plain-fronted greystone Georgian house, draped in ivy and half-hidden from the road by a straggling excess of blackthorn hedge. A battered old estate car was parked on the short gravel drive, but there was no sign of Farnsworth’s Citroen.
Nick tugged at the bell and, just when he was about to give it another tug, the door was opened by a woman possessed of a pair of the darkest eyes he could ever recall seeing. She wore an apron over a threadbare dress and had her hair scraped back severely in a bun.‘Aye?’ she said, looking down her sharp-boned nose at him.
‘I’m looking for Dr Julian Farnsworth.’ Nick ventured a smile, but it did not prove contagious.
‘He’s no here.’
‘Are you expecting him back soon?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘What about Professor Drysdale? Is he at home?’
‘Aye, he is.’
‘Could you ask him if he’ll spare me a few moments? Dr Farnsworth may have mentioned me to him. My name’s Paleologus. Nicholas Paleologus.’
‘Paleologus, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Wait here.’
She stumped off, half-closing the door behind her. Nick was left to listen to the rooks cawing in the trees either side of the house. Inside, he could hear a clock ticking ponderously and, somewhere farther off, a mumble of conversation. Then the Woman reappeared.
‘Come away in.’
‘Thanks.’
She led the way down a shadowy hall past the clock Nick had heard to an open doorway near the end, where she stood back to let him proceed.
The room Nick stepped into was obviously the professor’s study. The windows looked out on to an overgrown garden, while a vast leather-topped desk strewn with books and papers filled the principal bay. Two walls were lined with crammed bookshelves, but their capacity was clearly insufficient in view of the piles of books on the floor. Some were even stacked on the seat of one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace, where no fire burned despite the prevailing chill.
From the other armchair an elderly man rose stiffly to his feet and smiled in greeting. Nick recognized the type from long filial experience. The superannuated academic, here encountered in his book-bound lair. Vernon Drysdale shared Michael Paleologus’s taste for corduroy and lambswool, though physically he was a contrasting specimen of the breed: stout, pigeon-chested, ruddy-faced and bald as an egg, the lack of hair on the top of his head offset by white sideburns that met in a grey moustache and made him look more like a Victorian master of foxhounds than a twentieth-century historian.
‘Mr Paleologus.’ Drysdale shook Nick’s hand firmly.‘It’s an honour.’ The Scottish burr in his voice was subdued, almost superficial.
‘Good of you to see me, Professor Drysdale. I don’t know about an honour.’
‘A living, breathing Paleologus. It’s a wonder as well as an honour. I met your father a few times, of course. Please accept my condolences.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Julian tells me your elder brother also died recently. A terrible coincidence.’
‘Not really a coincidence.’
‘No?’
‘Actually, it’s Julian—Dr Farnsworth—I’m hoping to see.’
‘You’re out of luck, I’m afraid. He’s been called away.’
‘Back to Oxford?’
‘I
’m not sure. Julian plays his cards close to his chest, as you may be aware. He left yesterday afternoon, in something of a hurry.’
‘I saw him yesterday morning. He said nothing about going away.’
‘There was a phone call, then he was off, barely finding time to mention you might pop in.’ Drysdale smiled.‘For that at any rate I’m glad. And Julian’s absence means he can’t monopolize your attention. So, won’t you sit down?’ He waved airily at the other armchair.‘Dump those books anywhere.’
‘All right. Thanks.’ Nick made a clearance and sat down, trying not to voice the irritation he felt. The fact that Drysdale was—or had been—Farnsworth’s host did not mean he was necessarily his accomplice in whatever game Farnsworth was playing. It was possible, though. Very possible.
‘Will you be wanting any tea?’ the old woman put in.
‘It’s nearly noon,’ Drysdale replied.‘I’ll be taking something stronger. A drop of Scotch for you, Paleologus?’
‘Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.’ Nick noted how swiftly Drysdale had lapsed into addressing him by his surname.
‘Then you can leave us, Mrs Logan.’ Mrs Logan tossed her head and wandered off. Drysdale moved to a section of the bookcase where a bottle of Jura malt and some tumblers were stored in front of a run of historical journals. He poured generous measures for each of them, handed Nick his glass and lowered himself stiffly into his chair.‘Slainte.’
‘Cheers.’
‘I’m sorry about Julian.’
‘Not your fault.’
‘One feels a measure of responsibility for one’s friends, even when one shouldn’t.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘We were at Oxford together. A little after your father’s time. You and I have met before, as a matter of fact. A garden party at your family’s home in Oxford. Summer of ‘seventy five. Julian took me along. Your father introduced you to me as the prodigy of his progeny, if I recall the phrase correctly.’
Nick winced. He too recalled the phrase.‘I’m afraid I don’t remember the occasion.’
‘Why should you? It was more memorable for me than you. Julian tells me well, that your life hasn’t been easy since then.’
‘Whose has?’
‘Julian’s, for one. And mine, if I’m to be honest.’
‘Does Julian visit you often?’
‘Not at all. This is the first time in years.’ Drysdale grinned.‘I’ve no doubt he had a more compelling motive for his visit than the pleasure of my company. As evidence I cite the frequency of his absence.’
Days Without Number Page 23
