When I asked him why he’d settled in Italy, he explained he’d served there during the war with the Eighth Army (‘all the way from Sicily to Venice’) and had fallen in love with the country even while fighting in it. Returning to work at Wren & Co. after the war was ‘just one god-awful anticlimax’ and after a few years he ‘simply couldn’t stick it any longer’. It was easy to believe. As for Luisa, ‘meeting her was the best thing that ever happened to me’. And that too was easy to believe. Unless you noticed, as I felt I did, the tightness of Luisa’s smile as she listened to him. Everything was superficially right about this adoring couple. Yet something was also subtly wrong.
The story of their first meeting, which it was clear Francis had told many times before, was a case in point. They’d found themselves sharing a carriage on a train from Rome to Naples one warm spring afternoon in 1949. This was a few weeks after Francis’s departure from St Austell. He was wandering down through Italy at a leisurely pace, hoping some opportunity with a salary attached would present itself before his money ran out. ‘It was just a few days after you were born, my dear,’ he said to Vivien. ‘I had a telegram from your grandfather in my pocket informing me of the happy event.’ His greatest asset, he explained, was his utter ignorance of opera. ‘I had no idea who Luisa was.’ And that, after many a tedious encounter with fans and fortune-hunters, was a huge relief to her. Before the end of the journey, she’d offered him free bed and board in her villa on Capri in return for his services as handyman-cum-chauffeur. ‘I suppose you could say nothing’s changed since.’
‘Nothing – and everything,’ Luisa contributed on cue, before Francis eased into an account of how the adoring effusions of the taxi driver in Naples who took them from the station to the Capri ferry dock first alerted him to Luisa’s fame.
I couldn’t have said exactly what struck a false note in this paean to happenstance and true love. But something did. It wasn’t so much that I doubted the story was true. It was more a case of feeling there was a part of the story – the crucial part – that Francis wasn’t telling.
Maybe that’s what finally prompted me to ask Oliver’s planted question. Luisa gave me the perfect excuse by enquiring after him. I recounted my futile attempts to beat him at chess in a light-hearted, self-deprecating way calculated to lower Francis’s guard, then came sweetly to the point.
‘“To most people a pig’s egg is just a grey pebble,” he said, “but to someone who really looks at things it can be the key to everything.”’ I kept my eyes on Francis as I spoke and there was no missing his flinch of dismay. Oliver’s arrow had hit the mark. ‘When I asked him what a pig’s egg was, he just said, “Ask my great-uncle; he’s an expert.”’
‘“An expert”,’ said Francis, manufacturing a smile. ‘Is that what he called me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Expert in what?’ asked Vivien, frowning in puzzlement.
Luisa was also puzzled. ‘What does he mean, caro?’
Francis said something to her in Italian that contained the word cristalli. It seemed to satisfy her. But not Francis himself. His wineglass shook faintly as he raised it to his mouth.
‘So,’ I went on, ‘can you tell me what a pig’s egg is?’
‘I can,’ Francis replied, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. ‘It’s a large crystal of potash feldspar – a phenocryst, to use the correct mineralogical term – preserved within a softer matrix during kaolinization. The clay workers find them in the pits from time to time. They’re geologically interesting and often quite pretty. I have one in a small collection of crystals I put together while I was at Wren’s.’ I felt he was regaining his confidence now. Whatever the nature of the shock Oliver had given him through me, he had swiftly absorbed it and probably believed no one had noticed anything amiss. ‘Now I think about it, I recall I showed Oliver the collection when you and he came out to Capri with Harriet last summer, Vivien. The “expert” description rather flatters me, however. I used to have a coin collection as well. That doesn’t make me any more of a numismatist than I am a crystallographer.’
‘But how can a pig’s egg – a feldspar crystal – be the “key to everything”?’ asked Vivien, genuinely bemused.
‘Ah,’ said Francis, beetling his brow thoughtfully. ‘I believe Oliver is referring to the way in which the rocks at our feet, of which a pig’s egg is merely one particularly decorative example, reveal, if properly studied, the history of our planet over hundreds of millions of years. Climate changes. Rises and falls in sea level. Movements in the magnetic poles. They’re all recorded geologically. And the record is there to see, for someone who really looks.’
‘Sounds like you are an expert, Uncle Francis,’ said Vivien.
‘Not at all, my dear. Far from it.’ He looked across the table at me. ‘I’m afraid none of this is going to help you beat Oliver at chess, though, Jonathan. Perhaps nothing can.’
‘Have you ever played him yourself?’ I asked.
‘Once. Last summer, in fact.’
‘Who won?’
Francis smiled. ‘I believe it was stalemate.’
‘You do realize Oliver set you up with that business about the pig’s egg, don’t you?’ Vivien asked as we drove away from the Carlyon Bay at the end of the evening.
Looking back, I could see Francis watching us from the hotel doorway, puffing at his after-dinner cigar, his free hand half raised in farewell. Did he also realize it was a set-up? I wondered. And, if so, did he think I was a party to it? ‘Perhaps Oliver thought your great-uncle would enjoy displaying his mineralogical knowledge,’ I suggested.
‘Rubbish. It was a code for something.’
‘What could a lump of feldspar possibly be code for?’
‘I don’t know. But then I never know what’s going on in Oliver’s mind.’
‘Do you want me to try and find out?’
‘Think you can?’
‘Maybe. What’s my reward if I succeed?’
She thought about that for a teasing moment, then said, ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’d be grateful, though. Very grateful. That should be incentive enough.’
We kissed goodnight before I got out of the car at the end of Eastbourne Road. It was only a little more of a kiss than the occasion required. But I walked the short distance home as if I was walking on air, the heady promise of knowing her driving far from my thoughts the problems knowing her brother might yet cause me. She’d agreed enthusiastically to my suggestion of an evening at the cinema on Friday. I didn’t actually care what film was showing. If Vivien wanted to see Thoroughly Modern Millie, so did I.
SIX
I WAS ALL set to deliver an ultimatum to Oliver when we met in the cemetery the following morning. As it turned out, I never got the chance. He was waiting for me by the chapel near the north gate, pacing up and down and smoking a cigarette with nervous intensity.
‘You’re late,’ he announced, as if we’d fixed a definite time. He looked so impatient and distracted I was tempted to point out we were rendezvousing at his request, not mine.
‘And good morning to you, Oliver,’ I said coolly.
He acknowledged the reproof with a scowling smile. ‘Have a good time last night, did you?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘And you asked Great-Uncle Francis what a pig’s egg is, so it was mission accomplished for both of us.’
His certainty momentarily puzzled me. ‘How can—’
‘Vivien told me when she got home. Accused me of “setting you up”. Understandably, I suppose, since she doesn’t know about our deal. And I’m sure you’d like to keep it that way.’
‘Well, about that, I—’
‘Save it. I’m in a hurry. And I don’t want to make you late for work, do I? Viv said the old boy looked like he’d seen a ghost when you put the question to him. You’d agree?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Although—’
‘Shut up and listen. We have to move fast. I think they’re on to me.’
/> ‘Who’s “they”?’
‘Never mind. But if you really want to know, ask him.’ Oliver pointed past me with his cigarette.
Turning, I saw nothing at first but the phalanxes of gravestones standing easy in the thin morning light. Then I spotted a brown-clad figure in the middle distance, moving slowly along one of the paths between the graves. It was hard to be sure, but he seemed to be scanning the inscriptions on the stones as he went. Certainly he didn’t seem to be paying us any attention.
‘His name’s Strake. He used to work for Wren’s. Now he works for … well, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. But he’s been following me for the past couple of days. I can tell you that.’
‘Come off it.’
‘If you don’t believe me, wait and see what happens when we leave.’
‘You need to relax, Oliver. This is—’
‘Just listen to me,’ he broke in, grasping my forearm for emphasis. ‘I’ve got good news for you, Jonathan. I’m letting you off the hook. I want you to tell my stepfather I’ve confided in you. And this is what I’ve confided: I’d already got some valuable information from the records before he gave the order for the basement to be kept locked; I’d have gone back for more if I’d been able to, but it doesn’t matter: I’ve already got enough.’
‘Enough about what?’
‘Tell him I wouldn’t say any more than that. “I’ve already got enough.” You can tell Vivien too. And Great-Uncle Francis, if you run into him. Say you’re breaking my confidence because you’re worried about me.’
‘I am worried about you.’
‘No need. I know what I’m doing. This puts you in the clear. No furtive key-copying means no secret deal between us. Generous of me, don’t you think?’
It was – suspiciously so. ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is all about, Oliver?’
‘Maybe I will. Later. If you’ll do one more thing for me. I know you can drive, but have you got a car?’
‘No. I can’t afford one.’
‘Could you borrow your father’s?’
‘Probably.’ In fact, it was generally quite easy to persuade Dad to let me use the car, as long as I didn’t ask too often. He had little enough use for it himself. ‘Why?’
‘I want you to drive me somewhere this evening.’
‘Where?’
‘Pick me up at Nanpean. Park in front of the pub. Be there by seven o’clock. I’ll be getting off the bus from Newquay. When you see the bus pull in, start the engine. We’ll need to make a quick getaway.’
‘Quick getaway? What exactly—’
‘Just be there, OK? Or at least warn me if you’re going to let me down.’
‘Who said anything about letting you down?’
His blue eyes bored into me. I noticed his pupils were unnaturally dilated. I wondered, not for the first time, whether he was entirely sane. ‘Can I count on you, Jonathan?’
I felt the force of his will, urging me to assure him he could. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there. But why—’
‘No more questions. I’m heading that way.’ He pointed towards the gate in the lower corner of the cemetery. ‘Wait here and watch what Strake does, will you? That should tell you whether I’m being paranoid or not.’
He spun on his heel then and strode away. I watched him go, stepping back into the lee of the chapel so that I could watch Strake as well without making myself conspicuous.
By the time Oliver was halfway to the gate, Strake had broken off from his perusal of inscriptions and started moving in the same direction. There wasn’t much doubt he was following Oliver. He accelerated steadily, cutting between the gravestones to maintain his diagonal route across the cemetery, his short brown mac billowing out behind him.
He had a trilby worn askew on his head and I couldn’t see his face for the brim, but I caught a movement of his arm and a drift of smoke that told me he was smoking a cigarette.
Oliver reached the gate and went through. Strake stepped up his pace a little more and was soon hurrying through the gate himself. Then I was alone.
In a sense, Oliver had given me exactly what I wanted: a cover story that would persuade Vivien – and her stepfather – that I wasn’t to blame for the consequences of Oliver’s actions, whatever they might turn out to be. But in another sense, of course, he was still manipulating me, still using me to serve some devious purpose of his own. And I hadn’t the first idea what that purpose was. As I walked the rest of the way to Wren & Co., I pondered the logistics of conveying Oliver’s message to Greville Lashley. My colleagues in Accounts would grow suspicious if I became a frequent visitor to the managing director’s office with a crunch board meeting pending. I decided to seize my chance, therefore, when I encountered Lashley in the yard, striding purposefully towards his car. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but already he was leaving rather than arriving. Evidently he’d made an early start – a sure sign of the tumultuous times in Wren’s affairs.
‘Could I have a quick word, Mr Lashley?’ I asked, intercepting him.
‘It’ll have to be damned quick,’ he said without break of stride.
‘It’s about Oliver.’
He winced, as if a rotten tooth had suddenly pained him. ‘Get in the car. You can tell me on the way.’
I was in the plush-leathered passenger seat of the Jag and Lashley was making a roaring exit from the yard before I thought to ask where we were going.
‘I have a meeting at Cornish China Clays. You’ll have to walk back from there, I’m afraid. I’m operating on a tight schedule today.’
He was also operating without regard to speed limits. We were going to be at CCC in a matter of minutes, traffic permitting. I had no time for subtle preambles. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said on Monday, sir, concerning … unusual events.’
‘Have you now? I take it there’s been something unusual, then. And that Oliver’s involved.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, no surprise there. That boy’s a specialist in the unusual. So, what is it?’
‘It was, well … something he said … on Sunday.’
‘Out with it, then.’
‘He said, well … he said he’d already got some valuable information from the records before you gave orders for the basement to be kept locked and, although he’d have liked to go back for more if he’d been able to, it didn’t matter, because he already had enough.’
Lashley’s initial reaction was to drop his speed and nod thoughtfully. I began to wonder if he was going to say anything at all and ended up filling the gap myself.
‘I suppose the real reason I’m telling you this isn’t that I think it has any bearing on … Wren’s negotiations with CCC but …’
‘Because you’re worried about Oliver’s state of mind.’
There was no denying it. He’d taken the words out of my mouth. ‘Er … yes.’
‘So am I, Jonathan, so am I. I don’t suppose he said what he was looking for in the basement, did he?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Or what he already had enough of?’
‘I asked, but …’
‘You got nowhere.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, I’d be grateful if you kept trying.’
‘I will.’
‘It’s to do with his father’s death, of course. You realize that much, I’m sure.’
‘I guessed it had to be.’
‘Muriel thinks he believes his father would never have countenanced a merger with CCC. And Ken would be in charge now, of course, if he hadn’t … taken his own life. That may be so, for all I know. Ken always had a sentimental streak. But the fact is he isn’t in charge. I am. And there’s no place for sentiment in this business.’
I’d ceased to be aware of our surroundings as our conversation had proceeded and was suddenly surprised to see the sprawling concrete and glass headquarters of Cornish China Clays looming ahead. A uniformed attendant in a booth touched his cap to Lashley and
raised the barrier to admit us to the car park and we cruised to a halt near the main entrance.
‘Thanks for being so candid with me, Jonathan,’ Lashley said, as we climbed from the car. ‘It’s much appreciated.’ This last remark he addressed to me across the roof of the Jag, with his accompanying smile mirrored in the gleaming paintwork. ‘How did dinner with Francis and Luisa go, by the way?’
‘Oh, fine, thanks. They were … very friendly.’
‘Ah. On their best behaviour, then. Let’s hope that continues.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, you’d better step on it, lad. Or Maurice Rowe will have your guts for garters.’
I did step on it, though I made myself later than ever by stopping at a call-box and phoning Dad at the bank to ask him if I could use the car that evening. My explanation that I was doing a member of the Wren family a favour impressed him. Buttering up one’s employer was something he very much approved of. Use of the car was agreed.
Maurice Rowe actually made little of my tardy arrival, largely because the following day’s board meeting was now preoccupying people to the exclusion of most other topics. Certainly Pete could speak of nothing else when we adjourned to the General Wolfe at lunchtime. Until I distracted him with a question about a former Wren’s employee.
‘Strake? Gordon Strake? Oh yeah. I remember him. How d’you come to hear of him?’
‘I just heard his name mentioned a few times … down at Charlestown.’
‘That so?’ He looked faintly surprised, as well he might. ‘Well, Lashley laid him off last year. He was one of our reps. Not bringing in enough business, I suppose.’
‘What’s he doing now?’
‘Haven’t a clue. He’s still in St Austell, though. I’ve seen him in the betting shop.’
Then, before I could pump him for any more information about Strake, he was back on the topic of the hour: Wren’s merger with – or takeover by – Cornish China Clays.
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