The Roses of Picardie

by Simon Raven

  ‘Collapse of Blakeney?’

  ‘Of the Sign, and its validity, within and upon Blakeney. The figures will stay good, Lambda thinks, for the next two or three days after that lot – a final flare-up, as it were. Then they will peter out.’

  ‘Today? Or tomorrow?’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’

  ‘Peter out for good?’

  ‘Lambda doesn’t know. In the only other case he observed closely, the fading of the Sign was arrested – for a time at least – by injections.’

  ‘Injections?’

  ‘Rodent plasmas.’

  ‘Cher-ist.’

  ‘We must get him back at once, sir. Whatever Lambda can or cannot do, he can only do it if he has Blakeney to hand.’

  ‘To needlepoint. But after all these years…why should the Sign leave him now?’

  ‘It has to leave him sometime. Why not now?’

  ‘Is there no one else?’

  ‘We know of no one else at the moment, Theta. I think I must have some dinner. Will you join me? They do one quite well at the Ecu de France, down the street.’

  ‘Rather a waste – when all I can manage is a glass of milk and a biscuit.’

  In all the years he had known him, Q had never eaten a meal with Theta. He had often wondered why his superior had never suggested it. Now he knew.

  ‘In any case,’ Theta continued, ‘somebody must be here in case Sydney rings the office…somebody with the muscle to tell him he must now bring in Blakeney at once.’

  ‘Molluscs,’ said Balbo, ‘are becoming dangerous. Especially if they’re out of the Mediterranean, like these.’

  He tucked into a large plate of Praires with relish. ‘Hangover gone?’ said Jones, S.

  ‘Since we saw that notice in Sainte Marthe’s.’

  Syd Jones looked through the window of the restaurant across the street at the outer wall of the sunken arena of Arles. Damn that notice in Sainte Marthe’s, he thought: it’s going to complicate everything.

  A girl walked along the street and glanced briefly towards the entrance of the restaurant. Where have I seen her before? thought Jones. Damn that notice. Where have I seen that girl? Gone already.

  ‘Balbo,’ he said, ‘we must think very carefully what we must do.’

  ‘It’s quite clear, what we must do. That notice said that a certain Monsignor Bernard Comminges, Canon Resident of the Cathedral of Saint Trophîme in Arles, would be giving an address next Tuesday, on the Role of Satan under God, in the church of Sainte Marthe at Tarascon. That means that there is someone living in Arles called Bernard Comminges. In Arles, Sydney, where we are this minute sitting and eating our dinner, some five minutes’ walk, if that, from the Cathedral of Saint Trophîme.’

  ‘The clerk at the hotel didn’t know him. He shook his head as if we were mad to ask.’

  ‘A typically nasty French habit, to dissimulate ignorance by imputing perversity or insanity to the questioner. I once tried to buy a bottle of Delamain cognac in Dieppe. Two old women who didn’t have it in their shops denied that such a cognac had ever existed and looked at me with disgust, Sydney, as though I had proposed to them some particularly evil form of sexual congress. In that case it wasn’t ignorance they were trying to conceal, it was the inadequacy of their stock; the underlying technique, however, was the same. But be all that as it may,’ said Balbo, ‘you are not going to tell me, because one hotel clerk shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, that a person with the title of Canon Resident of the Cathedral of Saint Trophîme is not to be found here in Arles.’

  ‘And what if he is to be found?’

  ‘Sydney, you’re really being very peculiar tonight. We are looking for a necklace of Rubies that was last heard of as being in the possession of someone called Comminges. Furthermore, we are now very near that part of the world in which my friend Clovis du Touquet, who may have been looking for the necklace, or may even have been summoned by someone to collect it, died a very strange and horrible death. The combination – a Canon Comminges, living in Arles, i.e. within a short distance of Aix-en-Provence – is too strong to ignore. So tomorrow, when the Cathedral is open, we step inside and ask the nearest priest, verger or pious old woman where we can find Monsignor the Canon Resident.’

  ‘Who will certainly think we are mad the moment we start asking for ruby necklaces.’

  ‘The question has to be put sooner or later. If he is a member of the Comminges family we’re looking for, he will almost certainly know the legend.’

  ‘Suppose he does. Suppose he even knows where the Rubies are. What makes you think he will tell us?’

  Balbo mopped up the last of the Praire juice with a piece of garlic bread.

  ‘Of course, we may have to keep on at him,’ Balbo said. ‘He may crack; or he may inadvertently give us a hint. Not necessarily a direct lead to the jewels, but something helpful.’

  Syd Jones heaved a very deep sigh.

  ‘Time, Balbo; time. If I don’t bring you in soon, they’re going to get angry.’

  ‘I thought you were prepared to play them along for a while.’

  ‘I was. I am. But the “while” is nearly over.’

  ‘Surely it can extend to a chat with the Canon tomorrow?’

  ‘And if that keeps us in the hunt?’

  ‘Surely, just a day or two more… And then we could suspend operations, if we weren’t through, till after the rat business is finished with. But at least, Sydney, now we are here, we must talk to the Canon.’

  ‘So we must,’ conceded Sydney, ‘I will telephone the duty officer in Jermyn Street and tell him we need up to three days more…allowing us time to act on any information this Canon character may put up.’

  ‘Thank you, Sydney.’

  ‘Not at all, sport. I’m enjoying it all, as you know. It’s just that I’d got into the way of thinking that the hunt must be done with at last –’

  ‘– That’s what I thought too –’

  ‘– And that’s what I’ve told them in London. So it’s been an effort working myself back into the former frame of mind, that’s all.’

  ‘What about them? What will be their frame of mind?’

  ‘We’ll see when I telephone. I think they’ll go along with me all right.’

  And that was what he really thought, and what he really wanted. Reluctant as he had seemed a few minutes earlier, he knew that the hunt could not be abandoned now that a new line, against colossal odds, had been opened up to them. Nor did he think it likely that Theta would quarrel over three more days. For a moment he thought of ringing London there and then in order to dispel any doubt or anxiety immediately. Then he remembered that his latest set of figures about Balbo must be relayed during the call, and these were in a notebook in his briefcase back in the Hôtel Jules César. Ah well, he thought; the call can wait. Balbo seems happy enough guzzling his frogs’ legs; it’s good to see him eating so well and looking so fit, even after last night’s dismal performance; he’s a different man from what he was a week ago. So let’s just enjoy our tucker. Anyhow, it will be much easier to telephone from the hotel.

  ‘Urgent news for you,’ said Theta when at last he heard Jones, S, on the telephone. ‘But first let’s have the latest figures on Blakeney.’

  Syd Jones read them out; Theta read them back as a check. ‘Now wait,’ said Theta.

  Syd Jones waited.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Theta after ten minutes had passed. ‘You’ll have to hang on a little longer.’

  ‘Would you like me to ring again later?’

  ‘No. We’re nearly through. Just hang on.’

  In the office in Jermyn Street, Theta laid the telephone receiver through which he had been talking to Jones, S, gently down on his desk, then turned to Q who was holding the receiver of a second telephone.

  ‘You’ve checked that Lambda took down the right figures?’ asked Theta. ‘They absolutely correspond with the ones on that paper, the ones which Jones has just relayed to me?’

 
; ‘Yes,’ said Q, ‘they do. Can I go back to my partridge in the Ecu de France? Partridges are very expensive, you know.’

  ‘Ask Lambda if he is quite sure that his interpretation of Jones’ new figures is correct. Tell him to check his findings.’

  Q told him. They waited. Q thought about his partridge, of which he had eaten only one mouthful when summoned back to the office. I’d better order another, he thought: start again from square one. The telephone started to quack. Q listened carefully.

  At last he replaced the receiver.

  ‘Lambda says there can be virtually no doubt at all,’ he purred at Theta.

  ‘Right,’ yapped Theta. ‘Go back to your dinner.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Q went. Theta picked up the telephone receiver from his desk.

  ‘Are you there, Sydney?’

  ‘Yes, sir. If we’ve finished with those figures, I have a request.’

  ‘Just listen, Sydney. If your return is correct, and if Lambda of Bio/Chem has not gone off his head, by this time tomorrow morning Blakeney will have lost it.’

  ‘Lost what?’

  ‘This charisma or whatever he has. The Sign with it.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Observe. If his forehead is still unlined, then he still has it, in however weak a form, and you must rush him straight back to London, where we shall see what we can do. But if lines, however faint, are beginning to form on his forehead, then it has gone, and that is that.’

  ‘You mean, he’ll no longer be any good to us?’

  ‘No. I don’t mean quite that. Even if the charisma has gone – indeed just because the charisma has gone Lambda says he may still be able to serve us, though in an altogether different way. What you must do is this: if the Sign has gone tomorrow morning, i.e. if his forehead is beginning to crease in the normal fashion, you must just hang around with him wherever you happen to be –’

  ‘Arles –’

  ‘– Hang around with him there, or let him move about if he wants to, and ring in to the duty officer twice every day to report where you are.’

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘Twice. If anything out of the ordinary has happened, tell him to put you through to me.’

  ‘Or Q?’

  ‘If I’m not there.’

  ‘If neither of you is there?’

  ‘One of us will be, from nine a.m. to nine p.m., seven days a week. We may well have special instructions for you.’

  ‘What’s going on, then?’

  ‘You’ll be told, when and if you need to know. No point in complicating your life until we have to, Sydney. Meanwhile, just telephone in twice a day, as near as you can to noon and seven p.m.’

  When Theta had finished talking to Jones, S, he broke his rule of many years and joined Q at his table at the Ecu de France.

  ‘No, no food or drink,’ he said with distaste. ‘There is something I want to discuss with you. Something that won’t wait.’

  ‘You mean…what will now happen to Blakeney?’

  ‘And what we should do about it. What…and how. But first, why? To begin with, why has the Sign left him? On Sydney’s showing, he is in many ways a fitter and better human being now than he was when Sydney first met him. Yet to explain the disappearance of the Sign, of the charisma, we must posit some process of debilitation or decay.’

  ‘Puzzling, I agree. My own theory is that this search in which he has been engaged, while not bringing about any obvious personal deterioration, may nevertheless have affected or changed his mental processes in such a way as somehow to dissipate his qualifications for – er – Kingship or Divinity or whatever he was endowed with.’

  ‘We know almost nothing about this search – except that it is very important to Blakeney. It’s a line we might pursue if we want to know what has brought about this sudden deprivation.’

  ‘But do we really want to know? Surely the plain fact that Blakeney has lost, or is just about to lose, his charisma, must be enough for us. I don’t think we can waste time on “why”. It is an academic exercise.’

  ‘An enjoyable one.’

  ‘I thought the need was for decision rather than enjoyment.’

  ‘Touché,’ said Theta. ‘Very well. What are we to do? He himself will not know he has lost the Sign – any more than he knew he had it, before Sydney told him. It could be our duty to warn him and protect him against the consequences of his loss.’

  ‘But here,’ said Q, examining with satisfaction the cheese soufflé which had now followed his partridge, ‘the emphasis at once shifts to “how”. How should we ensure his protection? And this in turn leads us to the question: How will they go about their – er – part of the business?’

  Theta nodded.

  ‘We must also ask ourselves,’ he said, ‘the question “who?” Will the job be attempted by their local representatives, wherever Blakeney happens to be? Or will there be delegations from all over the world?’

  ‘We then remind ourselves,’ said Q, ‘that they are not so much doing a job as taking part in a sacrament…a sacrament of a therapeutic nature. We may therefore assume that as many of them as possible would wish to be present. This could be a very great number, since one may presume that even a crumb of this particular feast will have the desired effect; as with the Christian Sacrament of Holy Communion.’

  ‘We are going too fast,’ said Theta. ‘We have forgotten to ask an important and elementary question: given that for many years he has not been active in his role and has had nothing whatever to…with them, will they still be concerned about him?’

  ‘When we decided to recruit him, we predicated such concern. On the best advice. Which was, that once he had been given Grace in their eyes, so to speak, the Grace would be valid and applicable (even if not applied) until the disappearance of the Sign. Their concern would therefore last until the latter event which would precipitate the consequence of which our experts informed us.’

  ‘In short,’ said Theta, ‘they will act. But before they can act, they must know. Will they automatically divine what has happened to Blakeney by some process of second sight? Or is it necessary for one of their number to observe him and spread, so to speak, the word? If so, how widely would it be spread?’

  Q very carefully applied a nugget of mustard to a forkful of soufflé and inserted the combination.

  ‘If you remember,’ he said, ‘we toyed with the idea of asking Blakeney to exercise his influence from a distance, i.e. from wherever he happened to be, in order to save time and trouble and avoid staging a confrontation. We thought he might will them to leave Canterbury Cathedral and take themselves off somewhere convenient. But we were advised that this was beyond his powers. In order to exercise his influence, he must be present. From this incapacity…from the fact that he could not reach them though the psychic ether, as it were…we must deduce, by corollary, an incapacity on their part to pick him up through that medium. And if they can’t do that, they certainly won’t know what is happening to him now unless they see for themselves or are told by somebody who has.’

  ‘By…somebody?’ said Theta.

  He poured himself a glass of Q’s Evian water and put two large yellow tablets into it. While these dissolved, ‘By somebody? Theta repeated. ‘You mean, of course, by one of their own number?’

  ‘So I did. But if one comes to think of it…’

  Theta’s pills had now vanished in the Evian water, which had turned into a syrup like gaseous hair oil.

  ‘Yes,’ said Theta, and took a sip of the hair oil. ‘Yes,’ he said, and took a gulp. ‘Yes,’ he said, and drained his glass, ‘if one comes to think of it, there should be some way in which we could inform them…those of them, that is, who are occupying Canterbury Cathedral…of what has happened to him. They would then emerge, instinctively drawn to the performance of their rite on the person of their God who is God no longer, with the object of crossing the Chann
el by whatever means and seeking out Blakeney…of whose whereabouts we should have told them to give them additional impetus. Meanwhile, Operation Falx could be brought forward, all known exits from the Cathedral blocked by the troops, drains and canals intensively watched over, all of them slaughtered as they departed in accordance with the original plan, and their remains taken to Dover Castle for disposal and research. There are just two snags. First, how are we to put over the necessary information to them?’

  ‘A hypnotist?’

  ‘He would have to have powers comparable to those which Blakeney used to have. Rare.’

  ‘We can consult Lambda and his people.’

  ‘Yes. First thing tomorrow. We want some method of making them understand that their God King, or one of their God Kings, has lost his Grace, and that they may find him, in order to perform their rite, in Arles. And this brings us to the second snag…’

  ‘Yes, Theta?’

  ‘Suppose…some of them actually get through. Get through the cordon of troops, get onto boats across the Channel, track down Blakeney in Arles…or, if he’s left, find and follow his trail to wherever he goes? What then, Q?’

  ‘Then…Jones’ report of what occurs should be extremely interesting.’

  ‘Of course, we needn’t say he’s in Arles. If we succeed in getting through to them, we could misroute them. So long as we are sufficiently convincing to get them out of the Cathedral…’

  ‘I’ve an idea that in order to be that convincing we must believe what we’re saying – and that means telling the truth.’

  ‘In any case,’ mused Theta. ‘once they’ve been told about Blakeney’s loss of Grace – and that is the bare minimum they must be told in order to get them moving – once they’ve been told about that and the hunt is on, they’ll make their own inquiries among their own – their own, er, people, who will be on the alert, as word spreads, over wider and wider areas. Even if only one of them escapes the cordon he could, given a little time and luck, start a hue and cry all over Europe. In which case, wherever Blakeney was or wasn’t, and wherever we’d originally told them he was or wasn’t, sooner or later he’d be having visitors.’