Part 30 (1/2)
He took a last look up and down the road. A bra.s.s bellpush was set into the gatepost. He pressed it and waited but not long. He shoved the gate, it creaked and opened, he stepped inside and closed it after him. The garden was a secret patch of English countryside walled on three sides. Nothing overlooked it. The sounds of traffic ceased miraculously. The flagstone path was slippery with unswept leaves. Home, he rehea.r.s.ed again. Home in Scotland, home in Wales. Home by the sea. Home as an upper window and a church. Home as an aristocratic mother who took him visiting great houses. He pa.s.sed the statue of a draped woman, one stone breast offered to the autumn night. Home as a series of concentric fantasies, all with the same truth at the centre. Who had said that?--Pym or himself? Home as promises to women he didn't love. The front door was opening as he reached it. A young manservant was watching him approach. His monkey jacket had a regimental cut. Behind him, unrestored gilt mirrors and a chandelier glinted against dark wallpaper. ”He's got a boy name of Stegwold living there,” Superintendent Bellows of police liaison had reported. ”If you were old enough, I'd read you his record of convictions.”
”Sir Kenneth in, son?” said Brotherhood pleasantly as he wiped his shoes on the mat and shook off his raincoat.
”I don't know, do I? Who shall I say?”
”Mr. Marlow, son, and I'd like ten minutes with him alone on a mutual matter.”
”From?” said the boy.
”His const.i.tuency, son,” said Brotherhood just as pleasantly.
The boy tripped quickly upstairs. Brotherhood's gaze skimmed the hall. Hats, idiosyncratic. Coaching overcoat, green with age. One Guards bowler, ditto. Army service cap with Coldstream badge. Blue china urn stuffed with ancient golf clubs, walking-sticks and warped tennis racquets. The boy came mincing down the stairs again, trailing one hand on the banisters, unable to resist an entrance.
”He'll see you now, Mr. Marlow,” he said.
The stairs were lined with portraits of rude men. In a dining-room, two places were laid with enough silver for a banquet. A decanter, cold meats, and cheeses lay on the sideboard. It was not till Brotherhood noticed a couple of dirty plates that he realised the meal was already over. The library smelled of mildew and the fumes of paraffin from a stove. A gallery ran along three walls. Half the bal.u.s.trade was missing. The stove had been shoved into the fireplace and in front of it stood a clothes-horse hung with socks and underpants. In front of the clothes-horse stood Sir Kenneth Sefton Boyd. He wore a velvet smoking jacket and an open-necked s.h.i.+rt and old satin slippers with gold-st.i.tched monograms worn away. He was burly and thick-necked, with uneven pads of flesh round his jaw and eyes. His mouth was bent to one side as if by a clenched fist. He spoke with the bent side while the other stayed still.
”Marlow?”
”How do you do, sir,” said Brotherhood.
”What do you want?”
”I'd like to speak to you alone if I may, sir.”
”Policeman?”
”Not quite, sir. Something like.”
He handed Sir Kenneth a card. This is to certify that the bearer is engaged in enquiries affecting the national security. For confirmation please ring Scotland Yard extension so-and-so. The extension led to Superintendent Bellows's department, which knew all Brotherhood's names. Unimpressed, Sir Kenneth handed the card back.
”So you're a spy.”
”Of a sort, I suppose. Yes.”
”Want a drink? Beer? Scotch? What do you want to drink?”
”A scotch would be very welcome, sir, now you mention it.”
”Scotch, Steggie,” said Sir Kenneth. ”Get him a scotch, will you? Ice? Soda? What do you want in your scotch?”
”A little water would be welcome.”
”All right. Give him water. Bring him a jug. Put it on the table. Over there by the tray. Then he can help himself. You can go away. And top mine up, while you're about it. Want to sit down, Marlow? Over there do you?”
”I thought we were going to the Albion,” said Steggie from the door.
”Can't now. Got to talk to this chap.”
Brotherhood sat. Sir Kenneth sat opposite him; his gaze was yellowed and unresponsive. Brotherhood had seen dead men whose eyes were more alive. His hands had fallen into his lap and one of them kept flipping like a beached fish. On the table between them lay a backgammon board with the pieces in mid-battle. Who was he playing with? thought Brotherhood. Who dined with him? Who was sharing his music with him? Who warmed my chair before I sat in it?
”You surprised to see me, sir?” said Brotherhood.
”Take a bit more than that to surprise me, old boy.”
”Anyone else been here recently, making funny enquiries? Foreign gentlemen? Americans?”
”Not that I know of. Why should they?”
”There's a bunch going round from our own vetting side as well, I'm told. I wondered whether any of them had been here. I tried to find out before I left the office but there's a lack of coordination, it's all moving so fast.”
”What is?”
”Well, sir, it seems that your old school friend Mr. Magnus Pym has disappeared. They're looking into everyone who might have knowledge of his whereabouts. That will include you naturally.”
Sir Kenneth's eye lifted to the door.
”Something out there bothering you, sir?” said Brotherhood.
Sir Kenneth rose, went to the door and pulled it open.
Brotherhood heard a scuffle of footsteps on the stairs but he was too late to see who it was, though he jostled Sir Kenneth aside in his haste to look.
”Steggie, I want you to go to the Albion ahead of me,” Sir Kenneth called into the well. ”Go now. I'll join you later. I don't want him hearing this stuff,” he told Brotherhood as he closed the door. ”What he doesn't know can't hurt him.”
”With his record I don't blame you,” said Brotherhood. ”Mind if I look upstairs now we're standing?”
”Yes I d.a.m.n well do. And don't lay hands on me again. I don't fancy you. Got a warrant?”
”No.”
Resuming his chair, Sir Kenneth took a spent matchstick from the pocket of his smoking jacket and set to work on his fingernails with its charred end. ”Get a warrant,” he advised. ”Get a warrant and I might let you look. Other hand I mightn't.”
”Is he here?” said Brotherhood.
”Who?”
”Pym.”
”Don't know. Didn't hear. Who's Pym?”
Brotherhood was still standing. He was unnaturally pale, and it took him a moment to steady his voice before he spoke again.
”I've got a deal for you,” he said.
Sir Kenneth still did not hear.
”Hand him over to me. You go upstairs. Or you ring him. You do whatever you've agreed to do between you. And you hand him over to me. In return I'll keep your name out of it, and Steggie's name out of it. The alternative is 'Baronet M.P. shelters very old friend on the run.' It's also a serious possibility that you will be charged as an accomplice. How old is Steggie?”
”Old enough.”