Mad About the Boy? (28 page)

Searching for other news he turned the page.
MP Found In Soho Love Nest.
That held no appeal.
Mysterious Wreckage From Storm.
The name Stanmore Parry caught his attention. He grinned. This was Ernest Stanhope at his best. Having run out of things to say about Lyvenden – and there had been a heart-breaking and entirely fictitious account of Lady Harriet's reaction – he'd gone on to the weather.

Tomorrow, of course, he expected to see Smith-Fennimore's name and perhaps his own in
Kidnapping At Hesperus: Further Development In Lyvenden Case
but as far as this morning's paper was concerned, today's news from Stanmore Parry was the
Mysterious Wreckage From Storm
. There was a stirring description of the storm, with a lovingly written depiction of mountainous seas and howling winds pounding the coast. The sea wall had been breached, branches and some whole trees had been toppled, chimneys were down and the coast road had suffered a landslip. The mysterious wreckage on Stanmore Parry beach turned out to be five sets of false teeth, a wooden leg, a sewing machine, its needle still miraculously attached, and
a good quality full-length leather coat whose owner will bemoan its loss
.

The door opened and Isabelle came in. She looked dreadful. Haldean glanced at her unhappy face and promptly put down the newspaper. ‘Come on,' he said softly.

Isabelle sat down on the arm of his chair and turned a pale face to his. ‘Where's it going to end, Jack? I thought you were dead last night.'

Haldean reached out a hand to her. ‘I'm not. Punctured, not perished, as the man said about the car tyre.'

She didn't smile. ‘It's all very well joking about it,' she said fretfully, ‘but anything could be happening to Malcolm, and as for Arthur . . .' She gave a deep sigh. ‘I've been rotten to Malcolm. I was rotten to Arthur, too. I wish I knew where they were. I wish I knew what was behind it all. I can't understand anything. Who were those horrible men? I'm sure they tried to kill you, Jack.' His hand tightened on hers. ‘I don't know how I feel any longer. I'm numb. It's hard to feel anything. I've been lying awake since goodness knows when this morning trying to work it out, and all I keep coming back to is the sight of Arthur's face and his hands all covered in blood. I keep thinking how much he wanted me to trust him and I wouldn't. Then I see Malcolm again, with the gun butt smashing down on his head and you, falling back as if you were dead, and that awful noise from the guns which seemed to go on and on for hours.'

‘Come on, Belle,' he said gently. ‘Don't give in to it. I'm all right, if that's any consolation, and you're wrong about how long it went on for. The whole thing must have only taken a couple of minutes, if that.'

‘Well, it seemed to last for hours,' she said, niggled at the contradiction. ‘It was as if time had stopped working properly.'

‘I've had that feeling,' said Haldean. ‘I used to get it when I was flying, particularly if there was a fight on. It's as if you split into two people, one looking on, saying what you should do next, and the other person – your real self – actually doing it. And there's always a choice, you know? The two selves can argue about what you're doing, then you do it, and time flips back to normal. I don't know whether it lasts for seconds or only part of a second, but it's as if all the clocks have been stopped.'

She looked at him gratefully. ‘I'm glad you see that. It's exactly how I felt last night. It made it more like a nightmare than something that was really happening, and the most nightmarish bit of all was how the time stretched out.'

He stared at her, his mind racing.
Time stretched out . . . Time. That's it! Two people. One person split into two. And there's a choice. There's always a choice
.

‘Jack, what is it?' asked Isabelle. Her voice seemed to come from far away.

Not much time left . . .

‘Jack, what is it?' asked Isabelle again.

‘I think I know the truth,' he said in a strained voice.

‘What?' she said in astonishment.

He hardly heard her. ‘There are some bits which don't fit, but I'm sure they will if I keep hammering away at them.' He tried to sit up and winced in annoyance. ‘I've got to check something with Ashley. Give me a hand, will you? I'm stuck with this blasted arm.'

With Isabelle behind him, he strode into the hall and down the front steps. On the lawn, Ashley was talking to Sergeant Ingleton. ‘Don't say anything,' he hissed as they approached.

‘Did you want me?' asked Ashley, looking up. ‘I say, Haldean, what is it?'

‘I want to check something,' said Haldean, forcing the excitement out of his voice. ‘I need to see Adamson's statement.'

‘
Adamson's
statement? Well, of course. All the paperwork's in the gun room.'

He led the way into the gun room and searched out the file. Watched closely by the others, Haldean ran his finger down Adamson's statement, and sighed.

‘I'm right. I wish I wasn't, but I am.' He closed the file and got up.

‘Hold on a minute,' said Ashley. ‘You've cracked it, haven't you? What is it?'

Haldean looked horribly uncomfortable. ‘I've got an inkling of what might have happened, but I really don't want to say what it is. Not yet. I'm sorry, Ashley. You know I won't keep you in the dark for a moment longer than I have to, but I'm simply not sure yet and I want to be sure. This may all be nonsense.'

‘I'd like to hear it though, nonsense or not. Come on,' said Ashley, his eyes on Haldean's tense face. ‘You must be able to tell me something. I haven't got much longer on this case. If I don't get somewhere soon, the Chief'll have to give it to the Yard. Even an idea would be helpful.'

‘No. I can't tell you anything.' That was too harsh. Ashley looked affronted, as well he might. Haldean tried to explain himself. ‘Ashley, I'm sorry. I want to tell you what I've got in mind, but it's a question of friendship, you see? He deserves that much, at least. I need to make absolutely sure.'

‘Is the friend Captain Stanton?' Ashley asked shrewdly.

Haldean nodded. ‘Give me a day, Ashley. Maybe a day and a night. That's all I want. Please.'

Ashley drew a deep breath. ‘All right.' He half smiled. ‘Not that I can stand in your way. But remember, Haldean, this is murder you're talking about. You can't ignore the law just because Captain Stanton's a friend of yours.'

Haldean bit his lip. ‘No. I couldn't do that.' He turned and walked quickly out of the gun room and up the stairs from the hall.

Isabelle caught up with him at the doorway to his room. ‘What's going on, Jack?' demanded Isabelle. ‘You might not be able to tell Mr Ashley but you've got to tell me.'

He looked at her with a twisted face. ‘Oh, my dear, what if I'm wrong? I hope I'm wrong. Look, will you help me get this sling off my wretched arm? And you'll have to help me on with my coat. I can't quite manage it. And pass me that leather case, will you? It's got all my maps in it.'

Still firing questions at him, she followed him round the room, but Haldean refused to answer. ‘I may be the biggest idiot in England, but I think I've got it,' was the most she got out of him. When he'd finally got his coat on, he scooped up the money from his dressing table and turned to Isabelle, taking her hand in his. ‘Belle,' he said seriously. ‘My dear Belle. For what I've done, and for what I have to do – sorry to sound so churchy – I really am very sorry. If you fancy praying, pray that I'm wrong.'

‘But
why
?' she said impatiently. ‘And where are you going?'

A very small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘That's easy enough to answer, at any rate. I'm going to get Arthur.'

‘What!' She drew back. ‘Do you know where he is?'

Haldean nodded. ‘Well, if he was between Melling Bridge and Caynor the night before last, he should be there by now. Don't tell anyone, though, just in case I'm not right. It'd cause a fearful stink and it wouldn't be fair.' He walked to the door. ‘I should be back today but it might be tomorrow. I'm going in my car.'

‘Jack! What will the doctor say?'

He grinned. ‘Tell him I've made a miracle recovery After all, I've got another arm.'

‘I wish you'd tell me what was happening.'

‘Oh, dash it all, Belle, work it out for yourself,' said Haldean with a return to his normal manner. ‘There's a coat on the beach, Arthur hared off with Lyvenden's cigarette case and Smith-Fennimore got kidnapped.'

‘Don't give me that,' said Isabelle. ‘You know perfectly well it doesn't make any sense. You can tell me one thing. Was Tim murdered by mistake?'

Haldean shuddered. ‘No. The person who murdered Tim knew exactly what they were doing. I'm not going to say another word.' And with that, he clattered down the stairs and was gone.

Haldean drew the car into the side of the road, switched off the engine and lent his forehead on the steering wheel with relief. Although he had confidently told Isabelle that he could manage the drive, he had found the twenty-two miles from Hesperus rough in places and agonizing in others. The landlord of the pub where he had stopped for a break had looked at his white face critically before consenting to serve him with a double brandy. The last four miles over unmetalled roads had made his left arm feel on fire every time the car had jolted. After a few minutes' rest he wearily climbed out of the Spyker and, leaving the car under the shelter of a tree, walked up the overgrown lane which ran off the main road.

With the ache in his arm reduced to a dull throb, he pushed open the gate which hung on one hinge and walked into the woods beyond.

It was all very quiet. These were the grounds of Arthur's childhood home, choked with brambles, nettles and ivy after the neglect of the war and a succession of tenants. Haldean had never been here but Arthur had described it often enough. If he took the path through the woods he should come to an outcrop of chalky rock with a cave at the base. The cave had, Arthur said, a small opening leading on to a space where a man could stand upright.

He knew Arthur had been thinking a lot about his old home recently. He'd said as much at lunch the other day.

Aunt Alice had started the conversation, one of those ice-breaking conversations good hostesses do start when the talk is flagging, along the lines of ‘Where in the world would you like to be most?' Haldean, who knew his aunt loved Hesperus, thought it showed something of the strain she was under when she picked Egypt where she and Uncle Phil had been stationed years ago. After all, in Egypt there had been no daughter Isabelle or son Greg – and more to the point, no Lord Lyvenden, Lady Harriet or Alfred Charnock.

Malcolm Smith-Fennimore wanted to be by a river in the Baltic where he'd spent youthful summers; Isabelle chose Paris with references to hats and shoes, but Arthur had remained quiet. ‘Home,' he said, when Haldean had prompted him. ‘My old home when I was a kid.' Hesperus reminded him of The Priory, with its high rooms and winding stairs, but what really stuck in his mind was the cave. ‘I loved it,' he said. ‘I played endless games of shipwrecked sailors, pirates, and Robin Hood there. It was my big secret. I always holed out there when things weren't going right or I was in trouble.'

Haldean thought at the time the remark had a wistful significance. Now it seemed like a prophecy.

He nearly missed the entrance to the cave. An elder sapling, with masses of tiny black berries, had sprung up outside a narrow vertical crack in the rock. A freshly broken twig hung limply from the tree and there were churned footmarks in the mud. Haldean squeezed himself into a gap more suited for a boy than a man and was relieved to find the split in the rocks opened out. It wasn't really a cave, but a damp, moss-covered gap between the rocks, roofed over by earth-packed tree roots. As a place for a boy to play it was excellent, but as a place for a man to stay it was wretched. Haldean shivered. Still, he had slept in far worse places in France and so had Arthur.

He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the dim, green-filtered light, then smiled and stooped down. On a low spur of rock, away from the wet earth, were the remains of a fire. The embers were still warm. Haldean lit a cigarette, sat down on the earth floor, propped his back against the wall and waited. Tiredness swept over him in an engulfing wave. He blinked himself awake, then relaxed against the chalk wall. Perhaps he could just shut his eyes for a few minutes . . . Seconds later he was fast asleep.

He woke in agony. White stabs of pain lanced through his arm and he jerked his eyes open to see Stanton's furious face close to his. He twisted out from under Stanton's clutching hand and was very nearly sick. ‘My arm!' he gasped. ‘Arthur, let go, you're hurting my arm!'

Stanton, his face contorted with anger and fear, dropped his hand and stepped back, fists clenched. Haldean gazed at him in dismay. With two days' growth of beard and filthy clothes, Stanton looked wild.

‘You!' Stanton snarled and struck out. Haldean writhed away, sprawling on the ground. He scrambled to his knees. Stanton caught him, hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the wall, his open hand on Haldean's chest.

‘I won't let you take me back,' said Stanton in a voice that was nearly a sob. ‘I'm not going back to hospital, I'm not. I'll kill you first. I mean it.'

‘I'm not taking you back,' gasped out Haldean. ‘Not to hospital, anyway,' he added, feeling like Judas.

Stanton lashed out. Haldean flinched away from the blow and Stanton's fist brushed past his jaw and crunched into his shoulder. With an agonized cry, Haldean doubled up, clutching his arm. This time he did retch. Utterly helpless, pressed against the chalk wail, he was violently sick. ‘Arthur, you bloody idiot,' he managed to say after the fit was over. ‘It's me, Jack. Jack! For God's sake, man, stop it!'