Snatched (11 page)

George waved and smiled to Nev in a way he hoped said that Hulliborn friendship still meant a bucketful. Falldew ignored this, as though too deeply immersed in private reverie or in the grisly music. Lepage took no offence and would have settled for nothing but private reverie from Nev all night, just as he would settle for the tuxedo and cummerbund, although the occasion was always white tie.

‘I see below Lady Butler-Minton, I think,' Itagaki said, ‘unceasingly elegant and goodly.'

‘Oh, yes,' Lepage replied. ‘All those with distinguished links to the Hulliborn are welcome on Founder's Day.'

‘We are greatly honoured to be in such a category, having, so far at least, not earned that accolade,' Kanda said. ‘This is British generosity, this is
politesse
.'

‘Dear Lady Butler-Minton,' Itagaki said. ‘And are D.Q. Youde, Art, and James Pirie, Museum Secretary, still stoking her boiler turn and turn about, as during Sir Eric's lifetime, and squabbling over her so feverishly, so wonderfully waspishly?' She gave a little excited tremor and her black gown, trimmed with gold, rustled ungovernably.

‘We understand this rivalry
d'amour
was always an inspiration to witness, a stirring matter,' Kanda said. ‘Such deeply competitive devotion. Here something more was involved – and maybe still is – than mere leg-over. Was she not earnestly searching for consolation, in view of so many stresses in her life?'

‘Penelope has recovered from her husband's passing very well,' Lepage replied.

Anxieties extra to those about Falldew nagged George. It had been at a Founder's Day Ball that Sam Vaux, the Arts Minister, and his party, were fed the
vol-au-vents
accidentally smeared with flecks of Stain-Out!
True, Butler-Minton's knighthood had come through afterwards, regardless, but this year neither the current Arts Minister nor any of his senior officials had accepted an invitation. Lepage was unnerved by this. It seemed the kind of blatant snub Itagaki and Kanda would undoubtedly notice and make their possibly harmful deductions about. Lepage did not blame himself for any aspect of the
vol-au-vent
untidiness, though. It had been a different regime, a different period. In any case, he knew as fact that nobody suffered serious illness or disability through the slip-up. Butler-Minton had maintained that museum
vol-au-vents
were so bland that they needed something like Stain-Out!
to perk them up.

And then came what was probably his chief worry. It concerned lovely Kate Avis from Kidderminster. He felt an abiding tenderness for her and had tried to help her eliminate bad memories of the Hulliborn by providing wholehearted affection. She surely deserved it. But there had been tearful arguments about the Ball right up until yesterday. When Lepage had first mentioned it to her a while ago she seemed to recognize there could be no question of her attending, what with Falldew certain to be present and likely to recognize her, and what, also, with Julia present and watchful. As the event grew nearer, though, Kate had begun to question this thinking, saying she ought to be close to George on one of the most important occasions in his calendar. Given what had happened between them, and was still regularly happening, she believed she possessed rights. And Lepage had to accept some of this, damn it. She stated that she felt a complex bond with the Hulliborn, one which should take in its glamorous, festive moments, such as a Founder's Ball, as well as the impertinent flash in Folk, plus, of course, those subsequent sessions on the mock straw with George, benignly, comfortingly audienced by dummy yokels. She said she'd bought a new turquoise, silver and white gown. She had some savings from a legacy.

Kate had obviously come to feel that some indication of the way Lepage rated her was involved. And he would hate her to think it only something casual to him. Surely, it wasn't, was it? But the Founder's Ball? Tricky. Kate did grudgingly admit that Julia probably had the prime claim on him, and she promised that, if she came, she would remain among the crowd of guests and make no approach to George, content merely to be on museum premises and able to see him on such a special evening. If he somehow signalled that he wanted something more than that, she would respond. As cover, she would hire a male escort from an agency. Lepage didn't like the sound of this and, in any case, thought the whole plan foolishly risky. For a long time he resisted.

Finally, though, worried at the extent of her distress, and unwilling to hurt her by a curt, absolute refusal, he had given Kate two tickets, but pleaded with her to use them only if she found it intolerable not to be present. Now, looking down from the gallery on the horde of dancers, he searched for a turquoise, silver and white gown, but didn't find one. He allowed himself to think
thank God
, though he realized that this could be regarded as cruel and cowardly. Kate's tempers were sometimes a high-flying pain, yet had, too, a childlike charm about them, something Lepage didn't see much of these days.

‘Are there any indications about Hulliborn's chances of the exhibition?' he asked the two Japanese. ‘It's so important for us, perhaps even the difference between life and death for the Hulliborn.'

‘Shop!' Itagaki said. ‘It must not be talked, you know, not on such a social occasion.'

‘We love the Hulliborn,' Kanda said. ‘The fine intimacies it achieves with the local community and further afield, too. There will certainly be a decision in good time, rest assured.' He laughed a little. ‘We can't have those anatomical tools with no settled destination, adrift for ever, endlessly roaming the world, like the Wandering Jew or
The Flying Dutchman
.'

‘I adore whimsy,' Itagaki replied.

‘Which museums beside the Hulliborn are you looking at?' Lepage said. ‘What's the opposition? The Victoria
and
Albert?
Others? Well, of course.'

‘Tokyo always does its sad little nut to build what's called “a good field”,' Itagaki said. ‘A nice long shortlist! Those bigwigs get a feeling of power from that – so many organizations waiting on their word. Pathetic, really; the result of much self-doubt, since we have no Eton or Winchester. Those frowsty idiots back home derive as much of a kick out of telling someone “No” as in saying who has won. This is so unBritish that I fear you might not comprehend it.'

Hurriedly, Kanda said: ‘But please do not conclude from this that the Hulliborn is to be told “No”. All remains totally indeterminate. Totally.'

‘A veritable fucking melting pot,' Itagaki said.

‘It's just that I have to give a speech tonight,' Lepage said. ‘Obviously, I would not wish to make premature, confidential disclosures. But I feel very much in the dark as to what tone I should take.'

‘Ah, tone,' Kanda remarked excitedly. ‘Could anything be more crucial? This is where the English language is so famously subtle. You are very lucky. But, no, I must take that back. It is not luck that has produced such splendid sensitivity in your language. It is time, it is answered need, it is imagination.'

‘Oh, yes indeed, “tone”,' Itagaki said. ‘This is where irony comes in and such matters as understatement, or “litotes”, to give it the Greek via Latin term. If there is one thing I can never get my fill of it's litotes. Among colleagues I am notorious for this. Upon being posted to Britain I declared that what I most looked forward to were real ale and litotes.'

As the music stopped and people began leaving the floor, Lepage thought he glimpsed for a moment a gorgeous turquoise, silver and white dress on a woman who might be Kate. Then she was obscured by the crowd. He watched keenly for her to emerge, but there was no reappearance.

Itagaki said: ‘Continuing our theme, there were, I believe, “ditties of no tone” in a poem by John Keats, but this is a very difficult concept. What a ditty must have, surely, above all else, is tone – namely, the specific tone of a ditty, otherwise we could be in the realm of the roundelay or barcarole.'

‘I don't know whether to sound optimistic in my speech about the Hulliborn's prospects, or guarded, or depressed,' Lepage replied.

‘Do not be ashamed of your uncertainties, Dr Lepage,' Itagaki said. ‘They are the very stuff of life. Doubt can be a right old bastard, but also a stimulant.'

The music restarted, and people came out to dance again. ‘There now is Quentin Youde, partnering his wife, Laura,' Kanda said. ‘That is very charming and wholesome, in the circs.'

‘Decent,' Itagaki said.

Lepage could see Julia partnering one of the BBC people. Although he scoured the faces once more he still didn't see Kate. He left Kanda and Itagaki and went down to the bar. He waited for Julia to join him. But when the music ended again, it was Ursula who touched his arm. ‘George,' she said, ‘you'll have noticed that, as agreed, I've been taking close care of Nev.'

‘Yes, good.'

‘But now he's given me the slip. I'm sorry.'

‘It could be nothing,' Lepage said. ‘He seemed happy.'

‘Yes, he did. But what about?'

‘Being with you? Memories revived?'

‘It was calculated.'

‘What?'

‘Escaping from me. Very deliberate and crafty, and to hell with memories. It's worrying, isn't it, George?'

Yes, bloody worrying. ‘I expect he'll turn up,' he said.

‘Where, though?'

True. They went to the edge of the dance floor together and looked for Falldew. No success. ‘It should be easy to spot him – that head which is almost not a head, and the cummerbund. Keep searching here, will you, Ursula?'

Lepage followed instinct – absurd instinct? – and made his way quickly towards the Folk gallery. Reaching there, though, he found the door to the medieval breakfast tableau safely locked and no sign of Nev. Lepage was about to return to the dancing when instinct – super-absurd, atavistic instinct? – pushed him again, and with his master key he opened the door, switched on the non-medieval light and went in. Here, too, everything looked normal. He stood in the doorway and stared very thoroughly around the room: possibly Falldew owned duplicates of all Hulliborn keys. Although nothing seemed wrong, Lepage could not rest. As if merely pacing aimlessly, he crossed the room towards the old patriarch, humming with emphatic nonchalance, and, when close, very suddenly turned and grabbed its raised arm, the one pointing so proudly at the table spread with its prop breakfast. ‘Better come quietly, dear Nev,' he cooed. ‘You won't be sporting your oak in here any more, will you?'

But, of course, of course, under the sack jacket its arm was unmistakable wax: thin and pipe-like, and not the thinness and pipe-likeness that might come from undernourishment, and an attempt to harmonize with Falldew's flimsy head, but the thinness and pipe-likeness of artificiality. Lepage felt ashamed of his suspicion and stupidity. What would have been in it for Nev tonight with no public present to witness any personal display? God, Lepage thought, perhaps he – he, Lepage – did need early retirement after all. Had some of Falldew's mania rubbed off on to him? Was the job too big? Once more he found himself asking what Butler-Minton would have done about all this; found himself, in fact, actually preparing the words to be used in a plea. At the same time, he had a vision of himself all ponced up in tails and shiny black shoes, official host at a notable function, and yet about to address the definitely dead, implore the definitely dead flouncer for help.

Then, while he continued to hold the effigy very firmly, paralysed for the moment by guilt and confusion, Lepage heard someone move swiftly behind him at the door, and, turning, full of panic, he gasped: ‘Flounce? I mean, Sir Eric? Thank God. Aid. But no, no, how could it be?' It was, instead, the squat, energetic untentative frame of Angus Beresford, Entomology, that Lepage saw entering at a fierce rush, eyes full of rage and hatred above his excellent, obviously custom-made tails. ‘What?' he said. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Director?'

‘I—'

But Beresford was not interested. ‘Is it Falldew again? I've said all along he shouldn't be asked. But, anyway, we've got the creature this time, before he can start further disgrace and trouble. Hang on to him. Oh, yes, hang on to him. I saw the door was open, knew something must be up. Yes, something must be up. Great work, George.' He pushed the door shut. ‘Now, together, we can beat the shit out of him. Nobody will hear the screams above the band. Let's use the bumkins' medieval hoes and pitchforks, yes?' He more or less sprinted across the room and, before Lepage could say anything, threw a heavy left-hand punch that landed square in the middle of the patriarch's face, and followed it with a swinging right to the stomach. The model was torn from Lepage's grip, spun around and dropped once more on to the straw. The closed door kept the band noise out, and Beresford would have heard the particular, almost negligible sound when the dummy hit the floor. It had nothing like the solidity and weight of a human body falling. It settled at their feet with not much more than a mild, rustling crackle. ‘My God,' Beresford said, ‘it's not Neville. What the hell are you doing in here, Director, holding a nothing's arm and talking to Flounce?'

‘We should get out,' Lepage replied. ‘There's been a slight error. It might all be difficult to explain. I'll try to do repairs tomorrow.'

Beresford went and picked up the patriarch. He lifted him very gently, as though to compensate for the ferocity of his attack. Because of the first punch, the model's features were wrecked, with both glass eyes and the nose now on one side of the face, like a tilted fruit salad; and the body seemed twisted and unnaturally bent on account of the later blow. ‘Can we really put him back to rights, George?' Beresford said.

‘I don't want to hang about in here. I have a bridge-building speech to make.'