Arcadia Page 37

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Devil’s Handwriting? Something written in an incomprehensible script that people thought in the eighteenth century was the work of the devil. I argued that it was a rather bad fake.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘Tudmore; what is grandly called the family seat. It’s a bit of a ruin, but my great-aunt still lives there. I constantly worry about what will happen when the old girl dies. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it to you before.’

  ‘Who bought it?’

  ‘You seem remarkably interested, if I may say so. It was acquired by Charles Lytten, the Founding Father. He was the only one with any drive and he seems to have used up the family supply of initiative for the next three centuries. Have I never shown you the painting of him?’

  Angela shook her head.

  ‘Come and have a look, if you want. It’s in the spare bedroom. No one else wanted it.’

  *

  I followed him upstairs into the spartan back bedroom. A tarnished brass bed, a side table, bare floors and thin, dirty curtains completely inadequate to the task of keeping out either light or cold. I never understood why the English went out of their way to be uncomfortable. Something to do with the schools, I think.

  I was still in a state of shock. Suddenly hearing Hanslip’s voice, coming out of Chang’s mouth in that way, had been decidedly spooky. The message was spookier still. Why would he think that would influence me? I knew who he meant, of course. I hadn’t given my daughter a moment’s thought for years until I met Grange and he tripped my memory, and now there was this. I knew Hanslip well. He wouldn’t have put such effort into delivering that message unless he was pretty certain it would have an effect. So how was I meant to react? Was I reacting? All I knew was that I was thoroughly unsettled by the whole thing.

  On top of it all, there he was in front of me; the man responsible in a distant sort of way, although much changed from the man I remembered. There was no doubt, once I was able to ignore the powdered wig and silly clothes. It was Lucien Grange, aged about seventy. Henry was his descendant, not his ancestor. I’d never even thought of that possibility. Even so, I remained just a little sceptical until I studied the portrait with greater care.

  ‘Not very good, is it?’ Henry said, peering at it over my shoulder. ‘I don’t keep it for its artistic value. In fact, I don’t know why I keep it.’

  He answered my questions with an air of surprise that I should take any interest. This Charles had been, he said, a proper paterfamilias. He had insisted on his children having a serious education (the girls as well as the boys) and had held exceptionally advanced views on religion and politics. ‘A woman without a brain is like a sandwich without a filling,’ was his apparent response to one possible marriage partner. That was a clue, when I checked the etymology of the word ‘sandwich’. He was also exceptionally long-lived, which was another clue. He outlived his children, two wives and some of his grandchildren, finally succumbing in 1753 at what was thought to be an age of some 107 years, when he was run over by a horse and cart in Piccadilly.

  Then I got an even bigger surprise. The picture was a standard eighteenth-century portrait, terribly stylised, and, as was often the case, the sitter had been painted to look properly serious and educated. He was in a chair, looking learnedly at a piece of paper – this to disguise the fact that he had, in reality, made his fortune by becoming a developer of jerry-built properties for an expanding London. I peered carefully at the writing on the paper and caught my breath.

  ‘Henry!’ I called out. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Qui moderatur tempus intelligit omnia. Family motto. Even more pointless than most, I think. No one has the faintest idea what it is supposed to mean.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Latin was one of the few languages I hadn’t brought with me. I didn’t think I’d need it. The only word I recognised was the third.

  ‘He who controls time understands everything.’

  ‘Golly,’ I said.

  ‘I think he must have had a weakness for metaphysical poetry. I once tried to figure out where it came from. It must be some tag from a classical author, but I never tracked it down.’

  I stared at Lucien carefully as Henry pottered off downstairs again. ‘Well, that’s complicated everything, hasn’t it?’

  *

  Sam Wind returned with another man, as anonymous as Wind was noticeable, late that evening. ‘Henry,’ they said as they walked straight into his study and poured themselves more of his whisky, then both settled themselves down on the settee.

  ‘Do come in. Would you like a drink?’ Lytten had not had a good day. He had only just managed to get Angela out of the door and was looking forward to some peace.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Volkov is in hospital.’

  ‘What? Whatever happened to him?’

  ‘Someone took a pot shot at him. We were taking him to the usual place near Yeovil. The van was going round the bend just outside the village, you remember how dangerous it is, so it slowed down a lot. And – pop. One shot.’

  ‘How badly was he hurt?’

  ‘He’ll live. Just. It hit him in the chest, but the driver – with commendable aplomb, I must say – pulled him down and slammed his foot on the accelerator. But for that, I’m sure there would have been another shot.’

  Lytten fell silent. This was bad. Unexpected. This should not have happened. He examined Wind’s expression carefully, then looked away. Until now it had been almost a game. He had never really thought …

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s being taken to an army hospital on Salisbury Plain. He’ll have half a tank regiment guarding him, so he should be safe.’

  ‘Poor fellow! We should have done better for him. What about the attacker?’

  ‘Not even a cartridge left behind.’

  ‘Someone who knew what they were doing.’

  ‘Yes. The point is …’

  ‘The point is that someone wanted to shut him up. Someone knew he would be in a van, slowing down and turning the corner. Is that what you are saying, Sam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I would like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.’ It was the other man, dark-haired, serious, looking slightly nervous.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Forgive my companion,’ Wind drawled from the side. ‘He does have a name. Some county or other. Dorset? Devon? Somewhere like that. Careful what you say to him though.’ Wind looked annoyingly fake-conspiratorial for a moment. ‘I’ve seen him, scribbling away when he thinks no one will notice. You’ll probably turn up as a character in some thriller one day.’

  ‘Very interesting, but why is he here?’

  ‘Oh. He’s some junior diplomat, temporarily assigned to our new, ever-so-keen counter-intelligence department. Just temporary. I take him out for a walk every now and then to stop him going mad with frustration. Now. This man. This morning. The man who never was.’

  ‘Angela and I decided he was probably a foreign academic. He told her he was interested in an obscure manuscript in my family.’

  ‘I very much doubt that. The police evidence is quite clear. He was foreign, certainly, but he had no passport and no account of how he got here. Spoke fluent Russian. He knew Angela Meerson and wanted to find you.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to have known him.’

  ‘So she says. How well do you know her, really?’

  ‘Angela? As well as I know anyone.’

  ‘Who were her parents?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s never mentioned them.’

  ‘What is her nationality? By birth?’

  ‘English? French?’

  ‘Precisely. When did you first meet her?’

  ‘1939. In France.’

  ‘Ah yes. Near the Spanish border, which was, at the time, infested with Republicans, aided by the Soviet Union. Then, through you, she came to England and got a job with us.’

  ‘Only as a translator. She was brilliant
at it. You know that.’

  ‘She was. Impeccable. Remarkably so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I remember one conversation with her. I was despondent about the war. She brushed it aside, and said that because of Pearl Harbor, all would be well.’

  ‘She was right.’

  ‘She was. Except that she said it three months beforehand.’

  ‘Who knew about Volkov, Dr Lytten?’ It was the young man who spoke again. Very polite. He’d probably been through some training course. ‘Did you tell Angela Meerson about him coming?’

  ‘No. I asked her to come and translate only the day before. I didn’t say why.’

  ‘Did you tell her you were going away to France?’

  ‘No. No need. She has her own key if she wants to get something from the cellar.’

  ‘Was she ever in your house alone after Mr Wind delivered that package to you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘“Perhaps” is a common English word used to express uncertainty. If I knew I would have used a different term.’ He stood up to pour another drink. Old technique. Take command of the momentum. Enforce your own rhythm. Also a handy way of getting some time to think.

  ‘Let me sum up,’ Lytten said when he was back in his chair. ‘See if I get the drift of your questions properly. You are now convinced that Volkov is the real thing. You think that this man was a Russian sent to find him. You are beginning to think that the conduit between them was Angela. Which would mean that she is a long-term agent of the Soviet Union, who used me as a way of manoeuvring herself into a position where she could spy on us during the war. She discovered the papers on my desk, realised what they meant and tipped off her masters. They dispatched this strange man, who disappears and later takes a shot at him.’

  He gazed balefully at the pair of them. ‘Balderdash. Pure gibberish. Sam? You don’t really think this nonsense, do you? You’re clutching at straws to avoid looking like an idiot.’

  ‘At least she needs to answer some questions. Clear things up.’

  ‘You’re getting spooked by nothing.’

  ‘Volkov is in hospital with a bullet in him. It’s not nothing.’

  *

  When I left Henry I made my way to my little home in Barton, where I had lived since relocating my activities to England. It was a charming place, newly built in a burst of post-war social engineering, with a tiny garden, delightfully picturesque neighbours and never-ending interest, especially after the pubs closed on a Friday night. I had carefully furnished it, using adverts in magazines as models, and it was very 1960 in its aesthetic tone. Lots of linoleum and Formica and brightly patterned curtains. I was hugely pleased with it, and used to sit at my Danish Moderne dining-room table, admiring the general effect. I had two beds, one in each bedroom, one for sleeping and the other for work; I always found that separating activities was important. It was the second I planned to use that evening, for I had a great deal of hard mental labour to get through, building the sudden irruption of Chang, Grange and Emily into my calculations. The number of variables had suddenly increased dramatically and I was, of course, hampered by the fact that I had no way of knowing what Hanslip would try to do. To my already complex calculations I also had to factor in the unknown and unknowable.

  I was looking forward to my night of entertainment, and if that sounds peculiar, then I should explain how this was so. Once people got over their obsession with mechanical calculators and developed a better and more efficient way of doing things, such abilities were built in through a few small implants and by rerouting parts of the brain that otherwise were underemployed in daily life. Many experiments were done to establish the best sites for this; some people had the enhancements attached to the sectors of the brain which controlled physical exercise, for example, so that to perform work they would have to go on long walks to generate the required stimulation. Others, rather more peculiarly, had it attached to their sense of humour, and would be heard wandering around giggling insanely as they did complex calculations.

  In my case my natural ability was so great that it could not be attached to such a limited area. Instead, I opted to have my skills powered by the zones of my brain which responded to pleasure. Later a further development had also built in maternal longing, on the grounds that it is the most powerful force in the human psyche. Without going into the more lurid details, I am sure you can see the possibilities of the first. When I was still in France, grappling with a particularly complex problem, I found that the best solution was to set up the calculation, then go to a local restaurant (the Dôme in Montparnasse was very productive) and smile in a particular fashion at one of the young single men who used to frequent the place. Not only did I get my work done, I also often got a free meal into the bargain.

  I did not use the additional enhancements very often; the emotional aftershocks of doing so were too great. Instead I kept a distance from that side of my personality and did not dwell on the fact that I had a child. So what? That was my normal response when I thought of the subject. More than two decades of living in a world where emotions were permitted changed that somewhat; my response to Rosie had been far more emotional and affectionate than her existence warranted. I felt protective towards her, the first time I had ever felt such an emotion. To my surprise, it was quite pleasant.

  Now I needed to unleash that unused part of my abilities fully if I was going to have any chance whatsoever of understanding the complications that now bedevilled me. I prepared myself thoroughly, summoning all the information I had stored away on my daughter to see what I was dealing with. Then I added her to the calculations as well.

  *

  One of the things I found myself thinking about was Wind’s panic. It drove home the point that the humble coincidence could be a powerful factor in the evolution of events. If Chang hadn’t turned up just at that moment …

  Which brought me back to my worry. Why had he turned up just then? Why at that precise moment? Why not the day before or after, for example? Was it just random, or was there an underlying pattern I couldn’t yet see? Shakespeare, you understand, as interpreted by Henry Lytten. The greater the coincidence, the greater the importance of the hidden causation.

  My concern was that I had been around now for many years, and in all probability would be around for another seventy or so. And Chang shows up just as my tests were running out of control. Clearly there was absolutely no way that he, or anyone else, could have known about this. So my fundamental query was: did the fact that the test was out of control cause him to turn up? Or did his turning up in some way send the test out of control? Did his arrival cause Rosalind to visit Henry’s cellar and put Anterwold on steroids? Or the other way round? Or was there some other factor I knew nothing of? Was it simply a coincidence that today was the first time I heard of Henry’s ancestor, and saw his portrait, and was reminded of the girl he had brought into existence? I felt that if I could figure that one out, I could figure out everything else as well.

  I needed to work on my machine, and I needed help. There was only one person who could provide that, so, with some trepidation, I went to Rosie’s house and knocked on the door. I suspected she would be confined to her room in disgrace, or something like that. Certainly the sour look on her mother’s face when I’d glimpsed her as I dropped Rosie off the previous day did not make me expect that all would be joyful in the Wilson household. On the other hand, it did explain why the girl found Anterwold so appealing.

  41

  Antros was on the verge of finally killing the deer that he had been patiently tracking for more than an hour. It had stopped to drink at a narrow stream and he had a clear shot at it. Only fifty feet or so, an easy target that he could not possibly miss. The arrow was in place, and slowly he pulled back on the string until he could feel the feather against his ear. Very carefully, he took aim, held his breath – and watched helplessly as the deer started, ducked, swerved and disappeared into
the bushes, disturbed by the blood-curdling scream that echoed through the forest.

  He cursed and cursed again. The despair and terror in that scream frightened him as much as it had the deer. More, perhaps, as he knew that it was a human voice that had produced it. He jumped to his feet – his knee aching from resting on the ground for such a long time – and listened again. Swiftly but carefully, he ran lightly toward the noise. He kept his bow close, the arrow still in place. He might very well need it.

  There was nothing dangerous that he could see. In the middle of the scrub there was a figure, a slight boy sitting on the ground, hunched over. Injured? It didn’t seem so, but the sound of sobbing suggested he was in some distress.

  Antros did not hurry. He had lived in the forest long enough to be cautious. The boy wasn’t dying. Antros lowered himself behind a bush and watched. There seemed to be no trap, no one else nearby. There was the Copse, but no one would dare hide in that. There were no untoward sounds, no movements that made him alert.

  He stood up and skirted round so that he could approach the boy from behind; he didn’t seem dangerous but men died in the forest from not being careful. When he got within a few feet he pulled on the bowstring once more, so that the arrow was pointing straight at the boy’s back, and spoke.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Slowly the boy lifted his head, and Antros could see the pallor of his face, the tears running down his cheeks. He relaxed and loosened the string of his bow.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, young fellow?’ he asked. ‘Seen a ghost?’

  The boy looked at him for a long time, lips trembling.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked more gently. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘My name is … My name is Ganimed.’

  ‘Why are you so frightened? Are you lost? Where are your parents, your people?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m alone here. I went into those trees and … and …’

  ‘You went into the Copse? Why? What for? Don’t you know what is in there?’