by MARY HOCKING
‘Put your feet up and relax,’ Erica ordered. ‘You can’t go out walking tonight.’
It was an unpleasant evening, the wind was getting up, and a bitter one. It was too cold for more snow. While they were drinking their coffee, there was a ring at the front doorbell. Dorothy said, ‘I’ll go.’ She went out of the drawing-room, and heard the muffled sound as Erica kicked the sausage back at the bottom of the door. A draught blew under the front door; as she walked across the hall, icy fingers seemed to grip her ankles. She switched on the light in the lobby, but could see nothing through the frosted glass panel of the door, it was too dark outside. She opened the door. A man was standing there, the collar of an overcoat turned up, a dim figure, anonymous.
‘Is Daniel Kerr at home?’ The voice was civil, but impersonal, not a long-lost friend.
‘No.’ He was not the kind of person who is usually kept standing on a door-step, but she did not ask him in.
‘Are you expecting him?’
‘No. He’s not living here—except at week-ends.’
The wind surged into the house; nevertheless, she was reluctant to admit the man. Erica called out from the drawing-room, ‘Is the front door open? There’s a dreadful draught.’
The man said, ‘Perhaps I could come in?’
Dorothy stood back a grudging pace and he stepped over the threshold. He had a thin, rather gloomy face, the lines around the mouth were deep which suggested the gloom was perpetual and not occasioned by the weather. He looked at Dorothy and then glanced in the direction of the drawing-room. ‘Are you Mrs. Kerr?’
‘No.’
Something has happened, she thought, suddenly afraid. Erica opened the drawing-room door.
‘Who is it?’
‘This is Mrs. Kerr,’ Dorothy said to the man.
Erica came forward, hitching a cardigan round her shoulders. The man said, ‘Mrs. Kerr? I wonder if I could have a word with you?’ He was still civil, but made no attempt to be affable. It occurred to Dorothy that he might be from the coroner’s office. She said, to warn Erica, ‘It’s something to do with Daniel.’
Erica said, ‘He’s away.’ She betrayed the same reluctance as Dorothy to be hospitable to the man; he was having to make ground inch by inch, but he was determined in an unenthusiastic way. He said, ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’
‘But I don’t know you,’ Erica objected.
There was something about him that put one on the defensive; whatever his mission in life, it did not involve creating a feeling of confidence in those around him.
‘I will explain,’ he said. ‘But I would prefer to do so in private.’
‘This is my sister,’ Erica said. Dorothy moved closer and Erica took her hand.
‘Perhaps I could speak to you both?’ he suggested indifferently.
Erica opened the door of the morning-room. The room was cold in spite of the radiator, but she had no desire to make the man comfortable and did not switch on the electric fire. She sat in one of the armchairs and Dorothy perched beside her; the man sat opposite to them in the other armchair.
‘Your husband left the laboratory rather suddenly, Mrs. Kerr,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t come home?’
‘No.’
‘You aren’t expecting him home today?’
‘No.’
The cold, or perhaps it was the man, had a deadening effect; neither Dorothy nor Erica seemed able to gather their wits. The man glanced round the room as though it might reveal something Erica had concealed.
‘When you last heard from him, he didn’t say that he was coming home?’
‘No.’ Erica, who did not like this repetition of the coming home theme, frowned.
‘He seemed quite settled?’
‘I suppose so.’ She did not know Daniel well enough to be able to tell whether he seemed settled. ‘He said he was staying where he was,’ she volunteered.
‘And where was that?’
‘At the White Hart.’ She had been annoyed that he had not started looking for rooms.
‘What do you mean, Daniel left the laboratory suddenly?’ Dorothy had come to life: it was ridiculous to sit here, frozen, incapable, as though this stranger had some kind of hold over them.
‘Just that.’
‘Wasn’t he well?’ she persisted.
‘That’s what we were wondering. That’s why I came here, to see if he had come home.’
‘Who are you?’ Dorothy demanded.
He produced an identification card. The very fact of his having such a thing inhibited them so much that they were too nervous to examine it properly, it blurred and jumped about before their eyes; if it had said that the man was Dr. Who they would have nodded and handed it back to him.
‘I don’t want to alarm you,’ he said as he put the card away. ‘But, as I told you, Mr. Kerr left rather suddenly. We have to make checks when this sort of thing happens. Perhaps you could tell me—when he left here for Brocklehurst, did he take much luggage with him?’
Erica said, ‘He took a suitcase.’ Her face was putty colour, Dorothy thought she was going to be sick.
‘Would you know if he had his passport with him?’
‘How long ago did Daniel leave Brocklehurst?’ Dorothy asked.
‘Early this afternoon.’
‘Early this afternoon? You must be mad! Perhaps he had ‘flu, or dysentery, or a recurrence of something he picked up abroad. He may have rushed out to a doctor.’
‘There is a doctor at the laboratory.’
‘I can’t help that. It’s ridiculous to come here behaving in this sinister fashion because a man walks out of his place of work and can’t be traced in the first hour! Daniel is an eccentric, you’ll look very silly if it turns out he went to buy himself a bar of coconut ice or a copy of Private Eye. As for his passport, no, he didn’t take it.’ She had no idea whether this was true. ‘And he only took clothes for a short stay. If he doesn’t turn up tomorrow, we’ll go into this again, but not now.’
He looked at her, making a few calculations. She said, ‘I shall complain to my M.P.’, just to help him get his sums right.
He stood up, he was not in the least offended; she had made a reasonable move and if necessary he could resume the game tomorrow. He said, ‘I apologise if I have upset you. But we have to make very careful checks. I think you appreciate that. If Mr. Kerr does come home soon, would you ask him to telephone the laboratory?’
When he had gone, Erica said to Dorothy, ‘Oh, my God! He’s defected!’
‘Don’t be so silly, Erica! After ten days’ work? You’ve got to have something to offer if you defect.’
‘Then he’s had a brainstorm.’ This possibility seemed a little more acceptable to Erica. ‘What am I to tell the children?’
‘Nothing until you know what has happened. Where are they?’
‘Emma is doing her homework and Giles is at the school, rehearsing something or other.’
‘Perhaps we should telephone Daniel’s hotel before Emma comes down?’ They looked thoughtfully at the telephone. Dorothy said, ‘This is ridiculous. They wouldn’t . . .’
They were still wondering whether to use the telephone or not, when they heard the front door open. There was the noise of someone kicking snow off boots: it had the sound of a person who had come to stay. Erica flung open the door. ‘Daniel!’
He said irritably, ‘Yes, all right. I’m just taking these boots off. I’ve had a terrible journey. I had to walk the last five miles.’
‘but why . . .?’
‘The car skidded into a tree.’ He came towards them, face scarlet, streaked with white creases at the corners of the eyes and down the cheeks. ‘Can we have the fire on in here?’ He switched on two bars and stood in front of the fire, holding up first one foot, then the other. Erica watched him. Whatever else might have happened, this was not the image of the would-be defector on his way to the Soviet Union. Indignation gradually began to oust fear.
‘Daniel, did you think of tell
ing anyone you were coming here?’ she asked. ‘We have had a man here.’
‘A man?’
‘Someone from the laboratory. They seem to be worried about you and he has scared the wits out of Dorothy and me. Will you please telephone Brocklehurst at once!’
‘What nonsense! They know very well why I left.’
‘Perhaps the message didn’t get passed on to the top brass,’ Dorothy suggested.
‘I told Sir Noel Baddeley himself.’
‘Well, you can’t have made youself clear.’
‘I made myself perfectly clear. I gave him my resignation.’
‘Your resignation!’ Erica was stupefied. ‘But you’ve only been there just over a week.’
‘I must get something done about the car.’ He hobbled across to the telephone and began to search through the directory, fumbling with stiff, cold fingers.
‘You won’t find a garage open,’ Dorothy said. It was just like the time he arrived; he had an astonishing ability to involve others in what he regarded as the immediate issue, even Erica, head in hands, mumbled the number of the garage. Dorothy noticed that he had a large hole in the toe of one sock: it was hard to believe that anything of much importance could have happened.
Chapter Nine
The reorganisation of Brocklehurst was a long and painful process. Normally, the scientific staff went about their work peaceably, personal idiosyncrasies were ironed out in the disciplined atmosphere of the laboratory and there was little contention; but once the work itself became subject to reorganisation, this had a devastating effect on the scientists. They emerged from their laboratories, white and shaken, as though a protective wall had been smashed down leaving them exposed to all the terrors of twentieth-century civilisation. Sir Noel Baddeley, the Director of Brocklehurst, had always maintained that scientists were better balanced than other professional people. The reaction of the scientific staff to the rigours of reorganisation came as a great disillusion to him: huddled in corridors, or walking in the beautiful parkland in which the laboratory was situated, the scientists bickered, fought and swore, with all the histrionic abandon of a group of arts graduates. Nerves were stretched, tempers flared, hidden neuroses became apparent, obsessions were revealed. Nor was Sir Noel himself exempt from this terrible sickness. Last spring, in order to fortify himself for the difficult months ahead, he had planned to take his wife on a cruise to the Bahamas. He could not leave the country without obtaining the permission of the Minister, and the Minister had written to say that he had no objection ‘provided you think it is a good thing for the Director of Brocklehurst to be out of the country the week after Whit-sun’. One day, Sir Noel was convinced, the Minister would write ‘is it a good thing for you to be away on Pancake Day?’ The fact, of course, was that the Minister was worried about Brocklehurst and he did not dare to approve anything without having first expressed a doubt. Sir Noel was worried himself. After his cruise, he began to take sick leave, for which he did not need the approval of the Minister. He had had two weeks off in June and three weeks in October. His doctor said he was suffering from nervous tension.
Things at Brocklehurst were bad. The Department was aware of this. But then things were bad in most government departments; there had been too many reorganisations, too many amalgamations. No one felt secure. No one had time to be sorry for anyone else. Least of all for new arrivals. Existing staff needed all the attention, sympathy, tolerance, reassurance that was going: the newcomer, it was generally agreed, must fend for himself. Even had Daniel Kerr’s arrival been preceded by a full dossier giving information, not only about his professional capabilities, but his personality and temperament together with a sensitive psychological assessment of the type of work to which he was best suited, it would have made no difference to the treatment which he received. It would have taken a very brave, or a grossly insensitive, person to mention the words ‘job satisfaction’ at Brocklehurst.
This was not to say that Daniel Kerr was not welcome at the establishment. In fact, his arrival was fortuitous since it coincided with the departure of a senior microbiologist who had worked himself into a nervous breakdown so severe that it was unlikely he would ever return to scientific work of any kind. No one at Brocklehurst had had time to sort out the confusion of his work; in fact, no one knew quite how confused it might be because no one knew how long he had been ill. This question of illness was one of Sir Noel’s more considerable worries. The week before he received notification of Daniel Kerr’s posting, he had been studying the confidential file on Eric Dibble in the hope of finding that at some time he had recorded an adverse statement on the man. Unstable: surely at some time he must have recorded his view that Dibble was unstable? He found little to comfort him. Dibble was one of those quiet men who never draw attention to themselves. Sir Noel liked quiet men who never draw attention to themselves, and he had regarded Dibble as an ideal member of staff; he had put this in writing on more than one occasion. The thought that Dibble’s work might indicate a slow mental deterioration taking place over a number of years was disturbing. The Department would not take kindly to the idea that a man had been quietly rotting away in a top secret laboratory in one of Britain’s most top secret establishments without anyone noticing anything amiss. The press had got hold of a similar case in another establishment on one unforgettable occasion, and Sir Noel could still remember the emotive language which had been used, ‘. . . In an all-pervasive atmosphere of corruption, one casualty more or less is hardly significant . . .’ It was of the utmost importance that Dibble’s work should be put in order before any questions were asked. The task required dedication and discretion, qualities which Sir Noel had hitherto imagined to be built into the scientist’s hereditary system. It was while he was brooding over this, wondering which of the fractious, insecure, nervously disorientated and highly unreliable members of his staff he could possibly approach to undertake this task, that he received the notification about Daniel Kerr. The information which accompanied the notification informed him briefly that Kerr had been working in Kinbelo for many years and had to be fitted in somewhere as a temporary measure until a suitable permanent vacancy occurred. None of this interested Sir Noel; what mattered to him was that Kerr was a microbiologist and a good one. He was greatly relieved. Kerr’s appearance added to his relief.. He saw a big man, with that generous openness of countenance one so often finds in big men; a spare man, no excess of flesh, no hint of indulgence, a man capable of considerable self¬discipline. And the eyes: the eyes were particularly reassuring, penetrating, aware, no deviousness there. In a surge of uncharacteristic emotion, Sir Noel felt he could trust this man to the last ditch and beyond. A dedicated scientist, if ever he saw one! He greeted Kerr warmly, told him he was just the man he had been hoping for, and that he had a very important job for him to undertake. He explained that this particular research had been discontinued, but it was possible it might throw up something which would be of value in another field . . . he was sure he had no need to explain in detail to a man as experienced as Daniel Kerr. He did, however, emphasise how very important it was that nothing should be overlooked. He did not want Kerr to think he was being pushed into a blind alley; he was sufficiently impressed with the man’s energetic manner to realise this would be a mistake. ‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘This may be a long job. But I regard it as very important.’ Daniel Kerr set to work and Sir Noel dismissed him from his mind as someone he was unlikely to be concerned with for a long time, if ever—he would be retiring in eighteen months.
He was surprised when, ten days later, his secretary told him that Mr. Kerr insisted on seeing him. If it had taken Dibble ten years and a nervous breakdown to develop a virulent mutant strain of the influenza virus, it was scarcely likely that in ten days Daniel Kerr could have anything relevant to contribute to the subject. So convinced was Sir Noel of this that he spent the first ten minutes of the subsequent interview firmly under the impression that Kerr was not saying anything relevant. He
never quite made up the lost ground. In fact, afterwards, he was not quite sure what had actually been said, which was very worrying. As he tried to reconstruct the interview in retrospect, he remembered that at one stage he himself had made some good points.
‘My dear chap, you know perfectly well that you cannot predict what will be the outcome of any particular piece of research. But one thing we both know—it will have results which are harmful and results which are beneficial. One of the greatest problems facing man today is the problem of overpopulation and a contributory factor to the increase in the world’s population was the discovery of a cure for malaria. Are you saying that the work of Ross, among others, should not have been undertaken?’ He stared into Kerr’s blue, undeviating eyes and smiled reasonably. Kerr said:
‘Are you suggesting that Dibble, by developing a virulent mutant strain of the influenza virus, was helping to solve the population explosion?’
The man’s manner had been positively militant, Sir Noel recalled. He wrote ‘militant manner’ on his writing-pad.
‘I am merely saying,’ was his reply, ‘that some of the researches which we have undertaken here might well have by-products which could be of immense importance to the human race.’
‘If it survives the main product.’
‘Come, come! That is a little theatrical, surely!’
‘What do you mean, theatrical? You must realise as well as I do that this thing could be as devastating as bubonic plague.’
Bubonic plague! Sir Noel had never expected to hear such naïve nonsense from a fellow scientist. He wrote ‘naïve’ on the pad.
‘Whether our discoveries are used for good or evil purposes is a moral and not a scientific problem,’ he reminded Kerr. ‘It is a matter for society as a whole not for the scientist to decide on such issues.’