Private memories too and so many of them. The intense love for his wife and the bitter disappointment when her hunting accident had robbed them of all hopes of children. Then Molly had died fifteen years ago, leaving him alone and without love, and the earlier memories, the frightening ones, had come back. Shiny black suits with their owners bent in prayer, his father’s sermons and the texts on the bedroom wall always facing him. ‘What a terrible thing it is to fall into the hands of the jealous God.’ ‘One careless act may wall you in Hell for ever.’ Nonsense, his adult reason had told him. The words of superstition and barbarism and insanity. But they had not been nonsense to a little frightened boy nor to an old man who thought he was soon to die.
But at last hope had come. Helen Van Traylen had talked to him and taken away terror because there was an escape from hell all the time and the Fellowship she founded was the way to it. Medical research came first, then the art collections saved for the nation, then the homes for the aged, then many more charities. A mountain of good works building up like Khama to appease the fierce God of the Middle Ages. Finally came the foundation of the orphanage and the comforting knowledge that salvation could be bought at a price.
‘That is all you have to tell us?’ He pushed memory aside and looked at his companions in turn. Sylvia Rheinhart, the widow of a textile millionaire, Eric Yeats, the retired Harley Street surgeon, George L’Eclus, the racehorse owner whose filly, Matapan, had won last year’s Oaks. Old, completely trustworthy friends and fellow guardians united by Helen Van Traylen for the good of their souls. At the end of the table, lolling back as if the room, the hotel and the whole world belonged to him sat John Forest.
‘By no means, my lord. So far I have merely recapped what you know yourselves and I am hoping you will give me permission to publish the story.’ Forest had been a top Fleet Street correspondent for longer than he cared to remember. He had walked with kings and dictators and presidents and sheer power meant little to him. But he had an enormous respect for great wealth and there were at least three millionaires looking at him. Their mild, elderly faces awed him slightly, though he was careful to conceal it.
‘The child, Mary Valley, is still at Saint Bede’s Hospital, detained against your wishes. The injuries she received during the accident were superficial cuts and bruises, your own medical adviser at the orphanage stated that she is in good mental health and I have looked up this fellow Haynes’s record which shows him to be a very unbalanced man indeed. Now, Sir Marcus Levin has confirmed this mysterious allergy and forced the magistrates to sign a receiving order. To me the whole business stinks to heaven and my paper would like to throw the book at Saint Bede’s.’
‘Which we do not want, Mr Forest.’ There was a calm, authoritative note in Fawnlee’s voice that, in the past, had cowed shop stewards and shareholders alike. ‘There was quite unprofessional interference by Haynes as you have said, there may have been negligence too, but our Fellowship does not need publicity to support it. Providing the child is released as soon as her rash clears up, we have no further quarrel with the hospital authorities.’
Oh, haven’t you? Forest smiled to himself, considering the information he had not yet revealed. Why are they so against publicity? he wondered. Is there something that they wish to hide? Perhaps Haynes had been correct all the time and Mary Valley was suffering from some serious mental illness which an inquiry might bring to light, and take her out of their care permanently.
‘Do not think me impertinent,’ he said, ‘but is your doctor at the home a qualified psychiatrist? Is there any chance that Mary really may be disturbed as Haynes claims? After all the child’s background is sinister to say the least and . . .’
‘We do not discuss the backgrounds of our children, Mr Forest,’ Mrs Rheinhart broke in. She was a small, dumpy woman who looked like a very nice maiden aunt; a knitter of socks and jerseys who would never forget a birthday. At the moment she was very angry indeed. ‘Many of the boys and girls in our care come from sad and even criminal families, which is one of the reasons why they came to us and were not adopted into private homes. But they are all good, healthy children and Mary is one of the best of them. I forbid you to mention a word about her parentage.’
‘Madam, I shall write nothing without your full permission.’ Forest nodded and then glanced up at a big oil painting hung over the fireplace. It showed a tall, white-haired lady standing against a background of summer flowers and woodland, and he recognized her as Helen Van Traylen. She wore a white summer dress, long gloves reached up to her elbows, and though she must have been over seventy when the picture was painted, there was an almost girlish expression on her smiling face. Why should Fawnlee cart it about with him? Forest wondered. Out of mere affection, or perhaps as a talisman, a charm to ward off evil? The Fellowship really did appear to be in need of protection recently. To a gullible person it might seem as if some curse or supernatural conspiracy was directed against it. First the suicide of the Van Traylen woman herself, then old Colonel Anderson, another of the guardians, had fallen from a balcony, and at least two more violent deaths the details of which he would have to look up if he ever wrote the story. Finally this business of the child.
‘I am on your side, Mrs Rheinhart. I want to help you recover that little girl by forcing the hospital’s hand. My guess is that Mary will not be released as soon as you think. Remember that Marcus Levin is a good friend of Haynes and a contagious rash was the one thing Haynes needed to get the magistrates’ order.’
‘Mr Forest, you are going too far.’ George L’Eclus had only a slight trace of a French accent. ‘That rash does exist and you cannot suggest that Sir Marcus would deliberately infect the child. In any case, the dean has given us his personal word that Mary will be released in time to join the other children for our annual party in Scotland.’
‘You have not heard of our party, Mr Forest?’ Sylvia Rheinhart had forgotten her ill-temper and smiled up at the painting. ‘As you know all our board of guardians are elderly and childless people with a great deal of money, and before Helen Van Traylen brought us together we were very unhappy people. But that finished long ago and now our Fellowship is what its name implies: a group of friends. We also feel that those children are our own and every year we join them on Bala Island and have a party in honour of our founder’s birthday. All the children and all the guardians will be present, Mr Forest, and Helen Van Traylen will be there too in spirit, even though her body is dead. Do you think I’m foolishly sentimental to say that?’
‘Not at all.’ Forest inclined his head. The older people grow, the more they cling to dreams and become like children, he thought. Old Timothy Forsyte, who grew younger and younger till he was too young to live. Mrs Rheinhart was obviously looking forward to the party as much as any of the children and she had driven the details of her friend’s death out of her mind. Helen Van Traylen had died horribly, and if her spirit did exist it would be a very troubled one.
‘What surprises me is your lack of concern for Mary Valley’s welfare. As long as the hospital releases her in time for this party you do not appear to care what happens to her. The little girl may be in good mental health as you say, but will she remain so after a few more days of Haynes’s treatment?’
‘There will be no more of that treatment.’ Eric Yeats’s hand rapped the table. Like many surgeons his fingers were as broad and powerful as a labourer’s.
‘I have spoken to Brian Plunkett, the dean of Saint Bede’s, and we understand each other personally. I have his assurance that neither Haynes, nor any other trick cyclist will be allowed near Mary and I will be able to visit her at any hour of the day or night.’
‘Then I would advise you to visit her yourself in the very near future, Dr Yeats.’ Forest smiled as he prepared for the coming bombshell. ‘Nurses and hospital porters talk as much as other people and it appears that Mr Haynes is a very determined man. From what I was able to learn at the hospital it appears that he is obsessed by Mary�
��s case and because of this I made a point of following him last night.’ The fat man lit a cigarette and inhaled greedily.
‘Haynes led me to a public house near Thames Vale station where he met a certain lady. It was very noisy in the bar but as a young man I taught myself to lip read.’ He blew smoke across the table and smiled straight into Fawnlee’s eyes. ‘Dean or no dean, my lord, promise or no promise, Dr Yeats, at this moment Haynes is probably introducing Mary Valley to her mother.’
John Forest had expected a strong reaction and he got it. Fawnlee choked with anger, Yeats hurled back his chair and hurried over to the telephone, the Frenchman gave a single bitter curse and Mrs Rheinhart made a sound which was part sob and part moan. Forest looked away from them and stared up at the oil painting. When he had first noticed it, he had thought how beautiful the sitter looked, but now the face appeared pinched and wretched as if she were trying to hide fear and intense suffering beneath a gay smile. He also wondered why a woman should wear such long gloves on a hot summer’s day.
Chapter Five
‘For Christ’s sake, darling.’ Tania Levin belonged to a growing school of women drivers who believed that thrust and charm provide the shortest distance between two points, and Marcus winced as the car shot straight out from a side turning into the path of a lorry. To his further embarrassment, she then bowed and smiled at the purple-faced driver as if imagining he had intended to jam on his brakes and give her courteous passage. ‘Please remember that you’re not only pregnant, but married to a highly important man of nervous disposition.’
‘I’m not likely to forget either of those things, Mark.’ Tania smiled fondly at the bulge of her belly. ‘And stop quoting the Lord’s name in vain, you cowardly Hebrew.’ She accelerated to prevent a bus drawing out from the kerb and then leaned over and kissed him.
‘The dean said you were to get over to Saint Bede’s as soon as possible. “A matter of great urgency which I cannot possibly discuss on the telephone”—those were his exact words.’
‘But he won’t want to see me dead or maimed.’ Marcus had recently heard that bad female driving caused more broken marriages than adultery and his foot was riveted on an imaginary brake pedal. Just what did Brian Plunkett want to see him about this time, he wondered. The more he thought about his deception, the less guilt he felt. If the child was as mentally ill as Haynes claimed, it was only right that she should have specialized treatment. There was no chance that they would be found out either. The Kaldorella cultures were virtually unknown in England and Redford-Smyth, the Van Traylen Fellowship’s second opinion had agreed with his diagnosis of an allergic rash and that Mary Valley should remain in hospital till it had cleared up.
Yet he was both worried and depressed this morning. Marcus looked out at the grey streets of North-west London, seeing an old three-decker secondary school, a railway bridge, a block of flats towering gauntly like pre-war German barracks and everything enclosed by a dark, lowering sky with a promise of thunder. He had missed nothing by not going to Central Research the other day. The mutant they had slaved for six months to produce was just another failure; a weakling which was destroyed by the mildest of antibiotics. It had been largely his own brain child too, and its death seemed to herald a long run of bad luck.
‘Here we are. Saint Bede’s, safe and sound.’ Tania’s voice and a slur of gravel broke into his gloomy meditations. ‘Should I come with you or get myself a cup of tea?’
‘I think you’d better wait in the canteen, darling. Plunkett didn’t sound as if he were wanting a social visit. And do me a favour, Tania. Move the car before you get several angry men after us.’ He pointed to a sign that read ‘NO PRIVATE PARKING—AMBULANCES ONLY’ and hurried towards the entrance.
‘Come in, Sir Marcus. Please sit down.’ It was unusual for the dean to open the proceedings without the offer of a drink or a cigarette. He was standing in the centre of his study in exactly the same position as when they had last met, and Marcus had the absurd notion that he must pass the greater part of his day there.
‘It’s that blasted fellow Haynes and the Valley child again, Sir Marcus,’ he said. ‘A bad business from the start, and ten times worse now. Haynes has not only disregarded my orders, but he tells me that you support him in saying that the girl needs psychiatric treatment.’
‘As I have no knowledge of psychiatry, I could hardly do that, Dr Plunkett.’ Though Marcus still appeared urbane and untroubled he felt certain that his premonition of bad luck was coming true. ‘Haynes talked to me about the child and played a recording of her reactions under narco-analysis. Mary seemed disturbed to me and, if she were my daughter, I would be glad for her to have treatment.’
‘She is not your daughter, Sir Marcus.’ The Badger broke in with a growl. ‘Mary Valley is in the legal care of the Van Traylen Fellowship and I gave them my word that there would be no tampering with her mind while she remains in this hospital.’
‘You gave Haynes orders to that effect?’ Marcus was frowning deeply now. He had deliberately made a false diagnosis to protect Peter and give him time to study the case and the lie had been completely wasted.
‘I did indeed. I told him that he must have nothing more to do with the child, that he must keep away from her, and I promised her guardians that my orders would be carried out. Now, it appears that Haynes has not only disobeyed me but that we—the hospital—all of us may be in very serious trouble.’ Plunkett picked up his pipe from the desk and waved the stem towards Marcus as if it were a weapon: an old, grey, dog badger ready to do battle in defence of his lair.
‘Earlier this morning I had a telephone call from Eric Yeats, who is one of the Van Traylen governors. He has definite information that Haynes still considers himself to be in charge of Mary’s case and intends to continue treating her. Yeats finished by demanding that I suspend Haynes immediately.’
‘Demanding!’ Marcus raised his eyebrows. ‘A strong word, Dean.’
‘Possibly, but he has the whip hand. If I fail to agree, Yeats will either charge us with gross negligence or conspiracy, Sir Marcus.’ Plunkett turned and stared through the window at the wide expanse of the quad. His father had been a senior consultant at Saint Bede’s and he himself had studied and worked there for most of his life. Marcus knew that the hospital’s welfare was his only real interest.
‘Yeats finished by informing me that the Press already know the whole story and, unless Haynes is suspended by noon today, they will be allowed to publish it. The Fellowship will also demand a full inquiry into the nature of Mary’s rash and why none of their other children were infected in the same way.’
‘She was allergic to some substance I was unable to identify.’ Marcus spoke confidently, but he didn’t look urbane any more. An inquiry by experts might just stumble on the truth, and if that happened Peter Haynes would face possible imprisonment and certain ruin, while he himself would be regarded with suspicion for the rest of his life. He remembered how he had washed dishes every evening for four years while he had studied for his degree, the hard long road to a knighthood and the final recognition of a Nobel prize. Now everything might soon be wiped away and replaced by ridicule or worse. He could hardly be proved to have made a false diagnosis to protect a colleague, but he would be suspected of it till his dying day.
‘So you stated, Sir Marcus.’ Plunkett walked back to the desk and started to fill his pipe. His hands were long and thin and quite out of proportion to the rest of his body.
‘You will naturally abide by that opinion and Redford-Smyth is bound to support you. But what am I to do? I am furious with Haynes, I dislike the man, but I don’t want to ruin him. With his record of changing jobs in the past, suspension would probably ensure that he could never get another one in this country. At the same time, can we afford to tell the Van Traylen crowd to go to blazes? I have never liked publicity and I can imagine what the newspapers would make of a story like this.
‘What the devil is that?’ The dean had jus
t struck a match but it dropped from his hand and lay smouldering on the desk. From the corridor outside came the sound of running feet and a child screaming at the top of its voice.
Plunkett was closer to the door, but he was a stout, slow-moving man and Marcus reached it before him. The first thing he saw was a nurse scrabbling on the floor and beyond her was a big, powerful woman in a fur coat. She was dragging a fair-haired child towards the staircase and the child was screaming and struggling in her grasp. There was mania in every tense movement of the woman’s body, and as he ran towards them Marcus could hear the curses and half-formed sentences mingling with the child’s screams. ‘Damn you . . . You are not my Mary but a fiend; a soul that should not have been born. I shall send you back to hell, fiend.’
‘Stop it. Let go of her.’ They were at the top of the stairs when Marcus reached them. He grabbed the child’s shoulder and the woman’s arm at the same instant, saw a dark face contorted with rage swing round and glare at him, while Mary Valley’s free hand clutched his jacket for protection. Then the woman drew back, her handbag shot out like a flail and for a moment the world went pitch black.
‘You are all right, darling. She’s gone and there’s no need to cry any more.’ As Marcus dragged himself to his feet he saw that the nurse had taken the sobbing child in her arms and was crooning over her. ‘You’re safe, Mary, and we won’t let anyone hurt you again.’
‘Are you all right, Sir Marcus?’ Plunkett was staring anxiously up at him. ‘You were out cold for a moment.’
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