Into the Blue

by Robert Goddard

  The Venice Express reached its destination on Tuesday afternoon. There Harry boarded a train to Paris. During a lengthy wait at Milan, he was able to obtain a selection of that morning’s English newspapers and gain his second insight into the progress of what they had now dubbed The Dysart Scandal. The Cabinet had met and commissioned an urgent inquiry into the security implications of the affair. Meanwhile, Dysart had announced through his constituency party chairman that he would be taking immediate steps to vacate his seat and withdraw from public life. ‘Many loyal party workers feel betrayed by Mr Dysart,’ the chairman had said at a press conference. ‘He has accepted that this is the only course open to him.’ Of Dysart in person there was still no sign. A blank had been drawn at Tyler’s Hard, whilst at Strete Barton Virginia remained tight-lipped, although she had confirmed that she had neither seen nor heard from her husband since the story had broken. On the future of their marriage she had declined to be drawn.

  With Dysart in hiding, most newspapers had devoted considerable attention to the instigator of his fall from grace. Photographs of Hurstdown Abbey and its beset headmaster were therefore much in evidence. ‘Privileged and prestigious educational institution confronts its shameful secret’ was among the more memorable judgements. Cornelius had vanished, bound who knew where, and the school he had betrayed was clearly intent on expunging him from its memory and conscience before a trickle of pupil withdrawals turned into a flood. Nobody knew him; nobody liked him; nobody could be found to defend him.

  By noon on Wednesday, Harry was aboard a Boulogne to Folkestone ferry. Seated on deck, where freezing conditions assured him of privacy, he sifted through a third tranche of newspapers and noticed a hardening of attitudes as well as an ebbing of interest. The Dysart Scandal had now retreated to inside pages and with both of its protagonists still proving elusive, the cameramen had been called off. The government inquiry had commenced its work with a statement of its confidence that it would find no evidence of damage to security, whilst from Downing Street had come confirmation of Dysart’s vacation of his parliamentary seat; a writ for a by-election would be moved as soon as the House of Commons returned from its Christmas recess. Considerable huffing and puffing had emanated from Northern lreland’s Protestant politicians, accompanied by demands for Dysart to be deprived of his DSC. In the letter columns this idea found much favour with those who would have preferred a public flogging for such an individual and wished to draw more general lessons about declining morality and tarnished honour. Meanwhile, a clutch of ex-pupils of Jack Cornelius had been tracked down; all wished to emphasize that he had never tried to recruit them for the Republican cause, that he would have been wasting his time had he done so and that they had never much liked him anyway. As for the IRA, their reaction had been neither sought nor offered.

  On the train from Folkestone to London, Harry reached a decision he had been agonizing over since leaving Athens: he must find Dysart. There could be no evading such a confrontation, no scuttling back to Swindon and forgetting all he had suffered because of him, no dissociating himself from the man simply because he had brought about his own ruin and deserved no sympathy: they had to meet.

  But such a decision was easier reached than implemented. An army of journalists had failed to track Dysart down and Harry had none of their resources. He did posssess, however, one advantage: a knowledge of who, besides himself, Dysart had employed to further his objectives. Zohra Labrooy had deceived him at Dysart’s bidding: she would therefore be his first recourse. She would answer for her conduct and aid him in his search. From Victoria station he headed straight for Marylebone.

  The woman seated at the reception desk in Dr Kingdom’s consulting rooms was not Zohra Labrooy. She waited till Harry had finished his explanations, then said: ‘Miss Labrooy no longer works here.’

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Last week, I think. At any rate, I started this week.’

  ‘But … why did she leave?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘Surely—’ A sidelong flicker of the receptionist’s gaze cut Harry short. When he turned round, it was to see Kingdom standing in the doorway of his office, staring straight at him.

  ‘Would you mind stepping in here, Mr Barnett?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘I won’t keep you long.’

  Meekly, Harry obeyed. He could think of no good reason to refuse; Kingdom seemed as softly spoken and self-controlled as ever. But as soon as they were alone, the doctor’s tone altered.

  ‘You have a damned nerve to come here like this.’

  ‘I was only—’

  ‘Only looking for your confederate, I know. Your visit to the Versorelli Institute was reported to me, Mr Barnett. I’m amazed you could have thought it wouldn’t be. As for Miss Labrooy, I’m equally amazed she could have thought the forgery of my signature on that letter wouldn’t be traced to her. I dismissed her as soon as I heard of it.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really? You’ve caused me a great deal of embarrassment and inconvenience. You’ve been party to theft, fraud and the most appalling misrepresentations. I’d be within my rights to press criminal charges against you, Mr Barnett. Do you realize that?’

  ‘Why don’t you, then?’

  ‘Because – and only because – Heather’s mother telephoned me this morning. It appears Heather is alive and well – in Athens.’

  ‘I know. I was the one who found her.’

  ‘So Mrs MalIender said. Which leaves me wondering why you thought it necessary to make a nuisance of yourself at the Versorelli Institute.’

  ‘If you’d admitted visiting Heather in Lindos five days before her disappearance, maybe I wouldn’t have.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake—’ Kingdom broke off and stalked away to the window, where he stared out at the street, back pointedly turned. ‘How did you know I’d been there?’

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘And because I never mentioned it, you thought I’d played some part in Heather’s disappearance? You thought I’d spirited her away to Geneva?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No doubt you’d say I only had myself to blame for—’ Kingdom turned back from the window, an irritated frown on his face. ‘I suppose it is possible you thought you were acting for the best. How did you persuade Miss Labrooy to help you?’

  So Zohra, it seemed, had not disclosed Dysart’s role in events. Perhaps, thought Harry, that was just as well. ‘If she didn’t tell you, I’m not about to.’

  Kingdom stared at Harry with a mixture of bafflement and distaste. ‘What are you two hiding? With Heather found, safe and sound, what purpose does all this secrecy serve?’

  Harry said nothing. In one sense, he and Kingdom owed each other an apology. But in present circumstances that was the sentiment least likely to be exchanged between them.

  ‘Do you know what I think, Mr Barnett? I think there’s a great deal more to this than I’ve ever appreciated. Perhaps Heather’s safety was never the real issue. Perhaps it was merely a smokescreen for something else.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I think you do. And I think Heather’s reappearance coinciding with Alan Dysart’s public disgrace somehow holds the key.’

  Kingdom was close to the truth but Harry sensed he would never draw any closer.

  ‘But you’re not going to tell me what it’s really all about, are you? You’re not going to tell me anything at all.’

  Harry smiled, enjoying for an instant the other man’s frustration. ‘No,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not.’ All the way to Paddington station, Harry debated whether to travel to Kensal Green and confront Zohra straightaway, but in the end fatigue deterred him. With forty minutes to wait for the Swindon train and the rush hour in swirling progress around him, he queued for the use of the telephone and dialled her number. There was no answer. He re-dialled, with the same result. Then he tried Mrs Tandy instead.


  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Tandy? This is Harry Barnett. Remember me?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Barnett. How are you?’

  ‘Er, fine. I’ve been trying to contact Zohra.’

  ‘She’s away. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Er, no. No, I didn’t. Where’s she gone?’

  ‘A cousin in Newcastle, I think. To be honest, I’m not really sure.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘There again, I’m not sure. She left in rather a hurry. A few days, I suppose. I wouldn’t think she’d be gone longer, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Tandy. I really don’t know.’

  So Zohra was in some form of hiding. And finding Dysart was to be less straightforward than Harry had hoped.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me, Harold, that this Mallender girl’s been sitting pretty in Athens these past two months while her parents have been worrying themselves sick?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Letting papers like that Korea suggest you knew more than you were telling? Letting half the busybodies in this street imply you had something to do with her disappearance?’

  ‘Well, she can’t be blamed for other people’s maliciousness, but—’

  ‘I don’t understand it, I really don’t. What way is that for a well brought up young girl to behave?’

  ‘I’m not sure her upbringing has anything—’

  ‘And Alan Dysart! I’d always thought him so nice, so well spoken. What I’ve been reading about him these three days past would have turned my hair grey if old age hadn’t done the job already. Mixed up with these Fenians. And other such goings-on as I don’t like to speak of. To think he was standing in this very room not a month ago, smiling and bobbing fit to charm the birds off the trees. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t.’

  ‘Neither do I, Mother.’

  ‘It can’t go on. That I will say. It simply cannot go on.’

  ‘No, Mother. It probably can’t.’

  59

  A LENGTHY LAY-UP had not mellowed the temperament of Harry’s car, which grated and growled its way along the road when he left Swindon the following morning. If the newspapers were to be believed – which on this point they were – nothing had been seen of Dysart at his London flat, or at Tyler’s Hard, or at Strete Barton, following the appearance of The Courier article on Sunday. Since the flat would therefore be empty and only Morpurgo was likely to be on hand at Tyler’s Hard, Strete Barton was the one destination which might yield some information as to his whereabouts.

  It was midday when Harry drove into the yard. The Range Rover stood alone in the garage. Of Dysart’s Daimler and Virginia’s Mercedes there was no sign. As he climbed from the car, a silence suggestive of emptiness closed about him. But there was a window open at the front of the house, so it was not without some hope that he approached the door. To his surprise, it opened before he had reached it.

  ‘Mr Barnett!’ It was Nancy, aproned and headscarfed, a duster clutched in one hand. ‘Well, well. Fancy you turnin’ up ’ere.’

  ‘Hello.’ Harry stopped and smiled at her awkwardly. The realization came to him that he had no pretext for his visit. ‘I … er … heard about everything.’

  ‘Reckon you’d need to ’ave bin down a mineshaft all week not to. It’s bin terrible, real terrible.’ And there was indeed a strained look on her face that suggested she had been badly affected.

  ‘Is … er … Mrs Dysart at home?’

  ‘Not ’er. Got so fed up with these journalists pokin’ an’ a-prying’ that she took ’erself off on a ’oliday. Ski’in’, I think she said. Only went yesterday.’

  ‘Ah-ah.’ It was not, Harry reflected, quite the action of the concerned wife determined to stand by her beleaguered husband. But for her absence he was duly grateful. ‘Left you to hold the fort, then?’

  ‘That’s right. I was just doin’ a bit o’ cleanin’. My dad, well, ’e said as I shouldn’t work up ’ere no more, not after what’s come out. But I said: they’ve always bin good to me, so why should I let ’em down?’

  ‘Very laudable. Have you … er … seen anything of Mr Dysart?’

  ‘Well …’ Her voice dropped and Harry had to step closer to hear. ‘Matter o’ fact, ’e showed up yesterday, couple of hours after Mrs Dysart left. Breezed straight in and straight out again.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘You’d not ’ave known anythin’ ’ad ’appened, Mr Barnett. You’d not ’ave known, I swear. Looked an’ sounded just the same. Like ‘e ’adn’t a care in the world. ’Ow ’e kept up such a front I dunno, not considerin’ some o’ the things I’ve read an’ ’eard about ’im these past few days, but there ’tis. Mind …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I couldn’t ’elp thinkin’ ’e might’ve bin waitin’ for Mrs Dysart to leave. Waitin’ till the coast was clear, like.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno. ‘E was ’ardly ’ere five minutes. Went to ’is study, came back with a few things in a bag, an’ drove away. All smiles, ’e was. Jus’ like always.’

  ‘Would it be all right if I … looked in the study?’

  ‘Well …’ Nancy’s brow furrowed. ‘S’pose so. Why not? Can’t do no ’arm, can it? You won’t … take nothin’, will you?’

  ‘No, Nancy. Not a thing.’

  The study was exactly as Harry remembered. Nothing was out of place, nothing disturbed. The photographs of Dysart’s class at Dartmouth and the crews of the Atropos and Electra still adorned the walls, the books on the shelves were still neatly arrayed and dusted. What had he taken, then? What had he carried away?

  Suddenly, as Harry surveyed the room, the memory of what had occurred there – the recollection of what he and Virginia had done – intruded so sharply on the present that for a second he could almost see and hear … He gripped the corner of the desk to steady himself. Then he remembered – as if it was still there to be seen – the book he had found lying by the telephone that night: The Reign of William Rufus. He crossed to the bookshelves and looked along them in search of it. Strangely, it was not there, although there was a gap of about the right width where he would have expected it to be. Perhaps … Then it came to him. The Reign of William Rufus, inscribed with the signatures of Cornelius, Cunningham, Everett, Morpurgo and Ockleton. Their gift to Dysart on St George’s Day, 1968, the day Ramsey Everett had died and what was now unfolding had been set in train: that was the possession Dysart had come to retrieve; that and nothing else.

  At the pub in Blackawton, the Dysart scandal appeared not to concern those who joked and gossiped at the bar. Either it had ceased to interest them some days since, Harry supposed, or he was recognized from his visit with Virginia a fortnight ago and was viewed therefore with suspicion. He took himself off to a settle by the fire, drank his beer in sorrowful gulps and cast about his weary thoughts in search of inspiration as to his next move. Where was Dysart? What was he thinking? His life had been founded on easy success and expert concealment. How did such a man confront total ruin and the exposure of a damning secret? How did he propose to carry on?

  Harry’s gaze drifted to the wall beside the fireplace, decorated with a wartime poster concerning evacuation of the locality for D-day preparations. IMPORTANT MEETINGS. The area described below is to be REQUISITIONED for military purposes and must be cleared by 20 December 1943. Arrangements have been made to … 1943: all so long ago. Ramsey Everett, Willy Morpurgo, Clare Mallender and Alan Dysart were all then unborn. And Harry? He was just a short-trousered schoolboy who spent his days wondering if a bomb would ever drop on his classrooom. If he had foreseen then what his life would hold, he would have—

  ‘Evacuations are in season again, I understand,’ said a voice behind him, a voice that was immediately though imprecisely familiar.

  Harry looked round and found himself staring up at a tall, thin, raincoated figure with a sharp, weasely face, greasy grey-streaked hair dragged ove
r a bald head and a complexion the colour of the poster he had just been studying. The man from the train; the man from the cemetery; the man Nancy had glimpsed from the kitchen window at Strete Barton: he must have heard Harry’s shocked intake of breath, must have seen the flinching realization in his eyes.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ He lowered himself onto the stool beside Harry, put his glass on the table and gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Nice drop of ale here, don’t you think?’ He nodded up at the poster. ‘Saw you looking at it. A bit ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, like I said, evacuations are suddenly the order of the day again. At Strete Barton, that is.’

  ‘Who … Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Vigeon. Albert Vigeon. Certificated bailiff. Also available for a wide variety of confidential assignments. Matrimonial. Process serving. Missing persons. Covert surveillance and photography. Currently concerned with what you might call a bad debt.’

  ‘You’ve been following me, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but not for the past couple of weeks. This is strictly a chance meeting, though not much of a chance considering we’re both here for the same reason.’

  ‘What reason?’

  ‘To find Dysart. Isn’t that so, Mr Barnett?’

  All the nameless fear this man bad instilled in Harry was suddenly gone. He sat across the corner of the table from him, a drab and ferret-eyed figure in a grubby-collared raincoat. He was no phantom, no herald of the unimaginable; he was sallow flesh and watery blood; he was Albert Vigeon, enquiry agent. ‘Who are you working for, Mr Vigeon?’

  ‘I was working for Dysart.’

  ‘But not anymore?’

  ‘Hardly.’ The same taut, mirthless smile. ‘Actually, I’m concerned he might have overlooked my account in view of all that’s happened to him.’

  ‘Your account?’

  ‘For services rendered.’

  ‘What services?’

  ‘Unorthodox ones, I grant you, but chargeable on a strict scale. You’ll be familiar with some of them, I think, since you were the subject and a certain amount of visibility was called for by my client. Monitoring your movements. Making a few anonymous telephone calls. Taking some photographs. Learning a little Greek. Daubing some words on a wall. Reading a book on a train. Wishing you goodnight. Leaving a calling card in your hotel room. Slipping a snapshot under the windscreen wiper of your car. Discarding a Greek cigarette packet outside your home. That sort of thing, Mr Barnett. All that sort of thing.’