Caroline Minuscule

by Andrew Taylor

  Lina had rolled off her mother and was trying to tie Rowley’s front paws together with a piece of string. The spaniel was dozing, retaining just enough consciousness – not much was required – to frustrate her efforts when necessary.

  It was time to implement the plan they had agreed on the way here. Dougal was to engage Katie Munns in conversation, while Amanda concentrated on Lina. The opposite strategy would have ended in immediate failure.

  More general topics of conversation – the weather, Rowley, today’s service in the cathedral and the fruit cake – had been suitably aired, so Dougal felt justified in raising a few points concerning the history of the cathedral. Katie responded at once; Dougal suspected that, since Vernon-Jones had died, she had been forced to leave her hobbyhorse in the stable, and she welcomed the chance to exercise it. They argued about the legend that the original central tower had been deliberately undermined by Abbot William of Woodbridge who was reputed to have been undermined himself by the laudable temptation to increase the terrestrial glory of God by building a new one. Then there were the ghosts, a topic which hadn’t been covered in any of the books Dougal had read. They ranged across the centuries: a line of Benedictines was said to pass along the nave, or rather along the walkway of the triforium above the nave, at twilight (‘Though what they think they’re doing up there, I’ve no idea’); a transparent eighteenth-century lady occasionally strolled down the Deanery stairs, graciously inclining her head if she met anyone; and then of course there was the cat which only Rowley appeared to be able to see, but when he did he barked furiously and his hackles rose, which was most unlike him . . .

  Dougal noticed that Amanda had succeeded in establishing guardedly friendly relations with Lina with the lure of cat’s cradle, but then he became engrossed in what Katie was saying and the next thing he knew was that the sitting room door clicked shut, leaving them alone. Even Rowley had gone. Everything was out of his hands now. Either Amanda would find the diamonds or she wouldn’t. There was nothing he could do; the realization stopped him worrying and in any case he was enjoying talking to Katie.

  After twenty minutes, the conversation wound down of its own accord. The teapot yielded the last of its contents. The cathedral clock boomed once: half-past five: Dougal suddenly became conscious that they had been here for an hour and shouldn’t overstay their welcome. Katie, in the friendliest possible way, showed that she agreed. Dougal’s offer to help with the washing up was refused and they went out into the hall.

  ‘I bet that brat of mine is showing Amanda her entire collection of toys,’ she said. ‘She’s got all the instincts of a showman. I should have done something about it sooner – Amanda must be freezing up there.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry.’ Dougal grinned at her. ‘Amanda likes kids.’

  ‘Ah well, it’s an acquired taste.’ Katie raised her voice. ‘Lina! Put those things away and come and say goodbye.’

  There was a muffled squawk in reply. Shortly afterwards, Lina clattered down the stairs, announcing importantly that Amanda had gone to the loo. Dougal took the opportunity to do the same.

  As he came out of the little cloakroom which opened off the hall, the upstairs cistern flushed and Amanda appeared on the stairs. She smiled quickly at Dougal, and he felt excitement jump in him, wondering if he had imagined that flicker of smugness on Amanda’s face.

  Saying goodbye seemed to drag on forever. Dougal had a strong urge to smack Lina, who was determined to prevent Amanda from leaving, though it was difficult to tell whether this was due to love or merely to a wish to defer her bath for as long as possible. She clung to Amanda’s legs and enumerated, in considerable detail, those of her possessions which Amanda would miss seeing if she went now. But once they were out of the door, he found himself wishing they could be back inside, lapped in warmth and civilization. He was oddly moved despite himself: the three of them, dog, woman and child, were framed by the doorway against a backdrop of light from the hall; he envied their completeness.

  Amanda slipped her arm through Dougal’s and they set off rapidly down the High Street. The car was about a mile away on the northern outskirts of Rosington, parked in a residential side street. Amanda said: ‘I’ve got them,’ and Dougal squeezed her arm in reply; it wasn’t the place to talk about them, let alone look at them. It was quite likely that Lee and Tanner were somewhere in this town, and it was impossible to relax while there were passing cars and pedestrians and dark corners. It was like having a toothache, Dougal decided, this constant, unhappy wariness. There would be no peace until something was done about it. Another source of worry was what they should do now: they were both tired and desperately needed somewhere safe to rest; at the back of his mind lurked the suspicion, which he preferred not to think about at present, that this need for safety was not going to be satisfied while Lee was around. But the priority was to find somewhere for tonight. He wondered what Amanda was thinking.

  Dougal cheered up when they rounded the corner of the road and saw the Mini waiting for them. It must be the tiredness, he thought, which was making him yo-yo between despondency and optimism. Looked at rationally, they were in an excellent position: they had the jewels, the car and enough cash for the present – and, best of all, Lee had no idea where they were.

  When they were in the car, Amanda rummaged in her handbag and produced what looked like, in the dim yellow glow of a streetlight a few yards along the road, a thin cylinder about six inches long. She passed it to Dougal, who nearly dropped it because it felt alive. A chamois leather had been wrapped round and round and sewn tightly together. Its hard, knobbly contents shifted under the pressure of his index finger and thumb. It was surprisingly heavy.

  ‘The stones must be loose – unmounted,’ he said, finding himself whispering.

  ‘We’d better not open it now – they’d probably trickle out all over the place. God, it’s weird to think you’re holding a fortune, William. Makes me go all shivery.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if they were fake? Glass or something. Vernon-Jones’s last joke . . .’ His voice trailed away. The prospect was too appalling to be considered. After a pause, during which he wished he could see the expression on Amanda’s face, he said, more loudly than he intended, ‘Look, I’ve been thinking about where we should go. I don’t like the idea of London tonight – it’s too far and it’s where Lee will expect us to go.’ Hadn’t he read somewhere that London was the worst place to hide if criminals were after you?

  ‘Okay,’ said Amanda calmly. ‘Where?’

  ‘How about Cambridge? It can’t be more than thirty miles, if that. And I know it – maybe Lee doesn’t. Give us time to sort out what to do next.’ The weight of the problem oppressed him, but he tried to ignore it for the moment. He deftly changed the subject: ‘How did you find the jewels?’

  ‘Lina’s got a playroom upstairs – just this big bare room like a draughty icebox with her toys in it. She didn’t seem to feel the cold up there at all. She started showing me her things one by one . . . I’d forgotten how exhausting kids can be with a captive audience. I was looking round while she rattled on. The model of the cathedral which Katie mentioned was full of buses and cars and stuffed away in a corner. It was horrible – covered in dust and cobwebs – my hands are filthy (I didn’t have time to wash them properly). About a yard long, I suppose, made of cardboard and hardboard and Sellotape. I asked her where she got it from, and she said, Uncle Oswyth, just before he went to heaven. It was easy enough to see what Vernon-Jones had done: the whole roof lifts off and he’d taped a false ceiling in the central tower. If you were looking for it, it was obvious – he’d used newer cardboard, and of course it was heavier than it should have been.’

  ‘When did you get it out? Is there any risk of Lina noticing?’

  ‘I doubt it. I got it while I was meant to be in the loo – just ripped the false ceiling out (it’s in my handbag) and left the old one in place. There’s no reason why she should ever know.’

  Douga
l sighed. He hadn’t expected the search for the diamonds to end like this, leaving Cedric dead and two killers out for their blood. The diamonds weren’t worth killing or dying for, he should have known that. He felt oppressed by the gross manipulations of chance which had brought him from Gumper’s overheated study to the cold, uncomfortable Mini. ‘One can’t help wondering,’ he murmured, ‘what would have happened if Katie or Lina had found them . . . they probably would have done, sooner or later.’

  ‘William! When you start calling yourself one, you sound so bloody pompous and boring—’

  Amanda stopped suddenly and turned her head away. Dougal felt unaccountably guilty. He put his hand on her arm and they both said ‘Sorry’ simultaneously and began to discuss where they could find more petrol.

  ‘Call me Oedipus,’ Dougal remarked two hours later to his pink gin. They were sitting in the Blue Boar in Trinity Street waiting for the next calamity. The journey to Cambridge had been accomplished with some difficulty in the face of a squally headwind. Dougal had been forced to change a flat tyre on a muddy Fenland verge. Cambridge, when they finally reached it, had treacherously revealed itself as an alien city; it was like revisiting a dream and finding it no longer belonged to you but to someone else. Eight years ago, Cambridge had been a city of friends and welcoming homes. Now it had turned its back on him – even the one-way systems had changed.

  First, they had tried Dougal’s old supervisor, who proved to have emigrated to Harvard at the beginning of the academic year. They tried a bed-and-breakfast place which was full up and then two hotels. The receptionist at the Royal Cambridge explained why they were likely to be unsuccessful: not only were there always tourists in Cambridge (‘Like flies round a jam pot, I’m glad to say, sir’), but a degree ceremony at Senate House on Saturday had attracted a rash of newly minted M.A.s and their partners; the noise from the bar amply confirmed this last point.

  ‘Hubris,’ said Dougal. ‘We were too puffed up about getting away from Lee and finding the diamonds.’

  His fingers kneaded the leather bundle in his jacket pocket. Amanda said nothing, but yawned; her eyes were red-rimmed from night driving. Hotels had been a last resort – they were too risky, being the first places Lee would try, if his search for them reached Cambridge.

  If only he had relatives in Cambridge, Dougal thought. Even his father. He considered his college briefly, rejecting the idea because any spare rooms would have already gone to the M.A.s and there would be problems getting Amanda inside in any case.

  He cast his mind back through friends and acquaintances. No one he knew now lived in Cambridge, no one even came here occasionally. No one except possibly—

  He drained the gin at a gulp, which made him sneeze, smiled at Amanda and asked the barman where the telephone was.

  15

  The ancient universities drew Madame Pee-Pee like a moth to a pair of candles; he was already singed for life. The only remaining question was which one would have the privilege of roasting him for posterity.

  There are few Primroses in the Cambridge telephone directory and Dougal had plenty of spare change. Tracing Philip’s parents wasn’t difficult – they lived on the Histon Road. Primrose spent alternate weekends at Oxford, where he had been educated, and Cambridge, where he had been bred (‘One likes to keep in touch’). There was an even chance that he would be here.

  At this point, Nemesis relented. Philip Primrose was not only at his parents’ house, but he was there alone. His parents were in Bournemouth at the deathbed of an aunt; Philip had come down partly to be on hand when a builder came to inspect the roof on Saturday, partly to attend a concert at Caius on Sunday afternoon, and lastly to do some work at the University Library, which he expected would keep him in Cambridge until Wednesday.

  Dougal dealt delicately with Madame Pee-Pee. Over the telephone, he banked on Primrose’s desire for company and merely said that they were passing through Cambridge and how about meeting for a drink? They met in a pub on the Huntingdon Road, where Dougal filled Primrose with double Scotches and left Amanda to do her work. Her long, black hair, her astonishingly brown eyes, framed by lashes which had no right to be natural, and her shapely figure usually went down well with heterosexual males, particularly those whose sex lives were largely confined to their imaginations.

  So, when Dougal had explained that they had nowhere to spend the night and Amanda had seconded the appeal by looking at Madame Pee-Pee as if she were thinking, ‘My hero,’ Philip Primrose asked them to spend it under his parental roof with an eagerness which bordered on the indecent. Dougal swiftly inserted his host into the back of the Mini and drove them to the house.

  ‘Home, sweet home,’ said Philip, so mournfully that Dougal wondered if he was regretting his invitation. He hastened to confirm it by saying how terribly nice it was of Primrose to put them up, while Amanda settled the matter by saying that she didn’t know what they would have done without him.

  Madame Pee-Pee ushered them into the house. Dougal suddenly understood the reason for their host’s last-minute hesitation: at college, Primrose gave out that his father was in the communications industry; hanging on the coatstand in the hall was a bus conductor’s cap and jacket.

  They went into the sitting room on the right of the door. It was a comfortable room with a large colour television in the corner and a photograph of Philip dressed up to receive his B.A. on the mantelpiece. Primrose hovered in the doorway, evidently wondering what to do with them next.

  Amanda solved the problem for him by raising the subject of food. He hadn’t eaten either, so any potential awkwardness was obliterated by a communal effort, organized by Amanda, to prepare supper.

  Dougal was detailed to buy wine, while Amanda and Philip set about reheating the gargantuan stew which Mrs Primrose had left for her son and laying the kitchen table.

  Dougal bought a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and half a bottle of Glenfiddich: if malt whisky couldn’t make the evening easier, nothing could. When he got back, Philip and Amanda were in the kitchen. Philip had removed his mustard yellow tweed jacket (hadn’t he any other, Dougal wondered?) and had rolled up his shirtsleeves. His crinkly hair had escaped from its prison of Brilliantine and stuck out from his scalp in a number of directions. His face was pink with excitement; his glasses had steamed up; he had a bottle of sherry in one hand and was telling Amanda about last year’s Commemoration Ball at his Oxford college. He looked very happy. Amanda was stirring the stew (which smelled excellent) and making the kitchen apron she was wearing look as if it had been designed by Dior.

  They sat round the kitchen table drinking whisky while the stew heated through. Primrose was persuaded to abandon the sherry in favour of stronger liquor and became pinker, louder and jollier more rapidly than Dougal would have believed possible. He left the conversation to Amanda and Philip; he looked forward to hearing what the former thought of the latter (the contrary viewpoint was only too apparent). He could feel the effect of the whisky, and realized that he must be more tired than he thought. The whisky was followed by the wine, great bowls of stew and coffee. By the time they had returned to the whisky, all three were leaning heavily on the table.

  Dougal’s elbow was resting on a note from Philip’s mother: Milk bill Saturday (Should be 3.52 pounds). Laundry beside fridge – leave outside back door Monday morning . . . Take care of yourself Darling. This was normality, a world where Monday would follow Sunday: for Dougal, the prospect seemed immensely attractive after a weekend which, on two occasions, had seemed as if it wasn’t going to be followed by a Monday. It must also be nice to have a mother . . .

  At this point, he realized he was on the verge of becoming maudlin. He only thought of his mother, who had died when he was eleven, when he was reaching a dangerous level of intoxication. He made an effort and managed to contribute a few remarks to the conversation Amanda and Philip were having about the Holbeins at Kenwood on Hampstead Heath. (‘The self-portrait is very overrated,’ said Philip, and to his su
rprise Dougal saw that Amanda genuinely agreed.) They were getting on perfectly well without him – no, he wasn’t jealous; who could be jealous of Madame Pee-Pee? – so Dougal decided to try to think calmly about what they were going to do. He hoped the haze of alcohol in his mind would simplify the problem.

  He tabulated the salient points, one by one. First, they had the diamonds. Second, realizing them would take time – Dougal had a vague idea that Amsterdam was the place to go, but unfortunately the only friend he had who had some acquaintance with the underworld of that city was at present in jail. Third, Lee would be after them: they were not only business rivals, but they had damaged his pride. Fourth, it seemed probable that, despite today’s events, Lee would continue to regard them as amateurs – he would believe he could deal with them himself (possibly with Tanner’s help, since he was already concerned). It followed, thought Dougal as he drunkenly turned a drop of spilled wine on the table beside his glass into a spiral, that Lee was the only person they had to fear.

  As Dougal saw it, they had two options open to them. One was to hide from Lee: to lie low, either here or abroad, hoping to turn the diamonds into cash to live on, until they could safely assume that his interest in them had abated. The difficulty was that they would never feel secure. Never. The money would not be much compensation for a life spent under an indefinitely suspended sentence of death.

  The alternative was to take the offensive. It meant the worms turning and pretending to be predators. It meant risking everything for the sake of peace of mind and a tolerable bank balance.

  It meant the deliberate murder of Lee. Technically difficult, quite impractical and of course absolutely unthinkable in any case.

  Dougal splashed more Glenfiddich into the three glasses and added a dash of water to his own. Primrose was looking at him like a plump and puzzled owl, as if he had forgotten that Dougal was there and now found it difficult to account for his presence.