Ah, me. Life is certainly strange. There were Humphrey Bogart movies playing at Notting Hill Gate, but I didn't go. Instead I sat and watched the falling snow and, amid the snoring and the guilt, I dreamed my dreams.
Chapter 19
Winfield didn't want me to come. "What's the point?" he asked. "What will you add?"
"I don't know," I said, "but Kathy seemed to think it was a good idea. Don't you remember?"
He shook his head vaguely. No reason he should. "All right, but you better start thinking about your future here. I probably won't need you after today."
"I'm saving up my money to run an ad," I said.
Kathy was waiting for us when we arrived at Paddington Station. She had on a tweed overcoat and skirt, and she was carrying a shopping bag that contained a gift-wrapped box. She looked tense, but she greeted us cheerily. "I've already bought the tickets," she said, "so let's just check our platform, shall we?"
We walked out into the concourse and watched the huge message board announce the arrivals and departures. Winfield looked like he needed a drink. "Did you tell your father we were coming?" he asked.
"Yes," Kathy replied. "I phoned him last night."
"How did he react?"
Kathy pondered for a moment. "That's difficult to say," she responded finally. "He's not the kind to display much emotion."
"Did he say anything about me? Did he talk about what happened back then?"
Kathy stared at him and shook her head. "I'm sure he'll be more forthcoming when you meet," she said.
"Sure. Makes sense." Winfield fell silent, dreaming about the moment that was about to arrive.
The silence became awkward after a while. "Shirt?" I asked Kathy, to break the ice.
She looked puzzled for a moment, then glanced at the shopping bag and smiled. "Good try, but not as good as yesterday. Dressing gown."
"Ah. Dressing gown. He'll love it."
"I hope you're right."
Our train was announced. We made our way to the platform and climbed aboard. The train was mostly deserted. We had a compartment to ourselves; Winfield and Kathy sat facing me. In a few minutes the train pulled out of the station.
Am I being sufficiently blasé about this? My first train ride—not quite as exciting as my first trip in an airplane, but good enough: the huge concourse, the muffled PA system, the conductor punching our tickets, the station giving way to rail yards flanked by grim flats and factories, giving way to bleak countryside... How often had I read about such a commonplace experience, in Dickens and Doyle and the rest of them? And now the experience was mine. It felt good.
I had plenty of opportunity to consider the experience, because no one was doing much talking. I tried to chat some more with Kathy; she was polite but preoccupied. And Winfield was in his own world, scarcely capable of saying anything to anyone, I think. So I stared out the window and thought about train rides, and wondered what was going to happen at the end of this one. It took us a little over an hour to reach Oxford.
"Now what?" Winfield asked as we made our way out of the station.
"Now we walk," Kathy said. "My father's house is about half a mile from here. It's in the wrong direction from the colleges, I'm afraid, so the route won't be particularly scenic."
Winfield shrugged; he wasn't interested in scenery. The three of us set out in silence.
Maybe it wasn't a good idea for me to be here, I thought as we walked. I felt like an outsider at some strange, private ritual. I didn't belong in this solemn procession over the icy sidewalks, past the quaint stone houses. And then I thought: why is it so solemn? Here we are, two days before Christmas, and a guy is about to meet his long-lost something-or-other. People should be a little happier. Shouldn't they? It wasn't my place to mention this, however. I was just along for the ride. I stuck my hands in my pockets and kept my mouth shut.
Finally Kathy pointed to a small house at the next corner. "That's it," she said.
We approached it like pilgrims heading for Canterbury. Would Winfield get down on his knees? It had a tidy little yard; smoke was rising from the chimney; there was sand on the walk.
"Wait!" Winfield said.
We waited. He stopped and closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Kathy looked at me, but I couldn't read her expression.
"Okay," he said.
Kathy led the way up the walk to the door. She rang the bell.
The door opened almost immediately. He must have been waiting for us—watching us come. "Hullo, Daddy," Kathy said. "Here is Dr. Winfield."
They stared at each other.
I felt as if I were observing an allegory of Time. The black hair turns gray and thin, the eyes require glasses, the firm skin wrinkles and sags. Same height, same build, same features. Were they the same person? I couldn't tell for sure; Time does too thorough a job. But the sight was enough to make me shudder and think of my own mortality, the dreaded future that would be as quick to arrive as the dreaded past had been slow to depart.
I looked at Kathy. Her eyes were fixed on her father. "Perhaps we should go in," she murmured after a few moments.
Professor Cornwall glanced at her, a little confused—perhaps a little frightened—and then he nodded. His gaze met mine for an instant and drifted past. I almost smiled, the experience was so familiar. Then he turned and led us into his home.
He brought us into a cozy library. Dark oak shelves were crammed with books. A coal fire burned in the small fireplace. A bottle of Scotch was open on the sideboard.
Cornwall and Winfield sat down opposite each other, Kathy and I remained standing. I studied Cornwall some more. He was wearing a tweed jacket and a faded gray sweater. He hadn't shaved very well. His clasped hands tensed and untensed in his lap as if he were squeezing an invisible ball. I had a strong suspicion that he needed a drink.
"Well," he said, and the word sounded bewildered on his lips. It sounded like a plea for help. He looked at Winfield; he looked at Kathy.
"Well," Kathy said.
The dialogue was hardly Shakespearean so far. Winfield managed to get out a full sentence. "You know me," he said—quietly, confidently.
Cornwall looked at Kathy; he looked at the bottle of Scotch.
"Dr. Winfield is your son," Kathy said.
Cornwall looked at his hands, squeezing, squeezing. "He's not my son," the old man whispered.
Kathy looked at Winfield, who took the statement in stride. "That's right, I'm not."
I noticed that she was still holding her shopping bag. Happy Christmas, everyone. "Then who are you?" she asked.
Winfield put on his condescending expression. "I'm not his son, you see. I'm his clone. The product of a complicated biological procedure that he developed back in America. I'm genetically identical to your father, Kathy. We're twins, born forty-some years apart."
Kathy processed that little piece of information, and then turned back to her father. "Is this true, Daddy?"
Tangled, leafless branches of an elm tree scratched against the bay window at the far side of the library. The fire hissed, a floorboard creaked, Cornwall squeezed. And I thought: does Winfield see what I am seeing—a weak, confused old man, a man who has not come through life well? Doesn't this scare him? Or is his dream too real, his ego too strong? The silence lengthened, until finally Kathy repeated her question. "Is this true, Daddy?"
Cornwall shook his head. "No, it is not true," he whispered.
"No?" Winfield repeated. "What do you mean, 'No'?" His voice was surprisingly calm, as if a trivial mistake had been made. Easily fixed. Try again.
Cornwall stared at his hands, unable to meet Winfield's gaze. "Cloning of adults is impossible at the moment," he muttered. "I looked into it at MIT, but there were... procedural difficulties. I was never successful."
"But you're mistaken, can't you see?" Winfield said, finally becoming excited. "You successfully implanted the embryo in my—my mother. Alicia Winfield. She volunteered for the experiment. Then she left Cambridge, th
e war happened. But the experiment worked. Can't you see? Can't you look at me and see?"
Cornwall raised his eyes slowly, but the effort was too much, and he dropped his gaze back to his hands. "I'm afraid you're the one who's mistaken," he said, and his voice was a little stronger. "You're not related to me—you're not my son, not my clone. Perhaps there is a resemblance that led you to hypothesize... something. But it never happened. Nothing ever happened."
"But—but it did," Winfield persisted. "You just have to look at me to know that it did."
Cornwall spread his hands, as if to say: See? Nothing there.
Winfield turned to Kathy, and his voice was getting desperate now. "You can see the resemblance, can't you? Anyone can see the resemblance." And he gestured at me, as if to prove his case.
"There's a resemblance," Kathy said softly, "but I don't know you. I know my father, and I believe him."
"He must be mistaken—or he's lying."
"Why would my father lie?" Kathy asked.
"I don't know. I—" Winfield's gaze returned to Cornwall, and he fell silent for a moment. I felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for him. He must have rehearsed this scene so often, and now it was happening, and it had gone wildly wrong; the dream had turned into a nightmare. He must have started feeling sorry for himself at the same time, because when he spoke again it was in a low, pleading tone to Cornwall, who sat, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, as he listened. "Look," Winfield said, "I don't know what you're thinking, I don't know what's going on. I only know that this is my life. I've given up everything to come here and find you. I've got to know who—what—I am, and you're the only one who can tell me. It's all right if I'm a clone—I want to be a clone. But just tell me the truth."
Cornwall seemed to shrink back in his chair. He looked at Kathy for help, but Kathy was silent. "I'm sorry if this is disappointing to you," the old man said finally to Winfield. "I don't want to hurt you, but this is the truth: you will have to find out who you are on your own. I can't tell you."
Winfield shook his head. He leaned forward and stretched out his hand to Cornwall. "It's my life," he whispered. "It's my only life. Can't you see?"
Cornwall shrank farther back into his chair and ignored the hand extended to him. And for some reason I thought of Professor Hemphill, back in Cambridge, and what Cornwall had said to him once upon a time: You only have the one life. Don't waste it. Linc had given me the same good advice. Had Winfield wasted his life? It was beginning to look that way.
"It's my life!" Winfield screamed. And he leaped upon Cornwall, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and shaking. "It's my life, it's my life," he kept repeating, his voice hoarse and desperate.
The allegory of Time had become jumbled and weird. Since when did Youth attack Age? Since when did—
"Walter!" Kathy was calling to me. "For God's sake!"
Private eyes are men of action. I jumped on top of Winfield and pulled him off the old man. We tumbled to the floor, and I managed to pin him beneath me. Winfield struggled for a moment, and then lay quiet in my grasp. Eventually I let him go and stood up. He stayed there on the floor, his eyes closed, gasping for breath.
Cornwall got shakily to his feet. He went over and stood looking into the fire.
Kathy joined her father by the fire. She put a hand tentatively on his back. "Are you all right, Daddy?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he murmured. He didn't turn to look at his daughter.
Winfield slowly got up from the floor. His eyes blazed at me, a convenient focus for his anger, but then he turned away. I was too unimportant. He spoke to Cornwall's back. "All right," he said. "I can't force the truth out of you. But I'll tell you one thing: I'm not going to rest until I find out the truth, one way or another. And that means you're not going to rest either. I've got nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, so you'd better prepare yourself. Understand?"
No one replied. Winfield spun around and left the room, elbowing me aside as he strode past. The outer door slammed, and then there was silence.
Boy, that was one swell reunion, I thought. Glad I came. And now what was I supposed to do? Rush after my boss? I had a feeling I wouldn't be very welcome. On the other hand, I sure didn't belong here. I straightened Cornwall's chair, which had moved in the ruckus, and retreated to a corner of the room, hoping someone would give me an order.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," Kathy murmured.
"It's all right. No matter." His voice was distant, tired. He went over to the sideboard and poured himself a large drink. Then he noticed me. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"He's a friend of Winfield's," Kathy explained. "I mentioned him on the phone last night."
"Oh." Cornwall swallowed most of his Scotch. That seemed to give him some strength. "I think you'd better go," he said to me.
He was right. "I'm sorry we bothered you," I said. "Doctor Winfield was very sure about—about everything."
Cornwall stared at his Scotch and didn't reply. I turned and left the library.
Kathy caught up with me at the front door. "What will you do?" she asked me.
"Go back to London, I guess. Thanks for the round-trip ticket."
"I'm sorry about this," she said.
"Why should you be apologizing?" I asked, a little puzzled. "Winfield and I were the ones—"
"Yes. But I should have known—I should have understood my father better. Oh, never mind. I expect I'm rather confused."
"That's okay." She looked lovely in the dim light of the vestibule. I sighed. "See you around, Kathy."
"Yes. See you around."
I walked out of Professor Cornwall's house.
* * *
It was dark. It was cold. I hadn't paid much attention to our route from the railway station, and I was afraid I would become lost. What was I doing here?
This wasn't the way cases are supposed to end—in anger and confusion, with the private eye groping through the night in a strange city. There must have been some clue I had overlooked, some spectacular deduction I could make to explain everything. Cornwall was hiding something. But what? Winfield had been mistaken. But it didn't look as if he had been mistaken. The government was to blame. The aliens who had landed in Washington were to blame. There was a massive conspiracy: everyone was to blame. What did I know?
Maybe that's the way things were, in real life: confusing, messy. I had had enough of real life.
I found the railway station eventually, and learned that I had just missed the train for London. Real life again.
Maybe Winfield had been on that train; if so, it was just as well I had missed it. But I had a feeling Winfield was more likely to have found a pub than the railway station. He probably needed a drink as much as Cornwall, and I doubted he could wait till London to get it.
I sat on the platform and waited for the next train. People came and went. A wizened mutant with one eye pushed a broom desultorily along the floor. Two professorial-looking men were arguing about Arthur Schopenhauer, or maybe it was Arnold Schonberg. The PA squawked incomprehensibly. A fat old lady with a shopping bag kept nodding her head and muttering to some invisible companion.
I hadn't felt this lonely in years.
What was I doing here? Why was I sitting in this cold, crumby place? There were cold, crumby places in Boston where I could be sitting. And in Boston I would not be sitting alone.
The train was late, of course. I sat and sat, and I felt my feet freeze and tears tug at my eyes. This was not the way the dream was supposed to turn out. Something had to—
"Walter!"
It was Kathy, calling to me from beyond the entrance to the platform. She was wild-eyed and breathless.
I went over to the gate. The old black ticket taker gazed at us with vague curiosity. "Um, hi," I said cleverly.
"Oh, Walter," she gasped, "I think something terrible is happening."
One terrible thing sprang immediately to mind. "Did Winfield come back?"
"No—I'm not sure. Probably. There was a
phone call, and my father—I've never seen him like this. He told me to get out. I argued with him, but he wouldn't listen. I had to leave. And—and—I didn't know what to do. I'm so scared. So I came here, hoping maybe—"
She started to cry. Tearful beauty asks for help. That's what the job is all about. "Let's go," I said.
* * *
We took a cab—my first cab ride. Kathy leaned forward in the back seat, her hands covering her face, trembling. I laid a hand awkwardly on her arm. "It'll be all right," I said. "I have a feeling Winfield's bark is worse than his bite. He probably just wanted to argue some more." I wasn't at all sure I had that feeling, but it seemed like a good thing to say. It didn't have much effect, however.
We heard the sirens before we reached the house. Kathy stiffened. The cab slowed down. We turned a corner, and I saw the flames.
"Seems to be a bit of a problem there, mate," the cabdriver said.
Kathy did not look up.
Chapter 20
I leaped out of the cab. The firemen were already starting to do their work. There was a small knot of onlookers. Neither Cornwall nor Winfield was among them. I rushed up to a bobby who was standing next to a firetruck. "Did they find anyone inside there?" I asked.
"I don't know that they've looked yet, sir," the bobby replied. "Still rather hot, I expect."
I thought for a moment. "Listen," I said. "I know something about this fire, and I think it might be arson. The person who set the fire is probably trying to get out of town. Can you take me to the railway station?"
The bobby gave me a stern look. "What is it that you know, sir?"
"There was a—a dispute earlier. Two people were quite upset. I was here, but I left. That girl in the cab back there—it's her father's house. She can tell you what happened too."
"Let's go and have a talk with her then, shall we?"
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