Restoration

by Guy Adams

  And now Ashe paid even closer attention to Haywood's response. He couldn't lay claim to sharp deductive skills. True, he had spent much of his life trying to solve the mystery of the box but that was different, that was research, and the two were really not alike. Research was cold, the sifting of minutiae, the retention of facts. Trying to deduce the identity of a murderer? That was something else again, that was about reading people and empathising with motive. Still, Ashe had lived long enough that he liked to think he could tell a liar when he saw one. He had been a college professor and if there was one body of people who knew how to lie it was students.

  "Dead?" Haywood said, his face drawing paler still. "How can he be?"

  And there Ashe settled upon his decision. Whatever the truth behind Haywood's frequent bouts of "illness" he was no murderer, Ashe was sure of it. "How can he be?" Haywood had asked, a question rooted in shock not logic. He hadn't asked "what happened?" just that single brain-fart: 'how can he be?' That was the sound of a man who couldn't process what he had just been told.

  "I can assure you he is," said Walsingham, some of his anger lifted, you could only stay angry at a rag doll for so long, they just didn't give you the responses needed to stoke the fires, "and in circumstances that jeopardise this expedition beyond even your unreliability."

  "He was murdered," said the major. "Icepick to the back of the head." He clapped his hands as if this statement really needed extra impact. "The prevailing assumption being that one of our Tibetan friends decided that they'd had enough of him."

  "That may be your assumption," said Walsingham, "but we have no evidence to back it up."

  "He's dead," said the major, coldly and as if reciting a list of tactical maneuvers, "and I think I speak for all of us when I say that it wasn't at our hands. We would have no reason for killing one of our own team. It stands to reason that it was one of the Tibetans. I'd place money on Kusang were it down to me…"

  "You're our military bodyguard," said Helen. "If it's not down to you then who is it down to?"

  "I merely meant," the major gestured towards Walsingham, "well… as leader of the expedition."

  "Typical military man," Helen sighed, "always looking for someone higher up the chain of command when it comes to making the difficult decisions."

  "Do be quiet, Helen," snapped Walsingham, "we're all in shock but your attitude is not helping. We need to be working together not taking pot shots at one another."

  She stared at him, whipping the food with her wooden spoon, wondering if she should continue the argument. Ashe wouldn't have been in the least surprised to see her hurl the cooking pot at her husband, she was angry enough, he could see it in her eyes. She looked away, not with acquiescence, she was still too angry for that, but a resentful understanding that more arguments would get her nowhere.

  "Thank you," Walsingham said to her. "Now I suggest that we barricade ourselves in here for the rest of the night. Tomorrow we may have to accept that the only way forward is for us to leave… I don't intend to place any more lives in danger."

  Ashe had seen it coming but it didn't help his mood. Everything he had been prepared for – the easy mission of handing the box to Walsingham in the knowledge that he in turn would pass it to Carruthers – was falling apart. If the expedition left tomorrow then how would he ensure the chain of events that would lead to Carruthers arriving at the house? He wracked his brains for alternatives and came up short. It was only as he watched the major bolt the external door that he realised he had a problem even closer to hand: if they were all sealed in for the night then how exactly was he to slip away and catch his train?

  He was a damned idiot… so much to play for – and the rest of them back at the House didn't know the half of it – and here he was, stumbling at the very first hurdle. This was becoming too complex, too fast…

  7.

  Dinner was served in silence, nobody knew what to say and small talk was beyond them. As Ashe ate the lukewarm broth he realised it was the first proper food he'd eaten for some time. His stomach groaned appreciatively and it was all he could do not to ditch the spoon and pour the contents of the bowl straight into his mouth. Certainly such table manners wouldn't help his already precarious standing with the rest of the expedition. It was fine. They should be suspicious. It didn't help him any but he couldn't blame them for it.

  First things first. He needed to talk to Walsingham, get the box in his hands and on its way towards its first prisoner. He didn't really want to discuss it in front of everyone else, though he accepted he might have to. Half an hour after dinner, however he had his chance.

  "A cigar I think," announced Walsingham. "After that excellent meal of yours dear, I can think of nothing better."

  "Well I certainly can," she replied. "Our accommodation is confined and foul smelling enough without the stench of those damned cigars of yours."

  Walsingham sighed. "Then I shall go outside."

  "I don't think that's a good idea," said the major, "not on your own at least."

  "Oh for goodness sake!" Walsingham exclaimed. "Is a man not allowed to enjoy a simple cigar?"

  "I'll join you," said Ashe. "If it makes the major relax."

  "I'm not sure it should," Helen replied, still not willing to extend her trust.

  "You can open the shutters and watch through the window, dear," said Walsingham with a sarcastic smile. "If you fear for my safety so much." He pulled on his heavy coat and held his arm out to Ashe. "Come sir! Let us see if we can find greater civility outside shall we?"

  Ashe stepped out of the door, smiling slightly as he heard the major bolt it closed again behind them. They walked along the balcony a little way where a slight gap in the wooden window shutters allowed a sliver of light to help them see.

  "I must apologise," said Walsingham pulling a pair of cigars out of a large metal case and offering one to Ashe. Ashe couldn't remember the last time he had smoked but thought it might be best to take it, if only to put Walsingham more at ease. "You are not seeing us at our best."

  Not seeing my wife at her best is what he means to say, thought Ashe. The thought triggered something in his memory.

  "Your wife hasn't been well," he replied, watching Walsingham cut the end of his cigar with a pocket knife.

  "Indeed not," said Walsingham, rather relieved that Ashe had given him a good excuse for her mood. "One worries about her in fact." He passed Ashe the knife. "For the last few weeks she has suffered from bouts of nausea. She brushes it off but I know her well enough and can see she suffers."

  Ashe cut the end off his own cigar, rather roughly and handed the knife back. "How long has it been going on?"

  "Oh, a week or so, not long," Walsingham lit a match and offered it in his cupped hands to Ashe. Ashe poked the end of his cigar at the flame and inhaled cautiously. The smoke hit the back of his throat and he couldn't help but cough.

  "You alright old chap?" Walsingham asked, a slight smile on his face.

  "Been a while," Ashe replied, holding up his cigar.

  Walsingham nodded graciously, lighting his own cigar and dropping the spent match over the balcony where it whipped away in the wind that circled the courtyard below them.

  Ashe smoked carefully, ensuring that he didn't inhale. He was silent for a moment, thinking about Helen Walsingham and the "illness" that seemed to be affecting her of late.

  "I've tried to convince Helen to let Haywood take a look at her," Walsingham continued, "but she won't have it. I understand of course, the man's an ass. But it seems pointless to put oneself through unnecessary suffering when it may be easily dealt with by some preparation or another." He looked at Ashe, lowering his voice. "She woke me up the other day, poor thing was quite violently sick."

  Could Walsingham be so naïve as to not have a good idea what was causing his wife's nausea? Ashe thought it was possible – the era being what it was – but more than that, morning sickness would likely not occur to the man if it seemed utterly impossible to the man t
hat his wife could be pregnant. And Ashe imagined it had been a long time since Walsingham and Helen had been close enough to cause that condition…

  Or maybe he was simply getting carried away with his own suspicions. Enough of Walsingham's problems, Ashe decided, he had enough of his own.

  "I'm sure it will pass," he said. "Perhaps it's something as simple as the change in food."

  "Perhaps," agreed Walsingham and the disappointment in his voice when he said it changed Ashe's view of the man entirely. He knows, he thought, knows damn well what's causing his wife to throw up every morning. Just hasn't got the balls to come out and say it. Wants somebody else to suggest it. Ashe didn't know how to feel about that, didn't know whether to sympathise with the man or despair of his weakness. Was it love for her that held him back? Or fear? He was as much a prisoner in his own damned marriage as Ashe had been in that House. But Walsingham had made his own chains. So many do. Ashe smoked his cigar… not his problem. Time for the box.

  "I need you to do something for me," he told Walsingham. "For Carruthers too." He knew mentioning that name would give the notion extra weight. He was right.

  "I'd do anything for Roger," Walsingham replied, a false smile choking back the fears about his wife, "he knows that."

  "I'm sure he does," said Ashe, "and I know it may seem bizarre that I can't do it myself but…" but what? "…I have to rejoin the rest of my party very soon and we're heading into…" God this was bullshit, could Walsingham not see that he was lying? "…rather treacherous territory. We will likely be gone some time, in fact if things go badly, I may not be back at all."

  "What on earth are you up to?" Walsingham asked, curiosity piqued.

  Ashe tapped at his nose. "Need to know, I'm afraid, government business. You know how it is."

  Walsingham didn't. The most exciting thing he got up to was cataloguing new species of fern. Nonetheless he nodded, one didn't like to admit to ignorance. "Oh, well, ask no questions… you can be assured I can be relied on in matters of discretion."

  "I have no doubt." Ashe reached into his pocket and pulled out the box. "I need to ensure that Carruthers gets this."

  "I'll gladly take it to him on my return."

  "No, sorry but he must come here and fetch it for himself."

  "Come here? Well that hardly makes good sense, surely?"

  An idea struck Ashe. "Try and open it."

  Walsingham did so, Ashe momentarily concerned that the bluff would blow up in his face.

  "Won't open," Walsingham said, "iced shut is it?"

  "No. Carruthers will know how to open it but he must be here to do so. I know it seems bizarre and I'm asking you to take a great deal on trust but it really is important."

  Walsingham stared at the box, turning it in the meagre light offered by the second-hand glow of the lamps coming through the window behind them. "What is that?" he asked, noting the writing on the box's surface, "Chinese?"

  "Khitan," Ashe replied, "a related dialect but much, much older."

  "Not heard of it," Walsingham admitted. He shrugged and placed the box in his pocket. "As I said, anything for Carruthers. Though I suspect we shall be leaving the monastery come the morning, I'll be damned if I'm leaving the country just yet. Far too much to discover, eh?"

  Was that good enough? Carruthers had come here, to this very monastery… Ashe was at a loss as to how he could convince Walsingham to risk the lives of his party further by hanging around on his behalf. He'd screwed this up from beginning to end. He should have prepared much more…

  "Right," Walsingham said, slapping his hands together, "I don't know about you but I've had quite enough of this cold. Shall we call our cigars done and return to the warm?"

  Ashe had barely smoked his and was happy to leave it that way. "Fine by me."

  Walsingham reached for the door to open it before remembering that the major had locked them out. "Damned paranoid…"

  He lifted his hand to knock on the wood when the explosive report of a rifle went off from the other side.

  "Haywood!" they heard Helen shout. "No!" She screamed just before another gunshot reverberated around the enclosed walls of their cabin.

  "Helen!" Walsingham shouted, yanking pointlessly at the door.

  "The window," Ashe said, dashing back to where they had been smoking. "Your knife," he shouted to Walsingham, "quickly!"

  Walsingham ran along the balcony, scrabbling for it in his pocket. Ashe watched in absolute disbelief as the box tumbled from Walsingham's coat – the man's hands diving hectically into each pocket as he tried to remember where he had put the knife. It bounced off the wooden planks of the balcony and tumbled into the darkness of the courtyard below.

  "Here!" Walsingham shouted having found the knife. He held it out to Ashe, utterly oblivious as to what had just happened. For a moment Ashe just stared and then Helen screamed once more and the terror on Walsingham's face – made all the more horrible for the scant slit of light he could glimpse it in – pushed him on. He would have to hope the box was easily found once they had dealt with… well, with whatever the hell was going on in the cabin.

  He shoved the knife blade into the gap between the shutters, sliding it up and down to find the catch on the other side. It was basic enough, a length of wood that held the shutters in place running across the gap between the two doors, hinged on one end. Once found he flipped it up with the knife and shoved the shutters inward with the butt of his hand. "Back!" he shouted at Walsingham, kicking out at him so as to stop him shov ing his face in the window and having it blown off by whoever was wielding the rifle inside. Nobody fired. Ashe tried to think what he knew about old firearms, which wasn't much. Didn't old rifles have to be reloaded after each shot? He pictured old Westerns he'd seen… Audie Murphy ejecting the spent casing and sliding another shell in place. Not that whoever was inside hadn't had time to reload…

  "Helen?" Walsingham wasn't hanging back, whatever the risk he needed to make sure his wife was okay. Well, thought Ashe, that explains that one anyway, he loves her sure enough.

  "I'm alright," she called back, "it's Haywood, he's…"

  "Shut your mouth!" Haywood screamed.

  Ashe – deciding that if anyone was going to get shot through the window they would have done by now – joined Walsingham.

  Inside, Helen was huddled in the far corner of the room. Haywood was pointing the rifle at her. Of the major there was no sign… wait… on the floor a semicircle of blood was reaching out from beneath the window. Great, looked like they'd found the major.

  Haywood was constantly on the move, his body shaking as he paced back and forth, the rifle's aim never leaving Helen's head. It seemed he had little interest in Ashe or Walsingham.

  "Haywood!" Walsingham shouted. "If you hurt her…"

  Ashe grabbed Walsingham and put his hand to the man's mouth.

  "I'll handle this," he whispered.

  He tried to keep his voice steady, to sound calming rather than confrontational. "It's alright Haywood," he said, "everything's fine now. We can sort it all out."

  "The bastard's going to shoot my bloody wife!" Walsingham argued.

  Ashe shot him a look that shut him up. "I know what I'm doing," he said. Yeah sure, a little voice piped up in his head, because you've seen all the best movies. He turned back to the window. "Let us take over from here," he said. "Let us get this all squared away."

  "You have no idea," said Haywood, "this bitch…"

  "Is pregnant," said Ashe, "she has a baby. You would have noticed if you weren't so ill, wouldn't you?"

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Walsingham's face crumple. There, it was out in the open now, much good it'll do him.

  "Pregnant?" Haywood said, the rifle twitching slightly as a fraction of uncertainty crept in. "You're pregnant?"

  Helen looked at Ashe and, even in these extreme circumstances, her anger at him was profound.

  "Yes," she said finally, turning her attention back to Haywood.

 
He stared at her, blinking repeatedly, trying to focus. Whatever drug was coursing through his system it was really doing a number on him. "Pregnant?" it was no more than a whisper… he just couldn't process this new information. Ashe thought they might just stand a chance if they could keep him on the back foot. Not let him reclaim the upper hand.

  "Yes, she's pregnant so you need to be really careful now, as her doctor, you need to make sure the baby stays safe. As her doctor it's your duty isn't it Haywood?"

  "Her doctor."

  "That's it. Her doctor. Your duty."

  "Stays safe."

  "Yes."

  "Not dead?" There was a tinge of hysteria creeping back into the voice.

  "No."

  "Dead like Rhodes?" The voice creeping ever higher. Shit… he was losing him. Haywood wobbled on his feet, a tremor working its way through his body.