‘So, Justin, what are you doing in this property?’
‘We are here to steal a book,’ explained the Patient. ‘The Female Eunuch. Perhaps you have read it?’
‘Indeed?’
Ratty sighed. His friend had his uses, but he could sometimes be a significant liability.
‘Even though petty crime may seem an unlikely venture for those such as Lord Ballashiels and myself, our guilt in this enterprise is beyond question,’ explained the Patient, digging an even deeper hole in which Ratty felt himself falling. ‘However, statistically speaking, the presence in this garden of an officer of the law at the precise time of our criminal undertaking is beyond the likelihood of random chance. I therefore conclude that you had prior knowledge of our intentions. And since that is impossible, I must also conclude that something deeply disturbing is afoot that I have yet to comprehend.’
Constable Stuart looked at Ratty and raised his eyebrows.
‘Your friend’s a right one, isn’t he? All that nonsense about you two committing crimes together. Never heard anything so funny in all my years. Come on, lads. Off you go. Don’t mention any more about that feminist malarkey, and I won’t mention anything about anything. Understood?’He winked at Ratty.
‘Er, right ho,’ Ratty replied. ‘Gosh. Look at the time. Come along, Patient chappy.’
They scurried out of the cottage like scolded schoolboys, high on the buzz of the oddly successful mission. Parked on the street outside was a locksmith’s van. Constable Stuart waved at the locksmith. He grabbed a bag of tools and trotted to the rear of the cottage, ready to make good the damage.
Ratty and the Patient looked at each other with eyes that registered disbelief and mutual suspicion. But neither could have leaked their plan. It had been a spur of the moment decision to walk to the village and raid the home of the local feminist, with only minutes of planning and preparation during which neither of them had been alone. No one else could possibly have known. The only other person at the manor was the mechanic fixing the Land Rover’s brakes, and he hadn’t even entered the house. And if someone had discovered their plan, how come they were acting as if to assist in their quest? The Patient’s considerable capacity for logical deduction was on overdrive, and yet it had failed to reach a conclusion other than that something was very odd about this village, and that included the behaviour of two darkly dressed men across the street who ducked behind a telephone box and tried to remain incognito by pulling hats over their faces.
Back at the manor, the mechanic had completed his task and was wiping his oil-stained hands in preparation for handing Ratty a bill for his services.
‘I will send you a cheque in due course,’ lied the aristocrat, pocketing the invoice and politely shooing the overawed mechanic off his property.
Ratty and the Patient made directly for the library, where they placed the stolen book on a table next to the others. Ratty had resisted opening it until now. There was even a possibility that this wasn’t his mother’s copy. He opened it and searched for a sign of his mother’s handwriting.
It was the letter ‘O’.
‘Rowell?’ asked Ratty, combining it with the letters already extracted from the other books. ‘What’s a “Rowell”?’
The Patient considered the matter briefly, then announced an alternative.
‘Orwell.’
‘Orwell? Georgie Boy? Goodness! He was a queer sausage. Orwell. Gosh.’
‘So your mother’s final message to you concerned Salvador Dalí and George Orwell,’ concluded the Patient. ‘And are you aware of any connection between them?’
‘Orwell thought him a rotten painter. Said so publicly.’
‘There is something else that may be indicative of your mother’s intention, however.’
‘Golly. What else linked Orwell and Dalí, old potato?’
‘Catalonia.’
‘As in bullfighting and all that kind of how’s your father?’
‘As in Dalí lived and died there. Orwell chose to go there to fight in the Spanish Civil War. And did you notice, Ratty, that the quotes are all opening lines of books apart from the one from Les Misérables, which is from the middle?’
‘Can’t say I paid that nugget too much heed, old maraca.’
‘Do you think it is possible that she intended Les Misérables to be the odd one out? Could it be that she wanted you to notice that one more than the others?’ asked the Patient.
‘I wouldn’t have noticed any of them if it hadn’t been for you, my friend.’
‘Not having been acquainted with your mother I am reluctant to draw excessive inference from these things, but the quotation from Les Misérables talks about crossing the mountains. Do you see?’
‘Clear as mud, old riddler.’
‘If Catalonia is the message she is trying to send to you, the reference to traversing a mountain range might be relevant, since Catalonia can only be reached by crossing the Pyrenees between France and Spain.’
‘That seems to be quite a deductive leap from a few literary lines and a jumble of letters. I think we may be over-reaching ourselves.’
‘The message is simple because the means of communication must leave no room for ambiguity. The Dalí books point us to Catalonia. The Orwell reference is purely there to reinforce that conclusion. It is the control in a scientific experiment. It is the piece of corroborating evidence. And it is my belief that your mother went to Catalonia to see Dalí in person.’
Ratty walked to the window, so deep in reflection that he failed to notice two men approaching the house.
‘I don’t know, Patient chappy. Do you really think she went to Spain?’
‘Does the evidence point to anywhere else?’
‘But she never came back. No one saw her there or anywhere. Are you saying the Dalí fellow bumped her off?’
‘No. I’m merely saying that it was your mother’s intention to visit him. For reasons we have yet to deduce, either she never reached him or, having done so, she failed to return.’
The bell above his front door tolled. Ratty peered out of the window at the portico. Two figures stood there, hats tilted low to hide their identity, holding garden tools in a manner that did not suggest their intentions were horticultural. He invited the Patient to observe them.
‘The same men were watching us in the village,’ said the Patient. ‘From behind a telephone booth.’
‘Box, Patient chappy. We call them “boxes”. And something about their ignoble posture reminds me of the intruders I chased away last night.’
‘Then it is not impossible that we face a situation of some gravity.’
‘How much time do you need to prepare for a trip to the continent, old teabag?’ asked Ratty.
‘None at all.’
‘Passports. Toothbrushes. Back door. Quick. To the Land Rover.’
***
‘What did you do with the rope, you idiot?’ shouted Rocco from the ledge.
‘I wish I’d tied it round your bloody neck, Rocco,’ replied Ruby from within the cave, recoiling at his unanticipated aggression. ‘I left it hanging. If it’s not there, it’s because you didn’t tie it properly, which means you might have killed me. I think I know who the idiot really is.’
She emerged into the brightness and looked at their dire situation. The climb to the top appeared almost suicidal. The route down to the sea was certainly so. And there on the rocks far below, utterly out of their reach, lay the rope.
‘This is bad,’ said Rocco.
‘Well I’m so glad you pointed that out,’ said Ruby. ‘What are we going to do about it?’
‘Think of Dalí.’
‘Dalí? Now is not the time, Rocco.’
‘No, I mean Dalí had to come here on many occasions to work on this painting. He was no mountaineer. He didn’t fall. If he can do it, so can we.’
‘Perhaps he was better at tying knots than you?’
‘Ruby, I was a Venture Scout. Back in Munich. I know a thing or
two about knots. That was a bowline. They don’t fail.’
‘Venture Scout? Hah.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Rocco.
‘Scouts are supposed to be prepared. What are your contingency preparations?’
‘Do you have another rope in the car? A luggage strap, maybe?’
‘I don’t think so. And I don’t see how that’s going to get us out of here. We’re just going to have to phone for a humiliating rescue from the authorities.’
‘No. Never. We can’t risk alerting anyone to our presence here.’
‘So we’re just going to stay put, are we?’ She crossed her arms defensively, then changed her mind and resumed holding on to the cliff wall.
‘Wait here,’ Rocco ordered.
She rolled her eyes at the stupidity of his instruction and watched as he began to climb the rock face. The narrowness of the ledge meant that she couldn’t see more than the soles of his feet once he was above her, inching his way up the perilous cliff. At one point, he clung to his position for more than two minutes, as if stuck or too frightened to continue. Ruby considered asking if he was in difficulty, but since she didn’t really care whether he was or not, she decided not to voice any concern.
The feet moved once more, swinging athletically from side to side before finding their next point of contact. Rocco continued his journey upwards. Minutes later he was able to grab the remains of his bowline. The knot had held fast. The rope had been cut.
Ruby watched him disappear from view, only for his face to return a few minutes later.
‘Why did you lock the car?’ he shouted.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘I was going to cut out a seatbelt and lower it down to you. Do you mind if I smash a window to get in?’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she replied, taking a deep breath and beginning the hazardous ascent, determined to arrive before Rocco destroyed her Volvo. Three points of contact, she told herself again. Two feet and one hand, or two hands and one foot. She had to get it right this time. There was nothing to save her if she screwed up as she had on the way down.
The first handholds were within comfortable reach, and she gripped them both hard whilst inserting her right foot into a recess two feet above the ledge. She was committed. Don’t look down, she told herself. Don’t loosen a hand until the left foot is secure. With both feet implanted in the rock, she reached up with her left hand and found a notch that felt solid. She eased her body higher, straightened her legs and released her right hand in search of the next level.
This wasn’t so challenging, she decided. Stick to the very simple rules and nothing could go wrong. Only look up, and only release one limb at a time. She said it aloud before each movement. She conquered the sense of panic that frequently rose to the front of her mind by breathing steadily. Before long, she could see the stub of rope dangling a few feet above her head. Rocco was leaning over, watching helplessly.
‘Nearly there,’ he called down to her, extending his arm towards her approaching head.
She reached out her right leg in search of the next foothold. Nothing seemed to be in reach. She adjusted her weight and returned her right foot to its previous slot, then commenced searching for a new position for her left foot. Again, no protrusion or hole was within the circle described by her lower leg.
‘You’re at the tricky bit,’ shouted Rocco. ‘You need to swing sideways.’
‘What do you mean, sideways? Which side?’
‘Er, I think there’s a foothold to your right. Or is it left? Hold tight and swing both legs and you’ll find it.’
‘No way, Rocco. That’s too dangerous,’ she replied.
‘Or if you can take all of your weight in one hand, you can pull yourself straight up.’
This option was equally unappealing to Ruby. She shook her head and clung tightly, saving her energy. The rope was about three feet above her head. Almost within reach. She wondered if it was feasible to reach it with her left hand if she held her body higher with her right whilst abandoning the footholds that currently ensured her safety. Perhaps, but there was no way to test it, and the price of failure was too horrible to contemplate.
‘Take your time,’ added Rocco, knowing that she was doing precisely that.
Even in her stable position of two footholds and two handholds, there was a limit to how long she could remain there. Her muscles were tiring. Circulation was faltering. Her situation was beginning to look serious. She started to wonder if the longer she took to think about her next move, the less strength she would have with which to execute it. When the wave of panic washed over her once again, even her deep breaths could not control it.
She was going to have to commit to taking a risk that would determine her entire future. Upwards or sideways, that was the question. Her instinct wanted to go directly up, but she doubted that she had the capability to hold her weight in one hand. A sideways swing in search of a foothold was now her only chance. As she refreshed her grip on the two handholds above her head, ready for them to take the load of her body in motion, she felt something hit the top of her head. Thinking it might be a rockfall, she tucked her face tight against the cliff.
‘Can you reach it now?’ called Rocco.
She felt the top of her head. The rope was swaying there, within her grasp. She wrapped it around her wrist and pulled against it. There was resistance. She pulled harder and grabbed it with her other hand.
The rope dragged her up the rock face and onto horizontal ground.
‘Quickly. Let’s get moving,’ said Rocco, glancing all around him. ‘The line was cut. They left the bowline around the rock. I managed to untie it and lower it down to you.’
She lay panting, relieved to be out of danger but conscious of a nagging frustration that she now owed Rocco a considerable debt of gratitude.
‘Someone cut the rope?’ she asked, getting up. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘We’re in trouble. Come on.’
They walked briskly, unable to hide the urgency in their feet. The steep march back to Ruby’s car rendered them vulnerable to anyone perched upon one of the numerous mountainous outcrops, or so Rocco thought. But Ruby was growing tired of his conspiracy paranoia.
‘There must be a simple explanation for the rope breaking cleanly like that,’ she said breathlessly as stones slipped beneath her shoes. ‘Perhaps it was already damaged? It’s an old one that came with the car. I never used it, but who knows what the previous owner towed with it?’
Rocco reached the car first.
‘Open it. Quick,’ he told her, throwing himself prostrate and sliding under the car.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Brake lines,’ he replied. ‘It’s their usual trick. These mountain roads will kill us if they’ve cut your brakes too.’
Ruby sat in the driving seat and waited for Rocco to resolve his paranoia. When he was satisfied that no catastrophe was imminent, he took his seat.
‘So Dalí painted the word “Keo”,’ said Ruby as they re-joined the single-track road, ‘if indeed it really was painted by him, which I admit seems likely based on the calcification. But did you consider whether his use of the word Keo and the current satellite project could be a coincidence?’
‘Everything in life is coincidence if you track it back far enough. Us meeting at Périllos. Us both being born in the same century. On the same planet.’
Ruby grinned, recalling that she had previously considered Rocco to be sufficiently weird to make him something other than indigenous to the planet Earth. And yet she had detected a change in him since his car accident. The practical jokes had ceased. He had become more intense, more serious, more annoying.
‘But have you eliminated the possibility that Dalí was referencing another Keo? Something contemporaneous with his lifespan? Something completely unrelated to the time capsule?’
‘The Cypriot beer brand Keo was around in the Thirties. Dalí never went to Cyprus. So he wouldn’t hav
e known about that beer.’
‘Someone might have told him,’ suggested Ruby. ‘He might have read something.’
‘Dalí did not subscribe to the Good Beer Guide or any such thing,’ explained Rocco, beginning to sound frustrated at the wall of cynicism he always had to climb. ‘And you are missing the most important point. You were there. At Périllos. We received no message from the future. Can you not see what that means?’
‘Apart from it meaning that you’re clearly bonkers for thinking it would arrive in the first place?’ asked Ruby as she threaded the car down a twisty lane.
‘If we send a message to the future and we get no reply, it means something serious.’
‘Like what?’
‘It means they sent the reply to someone else, to Dalí. And if they did that, it was because they had a good reason. Something has gone badly wrong somewhere.’
Ruby let out a snort of derision and amusement.
‘Rocco, a lack of message at the requested time could mean a million different things,’ said Ruby, beginning an attempt to return some sanity to the conversation. ‘Maybe the Keo satellite never gets launched in the first place. Maybe the rocket blows up. Maybe the time capsule survives but is never found. Maybe it’s found and ignored. Maybe it’s found and read but it turns out they haven’t conquered the art of sending messages back through time after all, which wouldn’t surprise me since it’s impossible anyway.’
‘It doesn’t point to that,’ said Rocco. ‘The capsule will arrive, I know it. A message will be sent … has been sent … you know what I mean, but they didn’t send it to us. The plan has changed because something bad has happened. Well, I mean something bad is going to happen. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. Do you follow me? And that means it’s not too late to stop it.’
‘Why do we need to stop it?’
‘We have to stop it because we need the future to go right. Something went wrong and that has changed the past. So the past has gone wrong, too. And that affects everyone.’
‘You’re making no sense, Rocco. Again,’ said Ruby.
‘The message didn’t come to us at Périllos in this century like we asked. The message inside the Keo time capsule says to send the message to Périllos, on the first of May, between three and four in the afternoon, and in any year from 2000 to 2050.’
The Dali Diaries (The Ballashiels Mysteries Book 2) Page 8