The Patient waited silently in Dalí’s garden until the commotion of Ratty’s capture and removal from the house was complete. It was odd to watch his friend being subjected to less than civilised treatment and he felt guilty about not attempting to intervene, especially since it was such an intervention from Ratty that had initiated their friendship and ended his enslavement in Guatemala. But the Patient had thought everything through carefully. It was clear that he would be captured too if he tried to free Ratty, and it made sense for at least one of them to remain on the outside. In the darkness, it would be impossible for him to follow the vehicle in which Ratty was driven away, for a lone pair of headlights behind them on quiet country roads would make his presence too obvious. He noted, instead, the type and registration mark of the car, the number of people in it, and its direction – although with only one road out of the village, that didn’t tell him much. He considered it incumbent upon him to attempt the next stage of their plan alone, and prepared to visit the closed Centre for Dalínian Studies the next day.
***
‘I refuse to say anything without my lawyer.’
The old man stared at him.
‘I am not a police officer, Lord Ballashiels. Therefore, a lawyer would not be of any help to you.’
‘Therefore I refuse to say anything without a gin and tonic.’
The old man left the room, returning a couple of minutes later with the requested drink.
‘Awfully kind. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. Justin Ballashiels, Eighth Earl of wotnot. My friends call me Ratty on account of the conk. And you are?’
Ratty tried to hold out his hand, but as it was shackled to the one holding the glass, it created a mild agitation of the liquid.
‘It goes without saying that I have been expecting you, Your Lordship.’
‘For how long? You can’t have been waiting more than a day or two, since we sent the Land Rover back home.’
‘A day or two?’ The old man gave a world-weary sigh. ‘I have been preparing for your visit for rather longer than that. I have been expecting you here since 1975.’
‘Golly. Sorry I’m late, old fellow. Been a tad busy with this and that, don’t you know? The Eighties were particularly chocka.’
‘We didn’t anticipate that you would visit Dalí’s house before the museum, however, otherwise we would have picked you up sooner.’
‘Jolly decent of you to go to all that trouble, but I think I’ll bash off now,’ said Ratty, slurping the gin quickly.
‘You will remain here.’
‘And where is here, exactly?’
‘We are in the Centre for Dalínian Studies. We have a room reserved for you.’
‘With a bath?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said the old man.
‘Not awfully keen on those continental shower thingies.’
‘It’s very late, Your Lordship. We will continue our discussions in the morning. Someone will show you to your room shortly.’
‘Do you happen to know a fellow called Constable Stuart? Police chappy. Penchant for stashing rifles in the boot of his car.’
The old man ignored the question and stood at the doorway.
‘You know, it really is appalling that you have left it so long to visit me,’ he told a surprised Ratty.
‘Visit you?’
‘In fact, you are very nearly too late,’ the old man added. ‘Very nearly.’ He left Ratty alone to consider his curious words.
MONDAY 6TH MAY 2013
The office smelled stuffy, as if someone had slept there. Rocco sat down across the desk from the old man, and noticed he looked weary and unshaven. The old man yawned. Rocco thought this was rather rude, but chose not to mention it.
‘Reporting for duty,’ said Rocco, wondering if he ought to offer to come back later. ‘You said you had something you wanted me to do.’
‘There is much I want you to do. My dreams are beyond the scope of one man. But I need to know a little more about you.’
‘Rocco Strauss. Ph.D. German national.’ The old man reacted to the news of Rocco’s nationality with a facial twitch. Rocco paused for a second, unsure if the reaction had any significance, then continued, ‘Rocket scientist at ESA. Taking extended leave to research the enigma that is Project Keo. Kind of a hobby, I suppose. As Keo appears to have some resonance with you, I thought we could work together rather than in competition.’
‘A hobby? You are not part of a larger organisation?’
‘Hey, it’s me that’s usually the conspiracy theorist. I’m the lone investigator. You’re the one who seems to be the bigwig head of an organisation. And my theory, if you don’t mind me saying so, is that you report to the ultimate secret society.’
‘Ultimate secret society? Why ultimate?’
‘Because I think you’re reporting to the people who are going to receive the Keo time capsule in fifty thousand years. I think they are directing you. And I want you to know that I think that’s pretty cool.’
‘Well, Doctor Strauss, I am afraid you couldn’t possibly be more mistaken in your assumptions. I report to no one. And I certainly do not have any direct contact with our unborn descendants.’
‘So you’re not agents of the world of the future?’
The old man shook his head. Rocco’s mouth dropped.
‘I am a man of the present. The present world, the world as it should be. That is my concern, my passion, my obsession. And I need to know why you wish to be a part of my plans.’
It was clear from the expression on Rocco’s face that any burning desire to join this club was down to its last embers.
‘It sounds like I’ve got you all wrong. You’re not studying the future after all.’
‘There is much you do not yet know or comprehend. If you perform the tasks I set for you, then you shall be rewarded with knowledge. Your curiosity will be satisfied.’
‘So how can I help?’
The old man stood up and walked around the room. Rocco sat calmly, observing him.
‘When were your parents born?’ the old man asked suddenly.
Rocco was confused by the apparent irrelevance of the question, but answered it honestly.
‘1947.’
The date seemed to satisfy the old man. Quite why he was pleased to discover that Rocco owed his existence to the post-war baby boom was unclear.
‘You are very fortunate to have experienced the life you have known.’
‘It’s been cool at times.’
‘It must have been hard for your grandparents. The war must have changed their life plans.’
‘I guess so. Never knew much about them. My family never liked to ask too many questions about that period. You never know what it might have dug up, and it’s usually the kind of stuff you’d prefer not to know anyway.’
‘You are lucky to have had the opportunity to walk upon this earth. It should not have been this way.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean that were it not for the war you would not have been born because your parents would not have been born. Instead of being apart during the war years, your grandparents would have procreated sooner, and different babies would have been born instead of your parents. They wouldn’t have needed to wait until the war was over before having children. So, without the war, your parents would not have existed. And, therefore, you would not have been conceived.’
‘Well, I suppose so. Puts rather a different slant on things. But what does that have to do with me helping you guys?’
‘Oh nothing, nothing at all. Just how my mind annexes one thought after another. Now, let’s move on. I don’t have much time. I need to decide if you can be useful to me. Before I make up my mind, tell me about your work at the European Space Agency …’
***
Ratty heard a familiar voice. A servant. Offering him a cup of tea. It was normality personified. It was how things used to be and therefore how things should always be. It was blissful, like a m
orning from his lost childhood.
He opened his eyes and blinked at the bright lights. The room was windowless. He had been sleeping on an inflatable mattress on the cold, tiled floor of what appeared to be a basement. As he craned his neck to see the source of the voice, the airbed wobbled unpredictably and rolled him onto the floor.
‘Would you care for a cup of tea, Your Lordship?’
He sat up and looked squarely at the servant. The voice fitted, but the features did not belong exactly to the face he remembered. Gone were the side whiskers and generous, brown hair, replaced by a shaved head with a few stubbly patches of grey. The eyes looked tired, ringed by bags instead of sparkles, and the chin had multiplied a couple of times.
‘Grant?’ asked Ratty, hoping he hadn’t insulted the fellow by getting his name wrong after all those years. If this was the man he was thinking of, it was the family’s former butler, superficially a thoroughly decent type who’d always seemed to have time for Ratty back in the day, but with a distant look in his eye that could sometimes leave the young aristocrat ill at ease. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed, sir. I trust you still take it without sugar.’
‘Yes, of course. Crumbs, how have you been since –’
‘Since 1979?’
‘Is that when you left? Tempus fugit and wotnot. Been busy?’
‘Busy, sir?’
‘Work, I mean. The buttling. Did you carry on as a servant?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes. I was serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
Grant held the chipped mug while he waited for Ratty to find a comfortable seating position on the floor.
‘Ah, yes, the old constable chappy mentioned that. Must have been rather horrid for you.’ Ratty took the tea and sniffed its aroma.
‘It was not easy.’
‘Still, all water under the whatsit now, eh? Reformed character, I’m sure. Done your porridge, as they say. So what brings you to these parts?’
‘The same thing that brought me to Stiperstones in the first place, sir.’
‘Clear as mud, old boy.’
‘I came to Stiperstones, as you are now doubtless aware, for the same reason that all of the other members of staff did.’
‘Yes, well perhaps if you could elucidate somewhat it might jog the old synapses.’
‘It was for the same reason that I am here, now. Salvador Dalí.’
‘He does seem a popular chap round these parts.’
‘I came to Stiperstones because of the link between the painter and your grandmother.’
‘I know he painted her, but I’m only just starting to find out a little more about their relationship. What else is there?’
‘In 1937 they shared an experience that changed the world. A few miles north of here, near Perpignan, they both witnessed the reason for all that has happened since. The most important event in human history. Only they didn’t understand it. We didn’t understand either. It is only recently that the jigsaw started to fit together.’
‘Could never get the hang of jigsaws.’
‘Your Lordship, none of this is your fault, and I hold no personal malice towards you, but you were born by accident into the centre of something rather larger than you could possibly imagine.’
‘Probably best if I finish this before you tell me more,’ Ratty said, sipping the tea repeatedly.
‘I won’t be telling you anything else,’ said Grant. ‘The boss needs to see you as soon as he is free.’
‘Done his porridge, too?’
‘As soon as he’s finished his current meeting, Your Lordship. Wait here, please.’
He left the room. Ratty tidied himself up as best he could under the circumstances and tried to make sense of all of the odd things people had been telling him. He had journeyed to Spain in order to answer the major questions of his life, but had succeeded only in learning that there were far greater questions still to be asked.
The key turned in the lock. He steadied himself, ready for more bizarre discussions with the old man he had met the previous night. But the face that peered into the room was a far more welcome sight.
‘Ratty. Quick. Follow me,’ said the Patient.
Ratty did as he was told, grabbing his bulletproof jacket and resisting the urge to verbalise his admiration for the Patient’s apparent cunning and courage. They walked to an internal fire escape, a concrete staircase that led up to the other floors. At ground level, Ratty expected them to make their escape onto the street, but the Patient kept climbing until they reached a door which he opened using what appeared to be a home-made key.
‘The Dalínian library,’ whispered the Patient.
The door opened out into a vast room lined with book cases, filing cabinets and study tables. Some building work was ongoing in the corner of the room, and all of the furniture was covered with dust sheets.
‘How did you get into this building, Patient chappy?’
‘No building is secure. All are designed to permit the entry and exit of the human animal with minimal disruption. In my former life, the first skill I ever developed was the construction of keys from visual memories. Those keys unlocked a world of knowledge for me when I was able to break into my father’s library every night. Locating you within the building was then just a process of logical deduction and trying many rooms until I found you.’
‘This is where we should have come in the first place, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘I say, good show, but don’t you think we ought to get away from these odd fellows? I just met my old butler. Queer experience.’
‘We are safe in this room. It is closed to researchers until further notice. If builders find us they won’t be concerned at our presence. We can look for evidence of your family’s links with Dalí.’
Ratty was glad to have had the opportunity to drink a cup of tea before commencing such an undertaking. He rubbed his tired eyes and opened a filing cabinet. It contained thousands of photographs, sorted and catalogued according to the year in which they were taken. He grabbed a bundle from the section dated 1937. The Patient, meanwhile, had located a stack of handwritten pages and spread them across a desk.
‘These are the original drafts of his diaries,’ the Patient explained. ‘He doesn’t mention your grandmother in the published diaries, but that doesn’t exclude the possibility that she may feature in an unpublished draft.’
Ratty was too engrossed in the collection of photographs to pay attention to his friend. He flicked rapidly through the black and white shots, squinting to ascertain whether a blurry female may or may not have been his ancestor. For some reason girls in the Thirties all seemed to look alike, bedecked in generic and unflattering fashions that masked their individuality.
Something other than his grandmother caught his attention. A photograph of a flint turret. Just like he had seen at West Dean House. He flicked through further. There were shots of the interiors, and, finally, a group of young women smiling and waving at the camera on the lawn in front of the stately home. He looked at them closely. There were one or two Mitfords, several individuals that he couldn’t name, and right at the edge, almost out of shot, was someone familiar. He moved the photograph further away from his nose and then back towards him again. Could it be his grandmother? Ratty stared at the woman in the picture. She seemed slightly detached from the rest of the group. The others all appeared utterly carefree, but she was different. It was as if her relationship with the photographer, which he presumed to be Dalí himself, was something deeper. He knew that was too much to read into the snapshot of a single moment, though. Besides, if it truly was his grandmother, she might simply have been consumed with planning the big prank of locking the empty bedroom. Might have been the highlight of her year.
Ratty looked at the back of the photo for any documentation that might enlighten him further. Dalí had scribbled ‘West Dean’ on the reverse, and a sticker gave the photograph its catalogue number within the collection. T
here were other West Dean shots, including several of the house’s owner, Edward James, but Ratty’s grandmother didn’t appear again. He returned to the filing cabinet and picked up another batch from the same year. Dalí had photographed some of the sights from his journey through France that year, and amongst these Ratty found the evidence he had been looking for: a portrait of his grandmother set against a backdrop that was unmistakeably a village in southern France. He now had clear evidence that she had travelled with Dalí in the months prior to the sealing of the room and the ceremonial burial of the key. He looked for anything else of note in this section: they were all landscape views and occasional quirky close-ups of objects and plants. One photo seemed to be missing, however. There was a place card with its reference number and a very brief description.
‘Keo,’ said Ratty.
‘Yes?’ asked the Patient.
‘There’s a photograph missing from Dalí’s journey to Spain with granny. The placeholder card just says Keo. How’s your search going?’
‘I’m trying to pinpoint the section of his diary that relates to the same journey. I have a stack of pages, but they are too many to read here. It would be wise to make good our escape and study them at our leisure.’
‘Well I must say this little jaunt has worked out rather jolly well, Patient chappy. Well played.’
The echo of footsteps on the stairwell caught their attention.
‘Whilst it is true that to run away from trouble is a form of cowardice, the wise man does not expose himself needlessly to danger,’ said the Patient, stuffing the unpublished diary pages into his pockets. ‘Therefore perhaps we should consider prioritising an exit via the other door.’
‘Wait. I want to search the photos from 1975. Perhaps there is evidence of Mother’s visit.’
Ratty started rifling through the filing cabinet in search of potential photos. There were hundreds more from this era than from the Thirties, mostly in colour, and too many to scan through with sufficient rapidity to avoid detection.
The Dali Diaries (The Ballashiels Mysteries Book 2) Page 14