“I think these leaves suit me,” said Lennie, from behind the greenery. “Careful. Not too much glue.”
“Such an interesting figure,” said Berthea, applying a splash of glue to Lennie’s chin before sticking a large laurel leaf on it. “We had all sorts of pagan gods in this country, you know. Not that the Green Man was a god – more of a spirit, I suppose. A bit like Pan.”
Lennie was now largely bedecked with leaves, and Berthea stood back to admire her handiwork.
“Convincing?” asked Lennie.
Berthea stroked her chin. “I think so. Say something in your Green Man voice.”
Lennie lapsed into an exaggerated West Country burr. “Green Man here,” he said. “I come from the forests.” Click.
“Very nice, very nice,” said Berthea warmly. Then she hesitated. “Except …” She was not sure how to put it. People with mannerisms often did not know that they were doing whatever they did, and she thought it unlikely that Lennie Marchbanks ever noticed the unscheduled movement of his false teeth. Yet if Terence heard the familiar clicking sound he would almost immediately realise who was hidden behind the leafy disguise.
“Do you think …” she began. “Do you think … I’ve had an idea, Mr Marchbanks. If you were to remove your teeth, then your voice would be even more disguised. I hope you don’t mind my suggesting that.”
Lennie did not mind at all. Reaching into his mouth, he extracted his teeth and handed them to Berthea. “Good idea,” he mumbled. “Here.”
Berthea tried not to show her distaste as she took hold of the false teeth. They were of course moist, and she quickly popped them into a pocket of her coat before wiping her hands discreetly. “There you are,” she said. “You already sound much more like a real Green Man.”
Lennie was pleased with the compliment. “I’ll tell the morris dancers,” he said. “I used to dance a bit with them in my younger days. Maybe they need a Green Man.”
Berthea thought it highly likely that they did. Even as she expressed her agreement, she was mulling over in her mind the possibility of a paper for the International Journal of Psychoanalysis. It would be an exploration of our need for Pan-like figures – a need that seemed to survive our loss of Arcadia – and an explanation of the role such figures play. The Green Man, she thought, was a reminder of our suppressed knowledge that ultimately we all relied on the growth of plants; no matter how assiduously we covered our world with concrete, we knew at heart that without grass and leaves we would simply not survive. The Green Man, then, was a figure of reassurance: we might have made his life difficult by destroying his habitat but he was still there, lurking in the inmost recesses of our consciousness.
She looked at Lennie Marchbanks. Here was a man whose life was one of machinery, and yet he had reverted so quickly and easily to a man of the woods and hedgerows. The entire Age of Machines had been rendered as naught by the simple application of dabs of glue and a few laurel leaves.
Berthea brought herself back to the business in hand. “Right,” she said. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, you go and hang about in the rhododendron bushes, and I shall bring Terence out for a walk.”
“Will do,” mumbled Lennie. “Do we need to synchronise our watches?”
Berthea laughed. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Mr Marchbanks. But please remember one thing: I won’t see you. So don’t look at me, and I won’t look at you. Just look at Terence.”
Lennie Marchbanks nodded, causing a leaf to fall off the end of his nose. Berthea retrieved it from the ground and stuck it back on. “Premature autumn,” she remarked. “A well-known hazard for green men.”
They made their way back to the garden. While Lennie Marchbanks burrowed into the thick foliage of the rhododendrons, Berthea returned to the house, where she found Terence still meditating in the conservatory.
“Terence,” she said. “It’s lovely outside. I think we should have a little walk together.”
“Perhaps later, Berthy,” said Terence. “I’ve just reached a jolly high level of inner calm.”
“An ideal state in which to commune with nature,” she said briskly, taking his arm in encouragement.
They went outside. “Let’s look at those beds first,” said Berthea. “What lovely pinks. And freesias, too. I’ve always loved freesias. Such a delicate smell, and such beautiful colours too. And look at those lilies over there, Terence.”
“Lilies are so contented,” said Terence. “They neither spin, nor do they toil, yet Solomon in all his glory …”
“Indeed,” said Berthea. “Mind you, I’ve always imagined that Solomon wore rather dull clothes. I’m not surprised the lilies eclipsed him. But enough of flowers, let’s go down there, Terence. Over by the rhodies.”
Berthea glanced at the large mass of greenery that was the cluster of rhododendrons. She thought she detected a movement, but was not sure.
“Berthy,” Terence said suddenly. “I think I can see something in the rhodies.”
“Really? I can’t.”
They moved closer. At that moment Lennie Marchbanks’s leaf-covered face emerged from within the green embrace of the bushes.
“Beware!” he called.
Terence grabbed his sister’s arm. “Berthy! Look! Look! The Green Man!”
“Oh don’t be so ridiculous, Terence. There’s nothing there.”
“Beware!” Lennie Marchbanks called again. “Beware of a person within your house, O mortal!”
Berthea was impressed with Lennie’s acting, but could not show it of course.
“Why are you shaking like that, Terence?” she asked. “Are you cold?”
There was a further movement in the bushes and Lennie Marchbanks disappeared.
“Let’s go back to the house, Terence,” said Berthea, leading her brother away. “You’ve obviously been meditating far too hard and it’s gone to your head. A cup of tea will bring you back, no doubt. It always does.”
Chapter 72: A Meeting with MI6
There are few harsh words that have greater effect than those spoken by child to parent. A home truth delivered by our offspring is for most of us far less easily ignored than one emanating from a colleague or a friend. Et tu, Brute is bad enough; et tu, fili tends to be uttered with real reproach.
William had been shocked by the upbraiding that he had received from his son, Eddie. Part of this reaction was attributable to astonishment on his part that Eddie, who had shown fecklessness since early childhood, should believe himself to be in a position to criticise anybody, let alone his father. If there is high moral ground – usually claimed by politicians – then there must also be a middle moral ground – normally claimed by most of the rest of us – and, of course, a low moral ground. This low terrain, susceptible to moral flooding, was that occupied by Eddie and his friends, and it was ground from which one might not expect much moral advice to be issued. But Eddie had given such advice in clear and unequivocal terms: William should never have let Freddie de la Hay be used by MI6; to do so was to ignore the moral obligation that people owed to their animal charges, and in this case it made William unfit to own a dog.
The shock had spurred William into action. He had demanded a meeting with Tilly Curtain, at which she had told him that Freddie de la Hay was still alive and, most importantly, that her colleague Sebastian Duck knew where he was. Now, back in Corduroy Mansions, William dialled Sebastian Duck’s number, determined to confront him over Freddie’s whereabouts.
“Mr Duck?”
“Yes, Duck here. And that’s you, Mr French?”
Once again, William could not help experiencing a moment’s surprise at being recognised but then if MI6 did not know who was phoning them, who would?
William came straight to the point. He wanted to see Sebastian Duck, and he wanted to see him immediately.
“By immediately, do you mean—”
“Immediately.”
Sebastian Duck was surprisingly obliging, and they arranged to meet in a coffee bar on Bro
ok Street. When William arrived, the other man was already there and beckoned him over.
“I know you like latte,” Sebastian Duck said. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you.”
William frowned. How did he know that he liked latte?
Sebastian Duck seemed to have anticipated the question. “You’ll remember that we told you we’d been watching you,” he said quietly. “In a friendly way, of course.”
William felt his irritation grow. How dare these people spy on others. And then he thought, well, they are spies … But that did not excuse it in his case.
“I want my dog back,” he said bluntly. “I agreed to lend him to you, not to give him. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like him back right now.”
Sebastian Duck stared into his coffee cup. “Would that the world was as we wanted it to be, Mr French. But it isn’t, is it?”
William glared at him. “That’s a somewhat opaque thing to say. And I don’t see what it’s got to do with my dog.”
Sebastian Duck looked up. “Oh really? It has everything to do with your dog, I’m afraid, Mr French. You would like your dog back, and I’m telling you that there are some requests that are frankly impossible to meet. Your dog, I’m very sorry to say, is lost.”
William tried to remain calm. “Lost in what sense?”
Sebastian Duck shrugged. “The word ‘lost’ has many meanings in our world. In a sense we’re all lost, aren’t we? We imagine—”
William cut him short. “Is he dead?”
“I’m sorry. Yes, he is.”
William sat back in his chair. “I believe you’re lying.”
Sebastian Duck raised an eyebrow. “You’re distraught, Mr French.”
“I’ve heard that you know where he is.”
Sebastian Duck’s expression was impassive . “Oh? And who told you?”
William realised he could not reveal that it was Tilly Curtain. He had promised her he would not say anything about their meeting, and yet he had to say something. He thought of the terms espionage figures used in novels and one came to him. “A mole,” he said.
The word caused an immediate reaction in Sebastian Duck. “A mole?” he asked sharply. “A mole by the name of Tilly Curtain?”
William was no actor, and his face must have given away the secret. “Well …” he began.
Sebastian Duck leaned forward. “Let me tell you something, Mr French. We know about her. Do you know that? We know.”
“Know what?”
Sebastian Duck lowered his voice even further. “We know that she’s not quite what she seems to be.”
William hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t.”
“Well, let me tell you then. Your friend Miss Curtain is paid by HMG but is also in the pay of …” Sebastian Duck reached for a tiny packet of sugar, tore it open neatly, and poured it into his half-empty coffee cup. “Of the Belgians.”
William sat quite still. “The Belgians? Why?”
Sebastian Duck shrugged. “What interest do you think the Belgians have in the growth of the influence of Brussels?” He did not wait for an answer. “Exactly.”
“That is ridiculous,” said William. “Utterly absurd.”
“In that case, I’ll take my leave,” said Sebastian Duck, rising from the table. “Goodbye.”
William remained where he was. After a minute or two, he took his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled Tilly Curtain’s number.
“Thank heavens you called,’ she said. “I’ve found out.”
“Found out what?”
“Where Freddie de la Hay is.”
Chapter 73: Chipping Campden
Everything was now in place for the second stage of Berthea’s plan. Once inside the house, Terence, still pale from the shock of seeing the Green Man in the rhododendrons, sat himself down in the kitchen. “I swear I saw him, Berthy,” he said breathlessly. “You know me – I don’t make things up.”
Berthea knew him as well as any sister might be expected to know a brother, and she knew there were no discernible limits to Terence’s gullibility and imaginative capability. “Of course not,” she said. “The eye tricks us very easily. I quite understand how one might imagine that one has seen the Green Man when there are all those leaves moving about.”
Terence shook his head vigorously, becoming quite agitated. “It’s not a trick of the eye,” he said. “The Green Man was right there – in the flesh. I promise you, Berthy – cross my heart – he was standing right there, as real as anything. I promise you.”
Berthea spoke calmingly, “Well, we’ll see, won’t we? If the Green Man is frequenting your garden, then I’m sure we’ll see him again some time.”
Terence appeared mollified. “I hope so. I really enjoyed our conversation. He gave me a warning, you know.”
Berthea, pouring boiling water into the teapot, affected nonchalance. “Oh, did he? About what?”
Terence looked at her sideways. “About somebody in the house who was a danger to me. A traitor, I assume.”
Berthea glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and saw that he was staring at her. His manner, it seemed, was suspicious. He thinks it’s me, she thought with horror. He’s got the wrong end of things again.
She quickly served her brother his tea and left the room. In the drawing room she telephoned Lennie Marchbanks and told him to come round immediately. “Remember,” she said. “Crop circles.”
About ten minutes later, while Terence was still drinking his tea in the kitchen – pondering the Green Man, Berthea imagined – Lennie Marchbanks drove up to the house in his ancient silver Volvo. Terence noticed his arrival. “I must tell Lennie about the Green Man,” he said, rising to his feet. “He’s very interested in these things.”
Lennie came to the door and was admitted to the kitchen. “Great news, Mr Moongrove,” he said. “More crop circles!”
In the excitement of this news, the Green Man was quite forgotten. Terence listened entranced as Lennie explained that two new crop circles had been spotted in a field about five miles away. “I wanted to take you to see them,” he said. “Sometimes the crops spring up before you have the chance to appreciate them.”
Terence required no persuasion. “You’re very kind, Mr Marchbanks.”
Lennie glanced at Berthea. “We’ll go in my Volvo,” he said. “I know the way.”
Berthea watched them drive away before going up to the room occupied by Roger and Claire. They had installed desks in the room and she supposed that they would be sitting there reading or working on Roger’s magnum opus, which proved to be the case.
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you,” she said. “But Terence has had to go off with a friend. He asked me to ask you, though, whether you could possibly meet him for lunch at the Cotswold House Hotel in Chipping Campden.”
Roger looked at her suspiciously. “Chipping Campden? Why?”
“He mentioned something about wanting to sign some papers,” said Berthea vaguely. “He hoped that you could all do it over lunch.”
Roger turned and looked at Claire. The mention of signing papers had animated him. “Of course,” he said. “We’ll be very happy to do that, won’t we, Claire?” He turned back to Berthea. “But how will we get out there?”
“He said that you should take his car,” Berthea answered. “His Porsche. The keys are in the kitchen. He said go out there and wait for him. He hasn’t booked a table but he thinks it will be all right.”
Roger and Claire got up from their seats and began to prepare for their departure, ignoring Berthea’s presence. Berthea went downstairs and looked at her watch. She had asked Lennie Marchbanks to make sure that he was away a good half hour. That would give Roger and Claire time to get ready and then drive off in the Porsche.
They left twenty minutes later, and precisely ten minutes after that Lennie Marchbanks’ silver Volvo drew up outside the house.
“We were too late,” said Terence as he came into
the kitchen with the garagiste. “The stalks of the oats or whatever had all sprung up again. So disappointing.”
“The spacecraft must have nipped in and out,” said Lennie.
Berthea noticed that his voice was slurred, and she suddenly remembered that his teeth were still in the pocket of her coat, which was hanging on the back of the kitchen door. She signalled to the mechanic, who frowned as he tried to make out what she meant. Then he realised. “My teeth!” he exclaimed. “You’ve still got them, haven’t you?”
Terence looked astonished. “Why have you got Mr Marchbanks’ teeth, Berthy?” he asked. “Did he drop them?”
“Yes,” said Berthea. And Lennie Marchbanks at the same time answered, “No.”
Terence looked at Mr Marchbanks. “What happened to your teeth, Mr Marchbanks?”
“Your sister cleaned them for me.”
“He dropped them and I cleaned them,” said Berthea.
Terence seemed satisfied with this explanation and returned to the topic of crop circles. “I wonder what shape they were,” he said. “Roger and Claire have a book which has some of the main patterns.”
Berthea took her cue. “I wonder where they are …?” She paused. “I’ve just remembered something, Terence. I heard the sound of your car about fifteen minutes ago. I thought nothing of it because I’d forgotten that you had gone out with Mr Marchbanks.”
“My Porsche?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell them they could take it?” asked Lennie Marchbanks.
“Certainly not,” said Terence.
“Then they must have stolen it,” said Lennie. “Just think.”
Terence was silent. “The Green Man said …” he began.
“Green Man?” asked Lennie Marchbanks.
“It’s rather complicated,” Terence explained. “I was given a warning, you see, and …”
Berthea stopped him. “Where would they have gone, do you think, Mr Marchbanks?” she asked.
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