As the hours passed and he became colder and colder and his limbs stiffened, BS thought of his discomfort as a type of penitence. He watched the moonlight travel across the wall of the chapel. He had abandoned the idea of making it to his car and driving home because now that he was here, paying his penance, he thought about his wife, his Judas, and imagined the misery his unexplained absence must be causing. She had been clever writing anonymous letters to herself, and also clever to leave Maureen’s name out of them – the only woman who worked for him who didn’t get a mention. It had helped him reach the wrong conclusion. He hoped Patricia was lying awake in their bed at home in torment. She must know that her letter had arrived, that he had been called to see the earl. Did she realise that by naming Strickland and Zubriggen she had revealed her hand to him? Perhaps she intended that to be part of his punishment, perhaps she wanted him to know she was betraying him.
He checked his watch. It was a quarter past three in the morning – she must be seriously worried about him by now. He hoped she imagined he had killed himself, that they would find his car parked down in the woods near the river walk, a pipe leading from the exhaust to the car interior – that would serve her right. No, he thought, that wouldn’t work nowadays – he had heard that all new cars were fitted with a catalytic converter which eliminated ninety-nine per cent of the carbon monoxide in the exhaust. Besides, Patricia was unlikely to imagine suicide. She knew how strongly he held the Catholic opinion that life was the property of God, only God himself had dominion over life, and to take his own life would mean putting himself higher than God. Perhaps she thought he had found a safe haven with a woman, Sam Westbrook even; that at this very moment, despite his assertions that there was nothing going on between them, she was torturing herself with the thought that her betrayal had pushed him into the welcoming arms of another woman. Maybe she thought he had fled the country. He preferred that idea and played a scene out in his mind of arriving on foot at a quay in Holyhead. He could take a ferry to the Hook of Holland or over to Scandinavia, Gothenburg perhaps – he liked the sound of that.
He had no idea when he had fallen asleep, but he woke with a start, his pulse thumping in his ears, a brilliant light shining into his face. For a split-second he thought it was a torch, Pugh shining it down on him as he slept on a makeshift bed of cassocks, but the moment he rolled his head to one side he realised it was the light of the setting moon burning down on him from the windows on the opposite side of the chapel. It must be nearly dawn. He knew the time had come for him to make his way home.
Stiff and tired he exited the chapel and locked the door behind him. He heard a door shut in the distance, over towards the south wing; someone over in the private apartments was up early. Hugging the wall, he made his way towards the staff car park as stealthily as he could, pulling the car door shut instead of slamming it. He drove out and round the longer road to avoid having to pass in front of the Hall. The edge of the Black Mountains were sharp against the lightening sky, the surface of the lake dappled in patches by the breeze. He was chilled to the core and hungry too. He hoped Patricia would let him eat before they trawled through their respective confessions, but somehow he doubted it, so he decided to stop on his way home and have a bit of breakfast.
He took the road out towards Llandrindod Wells until he came upon an out-of-town superstore. The empty car park disorientated him – he couldn’t make a decision about where to park and drove around in a large circle, peering from left to right, finally settling on a bay some distance from the entrance to the store. Dawn had broken and with it came a freshened breeze which rolled a soft plastic bag across the car park in front of him until it lifted it up and whipped it away at speed towards the trolley stand. The landscaped trees were full of birdsong and he could hear the occasional drone of a car on the adjacent A-road.
Once inside, the smell of coffee drew him through the empty shop towards the café and it wasn’t until he peered into the display cabinets that he realised it wasn’t a proper café at all, but one of those coffee house outlets. No bacon and egg breakfast for him here, he thought with a heavy heart. He scanned the menu boards on the wall watched by a sulky girl with bad skin and a pronounced overbite. Wordlessly she fetched his coffee and slouched impatiently behind the display as he tried to choose a cake. Hooking his stick over his arm, he carried his pauce breakfast away to a table at the back of the room. The coffee invigorated him, but the cake was swathed in sickly butter icing, and after taking a couple of mouthfuls he felt the queasiness return so he pushed the plate to the side and sat back. The sulky girl was picking the skin at the edge of her nail. She must have sensed he was looking at her because she stared back insolently before disappearing through a door behind the counter. He felt profoundly lonely sitting in that brightly lit shop devoid of customers, and he felt sorry. Yes, he thought, that’s how I feel – extremely sorry for myself.
When he eventually rounded the corner and drove into his street, he thought he spotted a speed camera van parked ahead and checked his speedometer to make sure it hadn’t crept up over thirty miles an hour, but as he neared his house, he realised it was a police car. He saw a neighbour dallying around his dustbin and watching the car as he drove towards his house, another standing at a window on the opposite side of the road with a cup of coffee in her hand. An unpleasant sensation began to grow in his belly, a flutter of anxiety, a growing unease. Were they here for him? Surely not. His interview with Keane and the earl had not been pleasant, but he hadn’t got the impression that they were putting the matter into the hands of the police. That was not the way the earl did things. When it came to light a few years ago that the gatemen had been running a cash scam they all got the sack, but the earl never pressed any charges. What on earth had Strickland told them last night?
He swung his car into the drive. Another police vehicle was parked near his front door, and a constable was coming out of his house carrying a large bag, which he stowed in the back of the police van. The sound of his arrival had brought a second man to the front door and he now approached BS’s car and opened the driver’s door for him.
‘Mr Moreton?’ he said. BS nodded mutely. ‘I am Detective Constable Cragg.’ The officer held a warrant card out towards BS. The photograph showed a man in his twenties, slim-faced and sporting a moustache, and bore no resemblance to the heavyset man who held the door. ‘Could I ask you, sir, to turn off your engine and come inside?’
‘Do you mind telling me exactly what’s going on?’ BS said.
‘Come inside please, sir.’
As he approached the house, he saw Patricia’s pale face staring out of the office window. It disappeared and she was at the front door before he reached it. She was still in her dressing gown, her hair greasy and flattened down one side, her face grey with worry. He wondered how long the police had been here, how long she had been keeping her vigil at the window. An unexpected wave of sympathy for her swept through him with such vigour he felt his eyes moisten again. She looked so undignified in her night things, so unprepared, so vulnerable, that the fury he had felt towards her for putting him in this terrible situation waned. She came towards him a little unsteadily and caught hold of his arm. ‘Just a minute, pet,’ he said, releasing his arm from her grip so that he could remove his overcoat. He was aware that DC Cragg was waiting at the open door for him to greet his wife, and he was impressed by his sensitivity.
‘They’re taking things out of your office,’ Patricia whispered. ‘They’ve got a search warrant. Why are they searching our house, BS?’
BS had been prepared for her to lash out at him the moment he entered the house for subjecting her to a long night of worry, he had intended parrying her with a blast of accusations for betraying him, but her question astonished him. He leant towards her and said quietly, ‘You, of all people, should know the answer to that.’ Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. She really hadn’t known he would guess she wrote the letters.
When Patricia heard DC C
ragg say the words ‘Bartholomew Moreton, I am arresting you on suspicion of theft ...’ she began to cry in a way so undignified that anyone would think it was she who was about to be taken down to the station, not him, and his irritation diluted his own shock. She wailed, she pulled at one of the constables as he came down the stairs and headed for the front door with another bag. She pushed past him and spread herself across the open door to prevent him from leaving. The young officer turned to his superior for guidance, but BS kept his poise and admonished her several times until she calmed down. He then led her through to the kitchen and sat her down before turning to ask DC Cragg how long he thought they were going to be. He assured him there had been a mistake which he would be able to clear up swiftly and suggested to Patricia that now she had calmed down it would be a good idea if she popped upstairs and put some clothes on. He even offered to make tea for DC Cragg and the constables, but they refused the offer.
Once out in the street with the officers he talked at them with cheerful banter, ignoring the confused look on the Detective Constable’s face. He even laughed agreeably for the neighbours to see, hoping they would assume he was helping the police with some crime that had been committed at the Hall – which, of course, he was. He felt confident that he wouldn’t face a custodial sentence, not at his age, not on a first offence, but Patricia’s frantic behaviour, the fear in her eyes, the clutching at his sleeve as he left the house, told him she thought otherwise. Her plan had backfired horribly and although he knew it was a base thought, her pain and distress was a fitting punishment for her betrayal and it gave him exquisite pleasure.
- 29 -
Max arrived at the lake just after three and found the key underneath the life jackets. He was glad the owner didn’t want to meet him on his arrival. Before letting himself into the log cabin he strolled on to the veranda and gazed out across the water. In the distance he could make out the ridge of another lodge behind the island to his left, but apart from that there were no signs of human habitation. A tern, neat and angular, plopped on to the surface of the water in front of him, making a shoal of small fry dimple the surface. The sun pierced the water and Max could see the fish gliding through the forest of weed anchored in the gravel. He took a deep breath and smiled to himself. He had made an excellent choice.
He let himself in. The building was constructed of pine, which scented the air inside. He didn’t really know Sam’s taste, but he was sure she would not be disappointed. Two burgundy sofas were drawn up next to the log burner off the kitchen, the Welsh dresser was stocked with books. He opened a door into the bedroom and felt a tremor of excitement when he saw the crisp sheets on the double bed. He sat down on the edge and looked out of the window across the lake again. He couldn’t believe his luck. He had chosen it because it was called Monty’s Retreat, and it was perfect.
Monty. He was still in the car. Max went round to the front of the lodge. Monty stared out at him.
‘Sorry, old chap’ he said, clipping the lead on to the dog’s collar. Monty bounded out, raised his leg against a clump of grass and rushed off towards the thick undergrowth until the lead reached the end of the reel. ‘Smell rabbits, eh?’ Max said, coaxing the dog back round towards the lake. Monty rushed ahead down the steps to the lower pontoon and barked at the ducks bobbing in the water. They ignored him. Max tied the lead to the railings and left Monty pacing up and down the pontoon while he unpacked the car.
He went into the bathroom and began to lay out the contents of his soap bag. Then he paused. It seemed inappropriately intimate to put his toothbrush and shaving equipment in a shared bathroom. Shared – he spun round – there was one loo, and it was in here, the only bathroom. Always a problem early on in a relationship when it is important to imagine your goddess devoid of human frailty and function. He caught sight of himself in the mirror over the basin and smiled, turning sideway to inspect his stomach and sucking it in to counteract the extra pounds he had gained since he quit smoking. However many years had it been since he last felt like this? He finished unpacking his soap bag and marked his territory, leaving the table to the side of the basin free for Sam’s toiletries.
His next job was filling the fridge. He had brought smoked salmon, cheese and bread. He had found four lobster tails in Waitrose which cost a fortune, and he planned to cook these for Sam on the open barbecue and serve them with lemon and mayonnaise for dinner with the bread, followed by strawberries and clotted cream and a bottle of pink champagne. He worried that pink champagne was trashy, and put a bottle of sauvignon into the fridge as well. The pink champagne could come out with the strawberries – that seemed more sophisticated. He uncorked a bottle of red wine too to let it breathe, in case Sam wanted some with her cheese. He had no appetite at all at the moment and recognised this feeling as excitement, so to calm his nerves poured himself a glass of beer and went out on to the veranda to watch the lake. A pyramid of gnats, backlit by the sun, tumbled over the reeds.
It had been an extraordinary few months, the Hall bubbling with speculation and gossip. It seemed inconceivable that poor old BS would get a custodial sentence, but it was rumoured that the insurance value of the stuff missing was reaching the million pound mark, cunning old fox. This could just be gross exaggeration, but if it was true, Max thought, the poor old boy really would go down. How would he cope with jail? he wondered. Max was sure he would spend his sentence in some sort of open prison but that’s not where he would start. He was still going to have to face the humiliation and loss of control that comes to any prisoner, however gentlemanly his crime.
He checked his watch. It was four thirty, an hour and a half before Sam was due to arrive. He set aside his worries about the archivist and instead focused on the coming weekend. He still couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was, on a still June afternoon, looking out over the flat calm of the lake which was occasionally disturbed by a grebe surfacing or the lazy roll of a fish just below the surface. She had said yes. He had said, ‘I’ve taken a lodge, on a lake. It’s going to be lovely weather this weekend. Why don’t you come?’ And she had said yes.
A dreadful thought struck him. Had he assumed too much? Would she peer into the double bedroom, then open the door of the other room and be horrified that the bed in there wasn’t made up for her? Ridiculous. Of course she wouldn’t. They had, after all, shared a chaste kiss. He shot Monty a disagreeable look. By the time Max had returned with Monty that night they were both muddy and exhausted and the moment had passed. Although he was furious with him, he couldn’t bring himself to physically punish his dog, but his retribution was that he didn’t trust him off the lead any more, particularly out here where he could hear wildlife scurrying and scratching, plopping and flapping all around the lodge. Sam had, however, agreed to meet again. Max had found a symposium to attend in London and they had lunched together. It was clear to both of them that they were getting close. They spoke regularly on the phone in the evenings and some of the conversation invariably involved flirting. She wasn’t an innocent young thing. She knew what a weekend away together in a lodge entailed. And she had said yes. He must relax. The beer was helping him to relax.
‘Come on, Monty,’ he said, ‘let’s recce,’ and, without bothering to lock up, he set off along the path through the woods with Monty heaving ahead on the end of the lead as if he was pulling a tractor tyre behind him. Rabbits hopped off the path and into the undergrowth, but Monty missed them – he was peering into the bushes on the other side of the track. Max walked on until he saw another lodge hidden among the trees across the lake but he didn’t want to meet anyone else, he turned round and headed back, planning to get the barbecue lit early so that it was at a perfect cooking temperature by seven that evening. He checked his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed a call from Sam, and carried an armful of logs round from the front of the house as he passed.
The barbecue pleased him. It was a half oil drum, rusted and buckled, serviceable and unpretentious. He tied Monty up again on a long lea
sh and built a pyramid of charcoal over rolled-up newspaper. Once the paper was burning, he stacked pine logs on to the pyramid and stepped back as the resinous smoke billowed up and out over the lake. The logs spat and crackled. He poured himself another beer and checked his watch. Less than an hour now. She’d already be on her way.
Monty was trying to squeeze himself between the steps down to the pontoon, his chest flat on the ground, front legs splayed, haunches raised. He barked and shot out backwards, stumbling down the steps. Max guessed there was a duck underneath the pontoon. He checked his watch again – twelve minutes had passed. This was a beautiful place to be, but did time really have to pass so slowly? He checked the barbecue again, stirred the logs around with a leather glove he had found next to the wood burner, and went into the kitchen to fetch another beer. He wished he hadn’t quit smoking. He would love to have a cigarette now – he could hear the crackle it would make as he inhaled, see himself blowing out a perfect plume of smoke into the evening sky. He watched the ducks spooning their beaks along the surface of the lake and remembered a story his father had told him about the war when he was surgeon out in the Middle East: he had thought a tent in the desert was full of ducks, could hear their watery nibbling, but when he looked in, it was full of soldiers with their broken jaws wired, pumping their cheeks to push puréed food through their clenched teeth.
Stop! Now! Why must his imagination end up careening along some path of distress and despair, today of all days, when Sam Westbrook – beautiful, cultured, unattainable Sam Westbrook – was at this very minute driving from London across to the Cotswolds to meet him here, at Monty’s Retreat? An evening stillness had calmed the lake, and he must calm down too or this was going to be a catastrophe.
The Archivist Page 25