Days Without Number (10 page)

'Well,' said Irene. 'I suppose it can't be helped.'

'Does that mean we have to wait several months - at least before selling the house?' asked Anna in her no-nonsense fashion.

'Technically, Miss Paleologus, yes,' Baskcomb replied. 'But there would be nothing to prevent you entering into a provisional agreement to sell, which is something I could discuss with the vendee's solicitor if you so instructed me. The agreement would come into effect as soon as you obtained title. Of course, you would all need to be party to such an arrangement. I'm sure you can appreciate that.'

'Yes,' said Irene. 'Naturally.'

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'Well, you'll want to discuss that amongst yourselves before coming to any decision. Just let me know.'

'We will.'

'Good. Now, the only other thing I should mention is that I require sight of any and all financial documentation kept by your father. Bank statements, chequebooks, shares and savings certificates, tax demands and so forth. The sooner I have all the details to hand, the sooner I can finalize matters. To which end . . .' Baskcomb ferreted in the drawer of his desk. The police have asked me to pass these on to you.' He laid a bunch of keys on the blotter in front of him.

They were the keys to Trennor. Nick recognized them at once by the brass whistle threaded onto the ring, which his grandfather had carried in his pocket as a junior officer in the First World War. One of them, Andrew probably, would take it and in due course thread it onto his key-ring. Then, one day, Tom would inherit it and probably do the same. The keys - and the doors they opened - would change. But the whistle would remain. Nick found the thought comforting. Yes, the whistle would in all likelihood survive. Something always did.

They adjourned to Anna's flat when the meeting had ended. Their talk was dominated by practical matters: the funeral, the house, the documents Baskcomb had asked for. It was agreed that Nick, Irene and Basil would visit Trennor next morning and go through their father's papers. As for Tantris's offer, there was apparent unanimity. As soon as the funeral was out of the way, they would ask Baskcomb to open discussions with Tantris's solicitor about a provisional agreement to sell.

Nick detected a latent difference of opinion, however, though he did not draw attention to it. Andrew reckoned more money could be squeezed out of the situation. And Anna might be persuaded to reckon the same. Irene was too scrupulous to go back on what they had in effect already agreed. And Basil would condemn the idea as unethical, if not

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immoral. That would leave Nick to take one side or the other and already he dreaded being called upon to choose.

Fortunately, that moment was still some way off. Far closer was his meeting with Elspeth, to which his thoughts increasingly turned. He knew he ought to tell the others about it, but felt strangely reluctant to do so. In the end, his hand was forced.

'We need to tell Miss Hartley something,' Irene pointed out.

'Something, but not too much,' stressed Andrew.

'Did she speak to you after phoning me, Nick?' Irene asked.

'Er, yes. Actually . . . I'm seeing her, er, well . . .' Nick glanced at his watch. 'In about half an hour.'

'You might have mentioned it,' said Andrew darkly.

'Yeah,' Anna joined in. 'You might.'

'I was going to. I was just, well . . .' Nick smiled. 'Waiting for a consensus to emerge about what I should say to her.'

'And has one emerged?' Basil enquired innocently.

'Say as little as possible, right?' Nick glanced around and received consenting nods of varying emphasis. 'Well, that's what I'll do. In fact, I'll let her do all the talking.'

It was still raining when Nick reached the Compton. And the rain was Plymouth's specially wet variety, driven in by wind and night. Early drinkers had not turned out in abundance. But for Nick and Elspeth, who was waiting for him when he arrived, there would in fact have been none.

She could not have been there long, though she was already a third of a way through her pint of beer. Nick bought himself a half and joined her at a window table. She repeated the condolences she had proffered earlier over the telephone.

'A fall, Irene said. Is that right? Your father fell down the stairs?'

'The cellar steps, actually.'

'And, what, hit his head?'

'Seems so.'

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Terrible.'

'Yeah. But on the cards, given how unsteady on his feet he'd become. At least it was quick.'

'Very quick.'

Some intonation in Elspeth's voice struck Nick - almost retrospectively - as odd. He frowned at her. 'Sorry?'

'Very quick. Like you said.'

'It was certainly a shock. He was full of life on Sunday.'

'How did the party go?'

'Not very well. Dad didn't . . . see eye to eye with us.'

'I was afraid he wouldn't.'

'Not that it matters now.'

'No. But, Nick, you must realize I for one would much rather your father was alive and well and you'd been able to talk him round. Nobody - including Mr Tantris - is going to take any pleasure from this turn of events.'

'I thought you'd never met Tantris.'

'I haven't. But as far as I know--'

'How far's that?'

Elspeth looked at him in silence for a moment, then said, 'I am sorry about your father.'

'Thanks.'

Ts something wrong?'

'Not sure.'

'What did Mr Baskcomb say?'

'Oh, that everything's straightforward. The five of us inherit the house jointly. Once the funeral's come and gone, we'll put Baskcomb in touch with Tantris's solicitor.'

'Good.' She drank some beer, watching him over the rim of the glass. 'So, what aren't you sure about?'

Nick smiled hesitantly. 'You.'

The?'

That's right.'

She set the glass down and stared at him. 'What do you mean?'

'Had we met before Saturday?'

'No. Of course not. You know we hadn't.'

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'Yeah, I do. But in that case why did you ask my father about me? I mean, specifically me.'

'Ah. He mentioned that, did he?' Elspeth's gaze shifted evasively to the middle ground. 'Somehow, I thought he wouldn't.'

'You thought right. Pru, his housekeeper, overheard your conversation. She told me.'

'I should never have asked him.' She ran a hand through her hair. 'It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.'

'And what was the spur?'

'No getting round it, is there?'

'I don't think so.'

'Well, you must know the answer anyway.'

'No.'

'I was there, Nick. Cambridge, graduation day nineteen seventy-nine.' She smiled. 'I wouldn't have recognized you. But your name stuck in my mind.'

'You were there?'

'Went with my mother to see my brother pick up his BA. He's a few years older than you, of course.'

'You were there?' Nick repeated numbly.

"Fraid so.'

'Oh God.'

'It's not so bad.'

'Yes, it is. I've tried very hard to forget about it, you see. Very hard. For a very long time.'

'Sorry to remind you.'

'Thanks. I'm sorry to be reminded.'

That was about as big as understatements come. Nick, formerly with the help of others and more recently with the aid of his own carefully husbanded resources, had fortified himself against his previous existence as Wunderkind Nicholas Paleologus, the academic prodigy who had gone up to Cambridge at the age of sixteen laden with early attainment and infinite promise, only to emulate his brother Basil by failing to stay the course. Technically, he had graduated, thanks to the award of an aegrotat in recognition of his illness.

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But the university authorities might have thought twice about that had they realized he would present himself at the Senate House on graduation day, force his way in and strip in the midst of the ceremony. Mercifully, Nick had no recollection of his actions that day, nor many days before and after. Jumping out of a punt somewhere near Grantchester, wading to the bank and walking aimlessly across fields towards the setting sun was as close as conscious memory took him to the long months of his separation from reality and the still longer years of his slow reacquaintance with it. Not that he had completely recovered. Like a reformed alcoholic, he carried the affliction with him, no matter how long it had been since he had succumbed to it. And that, he supposed, was what hurt him most to be reminded of.

'What did your brother read?' Nick asked irrelevantly, unsure how far the silence had stretched.

'Land Economy.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, really. At the time when it happened - your graduation-day stunt, I mean - I laughed. It made the day for me. It had been pretty boring up until then - all that ermine hooded processional. Later, when I read a piece about you in one of the papers--'

'Cracking up at Cambridge!'

'I don't remember the headline.'

'Good. But that's what it was.'

'OK. Well, I thought it was sad.'

'Sad and laughable. That's about spot-on.'

'What went wrong, Nick?'

'Didn't the papers tell you?'

' "Too young to handle the pressure" is more or less what they said.'

'And it's more or less true. Complicated by underlying sociopathy, according to one of several psychiatrists I was treated by.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means I don't function well socially. It means my

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intellectual overdevelopment was a camouflage for my emotional �ndmievelopment - apparently.' Nick smiled, failing to relax the all too familiar tension gripping him. 'Alternatively, you could take my father's line: I funked it.'

'What happened to you . . . afterwards?'

'Mental hospital. Care in the community was only a gleam in Thatcher's eye back then. Just as well for us repressed sociopaths. To tell you the truth, I'm not the right person to ask what really happened to me. "Out of your mind" can mean literally that.'

'But you came through it.'

'So it seems.'

'What do you do now? Irene said you work for some kind of quango.'

'English Partnerships. You know, urban regeneration and all that.'

'Where do they hang out?'

'Milton Keynes. Excited yet?'

'Do you enjoy your work?'

'Too soon to say.'

'How long have you been there?'

'Eight years.'

Elspeth laughed. 'Sociopathy obviously isn't incompatible with humour.'

'Who said I was joking?'

'OK.' She gave him a knowing look. 'Change of subject. How well do you know Istanbul?'

'Never been there.'

'You're a Paleologus. And you've never been to Istanbul?'

'Paleologus is my name, nothing more.'

'You're not affected by its history?'

'I try not to be.'

'A vain effort, I should have thought. History's part of us, like it or not. Look at what brought me down here and prompted Tantris to make his offer for Trennor. History is why we're sitting here talking to each other.'

'History is your profession, Elspeth. Naturally it affects you.

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And your attitude to my father's death. It's nice of you to have expressed your regret, but I do understand that you must be looking forward to the search for the Doom Window. Well, this has probably brought that search a good deal closer.'

'Not for me. I've decided to bale out.'

'What?'

'I won't be doing any searching at Trennor. Tantris will have to find someone else to do it.'

'I don't understand.'

'I did the research. I'll opt out of the hands-on part. That's all.'

'Why?'

'Because research is my forte and there's plenty more waiting for me elsewhere. My task was to dig out the facts and try to win your father over. The first I've done. The second ... is sadly no longer relevant. Your solicitor can talk to Tantris's solicitor and take it from there. I'm heading back to Bristol. Good news for Tilda. I think she's been having second thoughts about inviting me to--'

'Who's Tilda?'

'A friend of mine from student days. She's a curator at the Museum here in Plymouth. I've been staying with her. It was supposed to be until the end of this week. But in the circumstances . . . I've decided to bring my departure forward.'

'To when?'

'Tomorrow.' She grinned at him lopsidedly. 'So, this is a farewell drink. Fancy another?'

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Nick was unsure which had been the greater shock: Elspeth's knowledge of his breakdown at Cambridge or her abrupt detachment from his family's dealings with Tantris. He should have questioned her more closely about both. Had he known her brother? He could remember no Hartleys among his fellow students, but his memory of that time was too fragmentary to rely on. And why was Elspeth passing up the chance of all that academic kudos the Doom Window's discovery would confer on the discoverer? No-one would be interested in who had carried out the preliminary research. Purely in career terms, her decision made no sense.

The truth was that the primal instinct of self-preservation had held him back. The less said about his past the better he was able to cope with his present. Nor did he wish to confront the possibility that Elspeth was pulling out for reasons connected with his father's death. The fear of knowing too much balanced the fear of knowing too little. But the balance was a fine one.

Only after Basil had arrived by bus from Plymouth to join Irene and him in their document hunt at Trennor did Nick mention Elspeth's departure from their lives. Irene, though puzzled, made little of it. 'I imagine it'll be her loss in the long

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run, but it's really not our concern, is it?' Basil, on the other hand, was inclined to think it could well be. 'Do you believe that?' he asked, after Nick had reported her explanation. To which Nick could only say, 'Why should she lie?'

Why indeed? Basil gave him an elder-brotherly look, then quietly observed, 'One object of a lie is to conceal the purpose of its telling.'

With which Nick - though he had no intention of saying so - could only concur.

The rain of the previous day had given way to clearing skies and sporadic showers. Springlike mildness prevailed in Landulph, birds singing in the bare-branched trees above the gurgle and trickle of water in ditches and drains.