Days Without Number (29 page)

'They seem to have slipped past me.'

'Yeah? Well, I bet it won't stay that way if you drop in on the Prof. He wrote one, you see. Shades of Grail. Some sort of academic overview. Sold more than all his other stuff put together, so they say.'

'Read it?'

'No.'

'What about Tom?'

Sasha thought for a moment. 'I'm pretty sure I've seen a copy at the flat. Can't remember him talking about it, though. He might have bought it after we visited the chapel. I don't know.' She thought some more. 'This Farnsworth. Could he have sent Tom's mother the photograph?'

'It's possible, given that he's here, where the photograph was taken.'

'And sniffing after Harriet.'

'Exactly.'

'What's Tom got himself mixed up in, Nick?'

'Not sure.'

'Something bad?'

'Could be.'

'Shit.' Sasha stared into her tea. 'Just when you think you're over someone . . . you have to start worrying about them.'

245

They left the caf� shortly afterwards. Sasha made straight for the newsagent-cum-grocer a few doors down and Nick started to take his leave of her, but she insisted he tag along. 'There's something at the flat I want to give you,' she explained as she grabbed a pint of milk and a Sunday Times. 'When are you thinking of going to Roslin?'

'No time like the present.'

'Guess not.'

'What's the best way to get there?'

'Oh, just follow the Penicuik road until you see the turn for Roslin.' Sasha paid and they stepped out on to the pavement.

'Actually, I'm on foot.'

'Then it'll have to be the bus. The thirty-seven, from opposite the Odeon. There's one every half-hour.'

'Thanks.' They turned the corner into Rankeillor Street. 'What are you giving me, Sasha?'

'I should return them to Tom, anyway. If you see him, say I asked you to pass them on. If you don't see him ... if he stays away . . . it's up to you what you do.'

'What are we talking about?'

'Wait out here.'

Sasha went ahead of him into number 56, closing the door behind her. Nick did as he had been told, with rapidly mounting puzzlement. Then he heard the second-floor window squeak open. He looked up and Sasha met his gaze. She tossed some small object down to him. In the instant before he caught it, he realized it was a bunch of keys.

There were three keys, tied together with string: a mortise and two Yales. Nick stared at them, nestled in his palm. Then he heard the window close.

Standing at the bus stop in Clerk Street, fingering the keys in his pocket, Nick promised himself he would not use them unless he had to. But the promise only begged a question: when might he have to?

The chirrup of his mobile came as a welcome distraction. And the sound of Basil's voice when he answered was also

246

welcome, even though how much to tell Basil was a scarcely less delicate issue.

'Good morning, Nick. How do I find you?'

'Confused.'

'About what?'

Tom.'

'Why so?'

'He's behaving oddly.'

'Bereavement can have that effect.'

'Well, let's hope that's all there is to it.'

'And what of the "development" you reported when last we spoke?'

'It's kind of connected.'

'With Tom?'

'Yes.'

'Telecom Italia's international tariff is not set with elliptical communication in mind, Nick. Would you care to be specific?'

'I can't be. As soon as that changes, I'll let you know.'

'Until then you'd prefer me to twiddle my thumbs?'

'Yeah. Sorry.'

'No need to apologize. As it happens, I disregarded your preference in the matter and called at cousin Demetrius's residence yesterday.'

'You did what?'

'I presented my compliments at the Palazzo Falcetto, a residence sufficiently grand to suggest its owner is unlikely to be greatly bothered about the inheritance of a modest house in Cornwall.'

'For God's sake, Basil, I asked you to--'

'You need not worry. Apparently Demetrius regularly flees Venice during the Carnival. He is expected back on Wednesday and will be informed of my visit. It hardly amounts to a great deal.'

'Maybe not, but--'

'Seen anything of Dr Farnsworth?'

'Well, yes, we've met.'

'With what outcome?'

247

'None really. He insists he's here to see an old friend.' 'You are telling me everything, aren't you, Nick?' 'I'm telling you as much as I can be sure of. I just need a little more time ... to pin things down.'

'Then Demetrius has done you a favour. You have until Wednesday. Meanwhile, the display on this telephone indicates that my credit is draining away like sand. Goodbye, Nick.'

'Listen, Basil--' But it was too late. The line was dead.

The 37 bus did not divert to Roslin on a Sunday. Nick had to walk the last half a mile into the village from the main road. It felt colder now he was outside the city. A chill wind was blowing down from the Pentland Hills to the west. There was a dusting of snow on their whale-backed summits, making the grey clouds massed beyond them look bruised and threatening.

Roslin herself seemed an unremarkable place: a mix of old and new housing centred on a few shops and a couple of pubs. A man walking his dog directed Nick to Roseburn Lodge. On his way there, Nick passed a sign for Rosslyn Chapel and glimpsed a structure of some kind in the middle distance, screened by trees. But the chapel could wait. He had more pressing concerns than old buildings and ancient legends.

Roseburn Lodge was a plain-fronted greystone Georgian house, draped in ivy and half-hidden from the road by a straggling excess of blackthorn hedge. A battered old estate car was parked on the short gravel drive, but there was no sign of Farnsworth's Citro�n.

Nick tugged at the bell and, just when he was about to give it another tug, the door was opened by a woman possessed of a pair of the darkest eyes he could ever recall seeing. She wore an apron over a threadbare dress and had her hair scraped back severely in a bun. 'Aye?' she said, looking down her sharp-boned nose at him.

T'm looking for Dr Julian Farnsworth.' Nick ventured a smile, but it did not prove contagious.

248

'He's no here.'

'Are you expecting him back soon?'

'I wouldn't know.'

'What about Professor Drysdale? Is he at home?'

'Aye, he is.'

'Could you ask him if he'll spare me a few moments? Dr Farnsworth may have mentioned me to him. My name's Paleologus. Nicholas Paleologus.'

'Paleologus, you say?'

'That's right.'

'Wait here.'

She stumped off, half-closing the door behind her. Nick was left to listen to the rooks cawing in the trees either side of the house. Inside, he could hear a clock ticking ponderously and, somewhere farther off, a mumble of conversation. Then the Woman reappeared.

'Come away in.'

'Thanks.'

She led the way down a shadowy hall past the clock Nick had heard to an open doorway near the end, where she stood back to let him proceed.

The room Nick stepped into was obviously the professor's study. The windows looked out on to an overgrown garden, while a vast leather-topped desk strewn with books and papers filled the principal bay. Two walls were lined with crammed bookshelves, but their capacity was clearly insufficient in view of the piles of books on the floor. Some were even stacked on the seat of one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace, where no fire burned despite the prevailing chill.

From the other armchair an elderly man rose stiffly to his feet and smiled in greeting. Nick recognized the type from long filial experience. The superannuated academic, here encountered in his bookbound lair. Vernon Drysdale shared Michael Paleologus's taste for corduroy and lambswool, though physically he was a contrasting specimen of the breed: stout, pigeon-chested, ruddy-faced and bald as an egg, the lack of hair on the top of his head offset by white sideburns 249

that met in a grey moustache and made him look more like a Victorian master of foxhounds than a twentieth-century historian.

'Mr Paleologus.' Drysdale shook Nick's hand firmly. 'It's an honour.' The Scottish burr in his voice was subdued, almost superficial.

'Good of you to see me, Professor Drysdale. I don't know about an honour.'

'A living, breathing Paleologus. It's a wonder as well as an honour. I met your father a few times, of course. Please accept my condolences.'

'Thank you.'

'Julian tells me your elder brother also died recently. A terrible coincidence.'

'Not really a coincidence.'

'No?'

'Actually, it's Julian - Dr Farnsworth - I'm hoping to see.'

'You're out of luck, I'm afraid. He's been called away.'

'Back to Oxford?'

T'm not sure. Julian plays his cards close to his chest, as you may be aware. He left yesterday afternoon, in something of a hurry.'

'I saw him yesterday morning. He said nothing about going away.'

'There was a phone call, then he was off, barely finding time to mention you might pop in.' Drysdale smiled. 'For that at any rate I'm glad. And Julian's absence means he can't monopolize your attention. So, won't you sit down?' He waved airily at the other armchair. 'Dump those books anywhere.'

'All right. Thanks.' Nick made a clearance and sat down, trying not to voice the irritation he felt. The fact that Drysdale was - or had been - Farnsworth's host did not mean he was necessarily his accomplice in whatever game Farnsworth was playing. It was possible, though. Very possible.

'Will you be wanting any tea?' the old woman put in.

250

'It's nearly noon,' Drysdale replied. 'I'll be taking something stronger. A drop of Scotch for you, Paleologus?'

'Thanks. Don't mind if I do.' Nick noted how swiftly Drysdale had lapsed into addressing him by his surname.

'Then you can leave us, Mrs Logan.' Mrs Logan tossed her head and wandered off. Drysdale moved to a section of the bookcase where a bottle of Jura malt and some tumblers were stored in front of a run of historical journals. He poured generous measures for each of them, handed Nick his glass and lowered himself stiffly into his chair. 'Slainte.'

'Cheers.'

'I'm sorry about Julian.'

'Not your fault.'

'One feels a measure of responsibility for one's friends, even when one shouldn't.'

'How long have you known him?'

'We were at Oxford together. A little after your father's time. You and I have met before, as a matter of fact. A garden party at your family's home in Oxford. Summer of 'seventy five. Julian took me along. Your father introduced you to me as the prodigy of his progeny, if I recall the phrase correctly.'

Nick winced. He too recalled the phrase. 'I'm afraid I don't remember the occasion.'

'Why should you? It was more memorable for me than you. Julian tells me . . . well, that your life hasn't been easy . . . since then.'

'Whose has?'

'Julian's, for one. And mine, if I'm to be honest.'

'Does Julian visit you often?'

'Not at all. This is the first time in years.' Drysdale grinned. 'I've no doubt he had a more compelling motive for his visit than the pleasure of my company. As evidence I cite the frequency of his absence.'

'What's been occupying him?'

'I don't know. He's been reticent on the point. By nature he's garrulous yet unrevealing, as you may have found yourself.'

251

'It's true.'

'Has he intimated anything to you?'

'No. But he seems to have been paying close attention to my nephew.'

'Ah. The last of the Paleologoi.'

'I'm sorry?'

'As the only known descendants of the Imperial family--'

'Supposed descendants, Professor. The lineage was a triumph of wishful thinking on the part of my grandfather.'

'Really? That's not my understanding.'

'Julian said you're something of an expert on Byzantine history.'

That too could be described as wishful thinking. A scholar, Paleologus, no more. But who can be more than a scholar? There's no higher calling.' Drysdale frowned. 'Though in the opinion of some I've forfeited the right to call myself one.' He fell silent.

'How?'

'Oh, by writing on a vulgarly populist theme. A hanging offence in certain circles.'

'Are you talking about Shades of GrailT

'You've read it?'

'No, no. But . . . Julian mentioned it.'

'Did he? How very . . . obliging of him. Well, I have no regrets. The book sells. Why should I apologize?'

'I don't suppose you should. What's it about?'

'Have you visited Rosslyn Chapel, Paleologus? We're just across the way from one of the Lothians' premier tourist attractions.'

'I've not been there.'

'Well, you should go. And if you do you'll no doubt be impressed by the vast stock of esoteric literature they carry in the chapel shop. There'll be some copies of Shades of Grail there. It's my humble contribution to the debate.'

'What debate is that?'

'Such an active one I sometimes assume everyone's a participant on some level. Hubris, indeed. But I'd wager

252

you're aware of the subject, even if you don't realize it. Heard of the Knights Templar?'

'Well, I know they were a medieval order of knights, founded during the Crusades. I, er . . .'

'What?'

'I have the impression there's a mystery about them.'

'Indeed. And it's a mystery that's fed a modern obsession. People want to believe in something, Paleologus. To believe in nothing, isn't that what Conrad really meant by those words he put into the dying Kurtz's mouth at the end of Heart of Darkness! "The horror, the horror." This is an agnostic generation. Scepticism is universal. And so people doubt what they are told to believe and believe what they are told to doubt. UFOs, crop circles, big cats . . . and the Holy Grail. They're all part of a continuum. They feed our need for myths. And they feed also our stubborn, guilt-ridden conviction that those myths conceal irrational truths. Books aren't the half of it. The Internet is aswarm with such notions. The academic establishment looks down its disapproving nose at those who peddle them. But there they err. Every debate must be joined, else it will be lost by default. That was my reason for writing Shades of Grail.'' Drysdale's eyes twinkled as he grinned. 'Aside from the royalties, of course.'