Chapter Twelve
Love’s Lute

“O Love’s lute heard about the lands of death!”

SWINBURNE

The next day broke in a haze of fierce, shimmering heat. Geoffrey’s night had been uneasy, beset with dreams which were just on the edge of real nightmares. He had woken, restlessly slept, woken again. And when towards morning he did sink into a deeper sleep, he was disturbed almost at once (as it seemed) by a light tapping on his bedroom door. He opened his eyes a little way, perceived without enthusiasm that it was quite light, and uttered that choking, miserable sound which those newly conscious employ to indicate their ready comprehension of what is going on around them. From behind the door, Frances’ voice said:

“I’ve finished with the bathroom. For the Lord’s sake don’t be too long, or we shan’t have time to really do anything before breakfast.”

Geoffrey looked at his watch, saw that it was only shortly after six, shook his head at the lack of veracity of womankind, and succeeded eventually in getting out of bed.

When he arrived downstairs she was waiting for him, dressed in an open-necked check shirt and a pair of dark blue slacks. He wondered afresh at the dark beauty of her hair, the unblemished milk-white skin, just relieved from pallor by, here and there, a touch of red, the breath-taking perfection of her body. This morning she looked, somehow, almost a child; and the sparkle in her eyes, and her impatience to be away, added to the impression. He wondered just what she felt about her father’s death. And as if reading his thoughts, she said:

“You think it’s rather shocking that I should be going out to enjoy myself when my father’s been killed.”

“I don’t think so a bit.”

She smiled, a little sadly. “I suppose it is shocking, really. But… Well, damn it all, one can’t force oneself to feel sorry when one doesn’t.”

“Weren’t you fond of him?”

“Yes, I was. That’s the funny part. But only in an aloof sort of way. I mean…” She laughed suddenly. “How absurd that must sound! I don’t know how to express it, really. Of course it was a horrible shock when… when you came and told me, but somehow it didn’t last long. None of us ever knew much about him, really. He was always shut up with his work.”

They went out of the house and through the garden, taking the road which led up to the cliffs between Tolnbridge and Tolnmouth.

“I hope nobody sees us,” said Frances. “I really oughtn’t to be gadding about.”

“No one in his senses will be up at this hour.”

She turned to look at him, and grinned. “You really are an old maid.”

“Yes, aren’t I? I think that’s why women don’t like me. They like a man to be a man—large, hairy, masterful. A sort of D. H. Lawrence gardener or pit-boy.”

“What utter nonsense. All women like different things about men. Don’t make specious generalisations like that. Men who generalise about women simply show that they don’t know anything about them.”

“1 don’t know anything about them.”

“I know. That’s partly what makes you so nice to be with. A man who’s really shy about a woman is a lovely change.”

“Is Savernake shy?”

She looked at him quickly. “You would drag him into it.”

“It’s because I’m jealous.”

“Are you really? How nice. Well, he isn’t shy, if you want to know. He’s bumptious.”

“Are you still engaged to him?”

“Yes.” She answered shortly, almost hurriedly.

“Frances… I meant what I said yesterday…”

She put a hand quickly on his arm. “Please, Geoffrey, I don’t want to talk about that. Not now, anyway. Later, perhaps.”

He felt an irrational tinge of resentment; she seemed to sense this.

“We’ll discuss things later.”

And, after all, he thought, I’ve only known the girl less than forty-eight hours. I’ve no right to try and burst into her personal life like this. Perhaps no right to do it ever. Perhaps I don’t even want to do it. To marry her would mean giving up a lot of things I don’t want to give up. But then I don’t know whether she’d want to marry me.

Almost, he wished he had not come. She was beautiful, she was desirable, but if he committed himself… He wanted more time to think. Then he cursed himself for an idiot and a coward, and, his sense of humour suddenly reasserting itself, he laughed out loud.

“What are you laughing at?”

“My own absurdity.”

“I suppose you are rather absurd. Lets not talk for a while.”

They walked on in silence. The sun, still low in the heavens, burned hotter, its edges ragged with fire. They turned from the hot, dusty road and climbed a path which led over a steep ramp into a wood hanging in the hillside. In the wood it was cool, a green, liquid coolness. Dying bracken, and brambles were twisted together between the trees. There were one or two wild roses, and some sour-looking small blackberries. The path, which led up the hillside, was narrow, and sloped at the edges, like a trough. The centre was full of stones, and yellow mud still wet from the water which flowed down it, so that once or twice they stumbled as they went on upwards.

Coming out of the wood was like emerging from a cavern. They found themselves on a wide expanse, dotted with rough stones and encircled with gorse. Overhead the gulls glided, their wings stiff, in long, immensely rapid flights. Their harsh shouting was the only sound except for the distant murmur of the sea. The young ones were ugly, speckled with brown. One came so low that they could see its throat throbbing with the sound.

In another moment they stood above the estuary-mouth, looking out to sea. Below them stretched the brown cliffs, with a strip of sand at the bottom strewn with the wreckage of a disused quarry: a rotting wooden landing stage; two lopsided trucks; rusted rails, broken and uneven, leading to nothing. The grass was short, hard, coarse, and brown with drought. A faint wind, brushing the surface of the sea into rows of tiny corrugated wavelets, played about their faces. Frances stretched out her arms in sheer animal pleasure.

“Lovely!”

They went on along the cliff path, towards the sea itself. Tiny fishing-boats, blue and brown and red, with little triangular sails at the stem, chugged along below them, convoyed by gulls. After a time Frances beckoned to Geoffrey, and they both went to the very edge of the cliff. Beneath was a wide stretch of clean, almost white sand, a cove where the water ran out clear as glass as far as the eye could reach.

“That’s nice,” said Geoffrey rather prosaically.

“Come on.”

“Good heavens! I can’t climb down there. It’d be mad. We’d break our necks.”

“There’s a way down,” she said, “if you know how. I do. It’s quite easy.”

“It doesn’t look easy to me.”

“No one else knows about it. Or next to no one. You can always rely on getting it to yourself.”

“I should like my coffin to be of lead, if there’s anything recognisable to put in it.”

Tant bien que mal, by a series of hair-raising athletic feats, they achieved the climb.

“Lord,” said Geoffrey, panting, when they reached the strand, “I hope we can get back again.”

“It’s much easier to climb up than down.” Frances performed a couple of tiny dancing steps on the sand. “Isn’t it wonderful? We’re quite alone. Let’s have a bathe.”

“But I haven’t got any things.”

“It doesn’t matter. Nor have I.”

He stared at her. “Do you think we’ve really known one another long enough?…”

She laughed infectiously. “Oh, Geoffrey, don’t be a prude. Wouldn’t you like a swim?”

“Yes, but…”

It was too late. She had already begun to take off her clothes. Apprehensively, Geoffrey followed suit. When they had finished, they looked at one another for a moment in silence; then simultaneously burst out laughing.

“Don’t stare so!” she said with mock indignation. “It’s rude.” They raced each other into the water; it seemed to Geoffrey very cold.

Frances swam quickly out, with a swift, competent crawl. Puffing slightly, Geoffrey followed her.

“It’s a pleasant sensation,” he said, “but I feel very immoral.” In the clear water, fathoming beneath their feet, they could see one or two small fish going about their esoteric affairs.

When they had come out, and were drying themselves on some rocks, Geoffrey put his arm round her shoulders, but she pushed him away.

“Not till I’ve got some clothes on.” Geoffrey suddenly and unexpectedly blushed.

Then, as soon as they were dressed again:

“Frances.”

“Well?”

“You know I’m in love with you?”

“Yes: I think I’m in love with you, too.” He was almost troubled at the sincerity in her voice.

“I should like to marry you.”

For a long time she was silent. Then she said: “Geoffrey, I’m sorry, but… I can’t.”

“Why?” He took her almost fiercely by the arm.

“Don’t. You’re hurting me.”

“It’s Daddy. I’ve been thinking, and after what’s happened I can’t leave Mummy. You do understand, darling?”

“Yes, but you’ve got your own life to five. And besides, all that can be got over. Your mother can live with us—and Josephine as well.” He made the offer with a certain gloom.

“That’s sweet of you, but I mustn’t promise anything—just now.” She laughed. “Promise—as though I was conferring some kind of privilege. It does sound vain.”

“You’re not refusing because of Savernake?”

“No. No.” The denial was quick and eager. “I shan’t marry him in any case.”

“You did say you were fond of me.”

“I am. Oh, my darling, I am. I love you so very much. But don’t you see… I’m confused. It’s all so quick. We can wait, can’t we?”

“I don’t want to wait.”

“We must. All that’s happened… Oh, darling, what did happen to him? Was it an accident? It must have been an accident. Surely not even Peace…”

“They’ve arrested him.”

“I know.” It was like a shadow between them. “Has Professor Fen discovered anything?’

He put his arms round her. “Don’t bother about all that. Other people will look after it.” He tried to put his lips to hers, but she pulled her head away. He stood back. She looked at him with eyes in which there was a hint of tears.

“Let’s go home.”

But when they were again at the top of the cliff, she turned and pulled him to her and for a moment kissed him warmly. Then they walked back, in silence.

Thus began the third day.

Geoffrey afterwards looked upon it as the day when, quite suddenly and as if at a signal, the talk ended and the final struggle began. Hitherto they had dealt with characters single, isolated from one another, mere waxworks lined up for questioning. When they had turned their backs one of those figures had moved, and there had been killing. But now some sixth sense told him that the end was near, that the pretence could no longer be kept up. He felt that they stood at a cavern-mouth, waiting for some creature to spring at them from the darkness, and yet not knowing what kind of thing it would be. And there was no more time for conjecture now; they were committed, at last, to fight.

When he had played Matins, he set out with Fen and Fielding to a little pub on the outskirts of the town, where Fen was proposing to put some plan of action before them, since they were less likely to be interrupted or overheard there than at the ‘Whale and Coffin.’ Fen carried a large map of the district, which he persisted in opening as they walked along and refolding the wrong way, so that it became crumpled and torn.

“I don’t think,” he said, “that these people can possibly be operating from the centre of the town exclusively. It would be too dangerous. I’ve been trying to find out if there are any likely hideouts nearby—a pretty impossible business.”

“Did you discover anything about the wireless messages they sent out?” Fielding asked.

“I’m going to ring up the cipher department, but I don’t expect they’ve decoded the stuff yet. That sort of thing takes time. But the trouble is,” he added waspishly, “that it’s all so vague. Ten to one nothing will turn up at all.”

At this point there was an interruption. They were going down a narrow path, flanked by high yew hedges, which skirted the churchyard. And from the other side of one of these hedges they suddenly heard a voice.

“You may seek it with thimbles,” said the voice informatively, “and seek it with care, you may hunt it with forks and hope…”

Fen stopped dead. “I know who that is,” he said gloomily.

“You may threaten its life with a railway share,” pursued the voice, “you may charm it with smiles and soap…”

“Charlemagne!” Fen bawled suddenly. The voice stopped, and there was a scraping sound on the other side of the hedge.

“That, I fancy,” said Fen grimly, “is the Regius Professor of Mathematics.”

A gruff, hairy, little old man put his head over the hedge.

“What are you doing here, Charlemagne?” asked Fen minatorily.

“I am holidaying,” said the head, “and it was impolite of you to interrupt a total stranger in that ungentlemanly way.”

This made Fen so indignant that he uttered a little shriek.

“Don’t you know me?” he said irritably. “Don’t you know me, you stupid old man?”

“Yes, I know you,” said the head. “You are the New College buttery boy.” It then disappeared.

Fuming, Fen rushed on to the next gap in the hedge. The Regius Professor of Mathematics arrived there simultaneously.

“But oh, beamish nephew,” he chanted, wagging his finger at Fen, “beware of the day if your Snark be a Boojum! For then”—he lowered his voice to a bloodcurdling whisper—“you will softly and suddenly vanish away, and never be met with again! It is this, it is…”

“Stop all that,” Fen commanded peremptorily. “It’s nothing but affectation. You know perfectly well who I am. I’m Gervase Fen.”

“You might be,” said the R.P.M.. “I remember a much younger man.”

“Oh, it’s no use talking to you,” said Fen. “Come on, you two.”

“Where are you going?” said the R.P.M.. He said it with such suddenness and severity that they all started.

“That’s no business of yours,” said Fen. “But if you must know, we’re going to have a drink.”

“I shall come too.”

“Oh, no, you won’t. We don’t want you.”

“I shall recite you The Hunting of the Snark.”

“We’d rather do without that, thank you.”

“I shall accompany you,” said the Professor with such firmness that even Fen was daunted.

“Are you quite sure you want to?” he asked feebly.

“I am sure of nothing,” said the Professor, “except the differential calculus. And I’m not as good on that as I used to be.”

Fen moaned and shrugged his shoulders, and they all set off. “He’s all right, really,” Fen said to Geoffrey in a penetrating whisper. “Only he’s dishonest. He steals things. But I don’t think it’ll hurt to have him with us. And I don’t see,” he added with more venom, “how we’d get rid of him even if we wanted to.”

Beside them, the Professor placidly continued reciting Lewis Carroll. The public bar of the ‘Three Shrews’ was empty when they arrived there, apart from the landlord, who stood polishing glasses in the detached, otherworldly manner of his kind. They ordered beer, for which Fen prodded the Regius Professor of Mathematics into paying. Then they all sat down at a table, listened patiently to the conclusion of Fit the Seventh, and began to talk.

“It seems to me,” said Fen, “that our general strategy has got to be (a) to try and find out where these people’s headquarters is and (b) when we’ve done that, to discover precisely what their plans are.”

“As simple as that?” said Geoffrey.

Fen glared at him. “Well, if you can suggest anything else,” he grumbled, “you suggest it. It may not be as difficult as it sounds. What we must not do is to start arresting them right and left without knowing what arrangements they’ve made for just that contingency.”

“No.”

“Very well, then.” Fen opened the map. “I’ve been making enquiries about deserted buildings in the neighbourhood.” He pointed at a section of the map, and Geoffrey, glancing idly at it, caught the words ‘Slater’s Wood.’ “And I’ve come to the conclusion that apart from the Scout-hut, there’s only one…”

It was at this moment that Fielding interrupted him. And before many hours had passed, Geoffrey was bitterly to regret that interruption.

“I don’t see how you know,” said Fielding, “that it’s anywhere out of the town at all.”

“I know,” said Fen severely, “or I think I know, because I’ve been making discreet enquiries about the general activities of the person chiefly concerned in all this. And I’ve discovered that that person has had a habit of taking frequent jaunts in the surrounding country, and always in the same direction. They may have been pleasure trips, of course. But I rather doubt it.”

Here the landlord, who had momentarily vanished on some obscure mission, returned with an envelope in his hand.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but is any of you gentlemen named”—he stared at the envelope—“Gervase Fen?”

“Me,” said Fen ungrammatically.

“I just found this note for you on the mat. Heard it slipped in through the letter-box.”

With this pronouncement he returned to polishing glasses. Fen tore the letter open; it was typewritten.

Clever of you to find out who I am. But you won’t have me arrested, will you? There’s not sufficient evidence. And I have enough deputies to look after things if you do. Let us have a talk some time: I shall be about this afternoon as usual. (And my apologies for that foolish shooting at the Mass: of course it wasn’t my doing.) My best regards.

“But this is fantastic!” Fielding exclaimed. “Criminals just don’t write letters like that.”

“I rather agree,” said Fen thoughtfully. “There’s something half-phoney about it. But the impulse to swank is quite genuine, I think. I wonder…” he mused. “Oh, Lord, I wish I knew what to do. The trouble is, that letter’s quite right. There really isn’t enough material evidence—cigarette-ash, footprints and so on—to convict the person concerned; just times, and an odd method of murder.”

“They don’t seem to be worrying very much about anything you can do,” said Geoffrey.

Fen looked at him queerly for a moment. “No, they don’t, do they?” he said slowly. “And after all, what can I do? Threaten them with a revolver? They’d give me no information, and I should get arrested myself.”

“We might whisk them away and torture them,” put in Fielding hopefully.

“I can’t help feeling that if we tried that we should end up with bullets in our backs.”

“Dear, dear,” said the Regius Professor.

“Oh, shut up, you,” said Fen. “But what I am going to try and do is ring up the War Office and try and find out if they know anything yet about the radio messages. McIver’s the man. Now, what on earth’s his number? Whitehall something.”

“Look it up in the Directory.”

“It isn’t there. And enquiries won’t give it you, either. It’s a national secret. But it’s got a five and a six and an eight and a seven in it. 5-8-6-7; 7-6-8-5; 7-8-6-5… Nothing sounds right.”

“We’d better work out all the possible combinations,” said Fielding, “and try the lot.”

“That’s going to take a time.”

“I’ll work out the combinations,” said the Regius Professor of Mathematics eagerly. He grabbed hold of a pencil and a piece of paper.

“Couldn’t you try someone else?”

“He’s the only man I know. No one else would listen to me.”

“Well, come on, then.”

The Regius Professor laboured for five minutes. Then he gave them the complete list of possible combinations. Geoffrey looked at it and said:

“You’ve forgotten 5687.”

“Impossible,” said the Professor. “I worked it out by the factorial four.”

“Well, you’ve still forgotten 5687.”

The Professor gazed at the list intently. “That’s funny,” he admitted.

“Oh, come on,” said Fen impatiently. “I’ll do it. You see, you put each number first, in turn…”

“Try the ones you’ve got,” said Geoffrey. “Look at them. Does any of them strike a chord?”

Fen looked at the list for a long time, and finally said: “None.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“There’s a telephone in the passage outside. I saw it when we came in.”

Fen finished his beer with a disgusted expression, and they all trooped out. The pub still seemed completely deserted. They put Fen in the telephone box and he got in touch successively with the offices of a Warden in Lunacy, a large undertaker’s, a theatre, the Prime Minister, and Mr. James Agate at the Cafe Royal (something must have gone wrong with the mechanism at this point). They all turned out their pockets for coins, and rushed to and fro procuring change from the bar. Eventually, and rather to everyone’s surprise, he got the number he wanted.

“Hello, is that you, McIver? This is Fen… I don’t care if you’re busy; you just pay attention for a minute… No, I am not drunk. Listen.”

He explained the circumstances. There was a prolonged crackling from the other end.

“Information about military and naval dispositions,” said Fen. “Yes, I was afraid of that. Well, it’ll be all your fault if we lose this war. You’ll wake up tomorrow with Himmler in the chamber pot…” He turned to the others. “Go away, all of you. I’m going to gossip.” Obediently they trooped back to the bar.

There they ordered more beer, and consumed it. The day was already drowsy. Geoffrey lay back in a pleasant stupor. Flies buzzed on the window. Somewhere in the distance a car started up and drove off. The landlord polished glasses with wearisome persistence and no appreciable result. Geoffrey looked at the note which Fen had just received. The amiability of the wording was hateful. He remembered that whoever wrote it had helped to drug a child of fifteen, to drive a man mad and then poison him, to crush another man to a blood-flecked jelly… Despite the warmth of the day, a shiver of sheer repulsion seized him. He handed the letter to the Regius Professor of Mathematics, who was sitting drinking his beer and staring blankly in front of him.

“I haven’t the least idea what all this is about,” said the Professor, “but I agree there’s something wrong about this letter. The tone is so indifferent. Almost as though it were intended to lull someone into a sense of false security…”

Geoffrey and Fielding sat up. The same thought flashed across both their minds.

“Fen’s taking a devil of a time over that call.”

Almost in one bound they were at the door, sick apprehension in their hearts. The passage was empty, and the door of the telephone-box stood open. There was no one there. But the receiver hung, swaying gently, at the end of its wire, and a faint smell of chloroform sweetened the air.

The Professor, who had followed them out, paused by the empty booth.

“He has softly and suddenly vanished away,” he said gravely. “The Snark was a Boojum, you see.”