“The Shoebridges had a hotel. And then what, Henry? Was it sold?” asked Blanche.

  “It was sold and then much later pulled down. Ronald Shoebridge was a good man and a kind father and an honest harvester of his hard work in the fields of commerce.”

  In a moment or two Miss Rainbird feared the poetry might start. She reprimanded herself for the thought and said, “I’d like to know about the boy. About Edward. What did he do at Brighton?”

  Henry said heartily, “He went to college. He grew to manhood.”

  “What college?” asked Madame Blanche. “If we knew we might be able to trace him.”

  Henry said sadly, “Until the Court of Higher Kindness has decided there is no question of tracing him. But the name of the college is not in dispute. It was Lancing College, not far away along the coast. He grew in stature, learning and manliness there.”

  Miss Rainbird said, “Would you kindly explain to me what the Court of Higher Kindness is and what is its particular problem so far as the boy is concerned?”

  Henry chuckled. “The Court of Higher Kindness sits in every human heart. But only after the great crossing over is its wisdom fully operative. Kindness in the human heart is a seed that only comes to full flowering after the world has been left behind.”

  It was a typical Henry answer, thought Miss Rainbird. The thought was without asperity or frustration, a purely intellectual comment. Not for the first time Henry through Madame Blanche became aware of her thoughts.

  Henry said, “Your friend is wedded to logic, Blanche. She sees life as a mathematical expression. So did I once. So did my great friend Brunei. Now we know better.”

  Surprising herself, Miss Rainbird said briskly, “How did you first meet Brunei?”

  Henry chuckled. “When he was twenty-five and was designing the suspension bridge over the Avon gorge at Bristol. I worked with him on it for some time. He was a great man. As far beyond me now as he was then. He has passed on to the Bright Circle. Ah—” He broke off for a moment and then said, “Do you see her, Blanche?”

  Madame Blanche said nothing, but a small groan broke from her and Miss Rainbird saw her body twist a little sideways in the chair as though she were in pain.

  “Do you see her, Blanche?” asked Henry again.

  Madame Blanche sighed, “Yes . . . Yes . . . I see her. But she is surrounded by such light. It hurts the eyes to look. Ooooooh!”

  The noise Madame Blanche made and a convulsive jerk of her body alarmed Miss Rainbird. This was something she had not met before. Then, overriding her alarm, driving all concern for Madame Blanche from her, she was aware of Harriet’s voice coming from Madame Blanche.

  “Tippy? . . . Tippy, do you hear me? It’s Flappy. It’s Flappy here, darling. . . . No, no, don’t say anything. Just listen. Tippy, dear, be kind to Madame Blanche. . . . In the end she will bring you full peace of mind . . . the great peace you desire. Be kind, Tippy, for Madame Blanche too seeks peace, seeks the fulfilment of her heart’s desire. . . .”

  Harriet’s voice died away. Madame Blanche was still and silent for a few minutes and then Miss Rainbird saw her stir, her large body moving back from slackness gradually, and then the opening of her eyes.

  Madame Blanche looked at Miss Rainbird for a moment or two without speaking and then slowly smiled and fingered the pearls at her neck, and said, “I have a great feeling of contentment. I’m sure that something good has happened. Tell me about it.”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  “Nothing. But I have this wonderful feeling of. . . how shall I say? Restful, peaceful exhaustion.”

  Miss Rainbird got up and began to pour sherry for both of them. As she did so, without any personal feeling whatever, in a flash of detached lucidity, she said to herself, T really ought to have my head examined.’ She began to tell Blanche all that had been said during the seance, all, that is, except the last passage between herself and Harriet. That, she felt, was a personal message which it was not necessary to make known to Blanche.

  Miss Rainbird said, “I don’t understand about this Court of Higher Kindness, or what problem it has to resolve.”

  Blanche sipped her sherry. She was a bit annoyed that she could remember nothing of the session herself. Henry seemed to cut her out in a quite arbitrary way at times. It was annoying because she ought to know everything that was going on. How could she pursue her ministry properly otherwise? Miss Rainbird no doubt gave as accurate an account as she could, but it was quite easy for her to miss something important.

  She said, “It’s not difficult to understand. You see, there’s a strong possibility that one or other of the Shoebridges has passed over. Maybe both. We must ask Henry about it the next time. If they have, they will know where Edward Shoebridge is. They will know his circumstances and his feelings. So you see, this might cause a conflict. Your sister wants him found and wants you to take him back into the family. But his foster mother and father may consider that this would be an unwise move—from his point of view.”

  “I can’t see why.”

  “But you surely must, Miss Rainbird. Say we find him and you go to him and tell him the truth about his origins. He may be, probably is, a happily married man with children. You arrive and tell him that his life has all been based on a deceit. Not yours, not his. But a deceit none the less. You could find he would reject you instead of welcoming you. You could, in fact, by your revelation of the truth be the means of bringing real unhappiness into his life. I think this is what the Court of Higher Kindness is considering. Your sister’s claim to have him acknowledged and possibly his foster-parents’ claim for him to be left in peace for his own well-being. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do now that you explain it. But it seems very odd that it should be a matter that takes any great length of time. I’m quite happy to accept either solution so long . . .” She was going to say ‘so long as it shuts Harriet up’ but finished, “. . . as the best is decided for the . . . for my nephew.”

  “That is the right attitude,” said Blanche, “and it is all to your credit to adopt it.” Privately she felt that nothing would please the old girl more than to be able to wash her hands of the whole matter so long as Harriet troubled her no more. Well. . . that would have to be seen. She’d known cases before where the Court of Higher Kindness had made the most odd decisions. Human logic was one thing, ethereal logic another.

  Before Blanche left Miss Rainbird went to her bureau and came back with an envelope and handed it to her. Blanche, who knew exactly what would be inside, said with a hint of surprise, “Miss Rainbird?”

  Miss Rainbird without any embarrassment said, “You are giving me a lot of your time and a great deal of help and sympathy, Madame Blanche. It seems only right to do something for you . . . well, some sort of repayment.”

  Blanche shook her head. “There’s no question of you paying me, Miss Rainbird. I want no money for myself. The service I perform is made freely and—”

  “But please, Madame Blanche. You must let me do something.”

  “Only if you genuinely wish to. But don’t let’s call it a payment. There are causes and desires dear to my heart which call for all the charity the world can spare. I shall regard this as a contribution to them. Some day, I hope, you will let me tell you about them in more detail.”

  Blanche left and drove off with the envelope unopened in her coat pocket. She was a shrewd judge of human nature— far more so than she was of her own nature, which had vast areas where she still wandered in a state of mild confusion and half-comprehension. Miss Rainbird at this stage was good for twenty-five pounds, she guessed. When she opened the envelope much later and found the cheque was for fifty pounds, although she regarded it as a good omen for the future of the Temple of Astrodel, she acknowledged that she still had much to understand about Miss Rainbird.

  This acknowledgment would have been further strengthened if she could have seen Miss Rainbird at her bureau just after she had left.

  Miss Rainbird had written on a sheet of notepaper some headings of things she wanted to think over carefully. They read:

  1. Harriet’s voice? Family likeness? Natural mimic.

  2. Brunei, knowledge of.

  3. Petnames. Tippy, Flappy?

  4. Systematic investigation? Who? Lover? Ask Ida C.

  5. Madame B’s financial situation?

  As she read them through and thought about them, Miss Rainbird suddenly remembered how Henry had reprimanded her for speaking of Sholto’s chauffeur as ‘the Shoebridge man’. Speak not without charity. What cheek! It would be a miracle if that leopard had changed its spots. He and Sholto had been a fine pair, and between them they had landed her in this situation and, no matter about de mortuis nil nisi bonum, if Shoebridge were dead, the both of them had a long way to go before they would, if ever, reach the Bright Circle with Brunei.

  She added to the list:

  6. Faith healing and telepathy. County Library for books.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GEORGE FELT THAT he could easily become bad-tempered. He didn’t want to because it was almost time for bed and Blanche had said she was staying the night. She’d come busting in an hour ago full of the joys of spring and floating on some private and invisible cloud of happiness. After a morning session with Lydia Angers and some more drink with his lunch and a two-hour car sleep that had done nothing to help a mild hangover, George felt that happiness and exuberance were out of place.

  He’d entered up faithfully all he could remember of his Brighton information in his red notebook and had retailed it all to Blanche, who had listened over a couple of bottles of stout and had seemed in no way daunted by the fact that he considered he had come to a full stop as far as Edward Shoebridge was concerned.

  “Two full stops,” he said crossly. “One, because we’re really up against a dead end. This Angers man was his closest friend—and he’s lost track of him. And, two, because I’ve had enough. That’s the truth, love. I’ve served you, endured for you, and faced mortal sin for you—God, you should have seen that woman! And now all I want you to do is sign that cheque and hand it back to me. Hundreds of unmade gardens wait for me.”

  “But what you’ve got, George, isn’t enough. There must be lots of paths that lead to Shoebridge. You’ve only proved that the Angers’ one is blocked.”

  “Then ask your blasted Henry to—”

  “George!”

  “Sorry. But I’ve had enough. Just give me my cheque and let’s go to bed and forget it all.”

  “I’m not going to forget anything, George. Why should I when everything’s beginning to move so well? Miss Rainbird is coming round fast. Really co-operative.” Blanche decided to say nothing of the cheque for fifty pounds. “And Henry has promised more help and the communication between us is really better than I’ve ever known it before.”

  “Look, old girl, don’t give me that. I’m fond of you. A bit touched about you, if you want the truth. And I’ll admit you’ve got something which I don’t understand. But overall, let’s face it—you’re running a racket. A nice, gentle racket, full of comfort for a lot of old biddies. But that’s all it is. And I’ve helped you to the limit. And now I want help—five hundred quids’ worth. Lumley’s Sunshine Gardens. I want to feel I’m doing something in the world that counts, that isn’t just for me but for others. Look—if you’re really set about this, I’ll tell you what. Give me the five hundred and I promise you that I’ll find someone, some really good, discreet private agent to carry on for you. That’s what you need now. Someone who’s a real professional.”

  “George—I’ve explained before why I can’t do that. That kind of person could easily be unreliable. Before you know where you are you’re being blackmailed or there’s talk of going to the police. Not that there’s anything wrong in what we’re doing. But some types could easily make it look that way. What about the photo album? Wasn’t there anything in that?” George sighed. “I’ve told you, Blanche. It was all the usual stuff. School groups, beach snaps. Shots of Shoebridge and Angers doing various things . . . sailing, walking in the country, standing together by a car and drinking beer. Most of them, anyway, were of Mrs. Angers. She was a good-looking piece when she was younger. No, Blanche—there’s nothing. Now, don’t get me wrong—but anything you want now you’ll have to get from . . . well, from higher sources.”

  “There’s a little trouble there at the moment. I can’t go into it. But it means some delay. Anyway, I know how Henry expects me to work. If I do all I can, then he does all he can.”

  “You mean if I do all I can.”

  “Well, love, aren’t we one and the same person really? We have this lovely understanding.”

  “Then let’s go to bed and have a spot of it now and forget Edward Shoebridge.”

  You never knew, thought George, how Blanche was going to take a bawdy remark. Sometimes she was with you, giving one of her big laughs and going even further. And sometimes she just went all offended and put on her po-face. This time she gave him a gentle smile and sat back thoughtfully, playing with the pearls at her neck. After a moment she said, “You’re very coarse at times, George. But I don’t mind, because there’s a real core of goodness in you. And it’s there tonight in great force. Your aura’s coming over to me in great pulsating waves of iridescent colours . . . all the colours of the spectrum.” George grinned. What a girl! So, he was all lit up like a Roman candle or a St. Catherine’s wheel. And he wasn’t fooled. Something was coming.

  “Let’s have it, Blanche.”

  Blanche said, “I’ll make a bargain with you. Don’t sign off about this Shoebridge thing just yet. Give me two or three more days. You think about it all. Go over everything in your mind and see if anything suggests itself to you. Anything at all that will lead us further. Honest, love, there must be something an intelligent man like you can come up with.”

  “But I don’t want to come up with anything or go on with it.”

  “Not for seven hundred and fifty pounds? It’s yours if you can take us a bit further. And what’s more, if you go so far as to find Edward Shoebridge, dead or alive, I’ll make it a thousand. That’s going to give you a much better start with your gardening caper.”

  “It’s no caper. And, Blanche, since when could you afford to hand out a thousand on a job like this?”

  “Since Henry told me about the Temple of Astrodel and I met Miss Rainbird. She’s not going to be mean with money once we find Edward Shoebridge. No matter how much she does or doesn’t believe in me—she’s hooked.”

  “All right, she’s hooked. But there’s still me. So, I give you three or four more days. After that if nothing can be turned up, then I want a cheque—seven hundred and fifty pounds, plus expenses.”

  “You shall have it, George. Would you like us to have a few moments’ silent prayer to ask that for dear Miss Rainbird’s sake we shall be guided to Edward Shoebridge? Prayer helps, you know.”

  George stood up. “You do the praying. I’m going to have a nightcap and then take Albert for a turn round the garden before bed.” As he passed by Blanche, he winked at her and reached down inside her dress and gave one of her breasts an affectionate squeeze. She might be a part phoney in some ways, he thought, but the rest of her was good, honest, generous human stuff. If there was going to be a garden around the Temple of Astrodel he’d like the contract for it. He’d bring that up some time, but not just now.

  * * * *

  The small portable typewriter which Edward Shoebridge was using was a very cheap one, almost a child’s toy machine. It was new. He had bought it at a Bristol stationer’s shop four days previously. The sheet of notepaper in the machine was white, a small quarto size, and had been taken from a scribbling pad block which he had bought four months previously in London. He had worn gloves when he had purchased both block and typewriter. He wore gloves now. He had never touched either the machine or the block with his bare hands. When he had finished writing his two letters he would take the machine—ribbonless—from the house and drive west into Devon and drop it over a bridge into the Taunton-Exeter canal, into eight feet of water, there to settle deep into the soft silt of the bottom. The block and the ribbon he would burn before he left the house. He liked to do everything that he could well in advance. It gave him time for any rare afterthoughts to overtake him and changes to be made if necessary. So far he had never had to change anything in his past planning. There was no arrogance in him which made him think that this would always necessarily be so. His first letter, already written, was to go eventually to Grandison at the department. In substance it was much the same as the letters he had previously sent after the kidnappings of Pakefield and Archer. The second letter, not yet finished, would be delivered earlier—when the next kidnapping took place.

  He was working at the console table in his cellar studio. A few feet from him on a small screen perch was his saker falcon, an adult female, hooded and belled, its feet linked with a five-inch spread of jesses. Stopping in his typing now to look at her, he remembered an occasion when Pakefield, the M.P., had been in the other cellar. Her jesses had been longer then and she was given to sudden bouts of bating. He had switched on the intercom to pass a message and, wings threshing, she had jumped a few inches in the air so that she set her bell ringing sharply. She had come down clumsily on the perch, missing it and straddling her legs across it by the length of the jesses. He had switched off at once. Never again would any bird be in here when he was using the intercom. He remembered it now, thinking of the coming occupant of the cell. A small feather had been found in Archer’s clothes, too, before he had been freed. When one played for large stakes success could so often turn on small details. If the falcon had called at the same time in her loud gaay-gaaey-gaay cry then the two men could have passed something on—feather, call and bell—which would have meant a lot to a trained ornithologist.