* * * *

  An hour later Bush sat in his flat, reading the evening paper and wondering whether he should summon up the will to go out into the Saturday London evening and find himself a meal or make do with what food was in the flat. So far all the hard work, investigating and processing, had produced nothing. If the god of chance was ever going to take a hand, he thought wryly, then he was long overdue.

  At that moment the telephone rang. He picked it up. Grandison’s voice at the other end said, “Bush. Get over here at once. It’s happened.” The line went dead.

  * * * *

  It was almost six o’clock as the van came along the narrow road that followed the crest line of the hills. The wind was much stronger and carried great gusty showers of heavy rain with it. Some fifty yards before the drive to Highlands House Mrs. Shoebridge switched off the dipped headlights and drove on the side lights.

  As the van went down the drive Shoebridge leaned over the back and with a small torch checked the condition of their passenger. The big man lay slackly on the blankets, breathing quietly, his eyes closed. The van bumped down the long drive, windscreen wipers working against the rain squalls, and then turned in through the house gates and moved up between the narrow stretches of bordering lawn to the gravelled sweep in front of the house. As it pulled up at the bottom of the low flight of steps that led up to the wide porch of the set-back front door, Mrs. Shoebridge switched off the side lights. The house was in a high and exposed position. They wanted no unnecessary advertising of the time of their return.

  Entirely occupied with the task in hand, knowing exactly what had to be done, the Shoebridges got out of the van. The back doors were opened and, using the two blankets under their passenger as a loose stretcher, they hauled the man out and carried him through the rain up the steps and into the shelter of the dark porchway. They laid the man down on the ground. Shoebridge, who was leading, straightened up, took his key from his pocket and felt for the lock of the door. As he did so Mrs. Shoebridge reached to her right and found the outside switch for the porch light. It came on, a faint, low-powered light.

  For a moment or two neither of them was aware of the presence of Blanche. She was standing back to one side of the porch, where she had been waiting for them, sheltering from the wind and rain. A few moments before she had seen their side lights coming down the long drive to the house and had got out of her car and run through the rain to the porch. She had been waiting for half an hour in her car parked by the garage and had almost decided to give up her vigil and come back another day.

  As the light came on Blanche had a sideways view of Mrs. Shoebridge. All she could see of Shoebridge was his raincoated back. In the few seconds before she spoke she looked down at the man resting on the blanket. His face was turned up to her. Without any sense of surprise, for a moment all thought or emotion or speculation suspended in a frozen spasm of existence, she looked at the man’s face and instantly recognised it. She had seen the face often enough in the newspapers, on television and in life itself. Three times over the last few years she had gone with George to hear him preach in Salisbury Cathedral.

  Shoebridge unlocked the door and pushed it open, and then turned to see Blanche. At the same moment his wife saw her. The shock inside them was a blankness on their faces. They were statues, the world starting to crumble slowly beneath their feet.

  Blanche, misinterpreting their reaction, said, “I’m sorry. Must have made you jump. I was waiting here for you to come back. Almost gave you up.” Then, her eyes going to the man on the floor, concern moving through her, she went on, “What’s the matter with him? Has he had an accident? It’s the Archbishop, isn’t it? Yes, of course it is. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”

  She was moving to help them when Shoebridge’s hand came from his pocket. He was himself again now. But his world had altered. It had moved into a different orbit. A dangerous orbit, but not a disastrous one. It would need a little time, thought and care to restore it to its old track.

  Shoebridge, gun in his hand, said evenly, “Just go inside.”

  Blanche looked from the gun to his face, and his face told her more than the gun. Violence was locked in it. She could sense it, stirring in him, contained and controlled. There was no aura of evil about him but she could sense almost physically an emission of dark, pulsating waves of bitter coldness.

  Mrs. Shoebridge said, “Do as my husband says.” For a moment her hand touched Blanche’s arm. Without a word Blanche went by them and into the hallway, lit only by the reflected light from the porch. With the flow of movement came also the slow upsurge of fear in her. Halfway down the hall the light came on.

  Shoebridge close to her side, stopped her movement with a touch of his hand and then opened the door of a room.

  “Wait in there.” He turned to his wife and handed her the gun. “Stay with her. I can manage all this. See that she doesn’t take her gloves off.”

  He saw the two women into the room, locked the door and went back to the Archbishop. He wrapped the blankets around him. He was a big man. Shoebridge went on one knee and hoisted the body over his shoulder and then rose slowly and carried him into the hall. He kicked the door shut on its catch and switched out the porch light with his free hand. At the far end of the hall, he pressed the switch to swing back the concealed door that led down to the cellars.

  * * * *

  Grandison said, “I’m due at 10 Downing Street in fifteen minutes. At the moment only the Prime Minister knows. I’ve asked for the Home Secretary and the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to be there. Sir Charles Medham is on his way there, too. He’s promised to fix everything at his end. That’s a copy of the letter.” He handed Bush a carbon copy. Bush knew that he would have typed it himself, that the top copy would be in his pocket now. He knew, too, that when they got the original, there would be nothing on it or in it to help.

  Bush said without emphasis, concealing the anger and frustration that had lived with him for so long, “He’s flown high.”

  “We always knew he would.” Grandison shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “The whole thing has been beautifully built. So simple. Unless he’s made a mistake somewhere we shan’t turn him up, barring some bolt from the blue. You know what it means if he gets away with it?”

  Bush nodded. “All against us will draw their knives. This department will go.” He didn’t add, because it was unnecessary, that if the department went Grandison would not suffer. But he would. There would be a mark against him for the rest of his career.

  When Grandison had gone he read the letter through. It was a crude piece of composition. Almost certainly deliberately so. There was nothing crude about this man. To the bottom of the letter Grandison had added some notes he had taken from Sir Charles. His Grace, a very old friend, had been staying the weekend. Disappeared during his afternoon walk around the park. Always called in at the family chapel on the walk. Visited River Park three times a year, always the same times of the year within a week or so. Regularity of habit helped, Bush knew. Almost certainly there’d been some folksy magazine article or newspaper feature which would have started a train of thought in someone like Trader. The rest was easy.

  He rang the map department and had them send up the six-inch-to-the-mile sections for the area. River Park had two lengths of roadway running around part of it. The private chapel was marked to the north of the lake. It was only a few yards from a small side road. Instinct backed by experience told Bush that it would have happened there. The Most Reverend, His Grace the Lord Archbishop—one of the two Primates of England, York and Canterbury, taking precedence after the Royal Family with the Lord High Chancellor—bundled up like a sack of potatoes and hauled off to some car or van. Half a million pounds in ransom. The ecclesiastical authorities and the Church Commissioners would be delighted about that. They would have to find some of it. He pulled a reference book from his shelf and checked. From stock exchange investments, land and property, mortgages and loans and beneficiaries the Church had an annual income of over twenty-four million pounds. Over twenty million of that was spent on clergy stipends and pensions and the maintenance of clergy houses and other Church property. Not much left. But a discreet word to a few wealthy old ladies that the dear Archbishop was in danger and the half-million could be raised in an hour. Trader had picked well. There would be no publicity. God, what a thing the papers would make of it! And the heads that would roll! Against this a kidnapped Ambassador was nothing. . . . And he, Bush, had to sit here, doing what? Twiddling his thumbs. Perhaps Grandison was right. It was the time for prayer.

  * * * *

  It was seven o’clock. Blanche sat in a high-backed chair on the fireplace side of the table. It was a dining-room. The table and chairs were old-fashioned mahogany. There was the gleam of silver and glass from the sideboard under the red-tinted shades of the wall sconces. One or two oil paintings hid murkily in the shadows of the far wall. Against the window rain and wind beat in violent gusts. Mrs. Shoebridge sat near the door. She was a tall, dark, pale-faced woman, a long, brooding, still face. She gave no hint of any of her feelings. Shoebridge sat opposite Blanche. He had gloves on and was going through her handbag.

  They had given her a glass of sherry, but would not let her take her gloves off. The contents of the bag were on the table. Shoebridge was going meticulously through her diary, reading it page by page. Blanche was frightened, but there was no panic in her. That she had walked into trouble was evident . . . bad trouble. She was quick enough to be able to put an explanation to many things herself. The man had been the Archbishop. She had made no mistake about that. Except, perhaps, by revealing she knew who he was. No, they would have held her just the same. She knew about the Trader kidnappings. She guessed that Edward Shoebridge could be the same man.

  Mrs. Shoebridge had kept her in the room, holding the gun and watching her in silence, cutting short Blanche’s first attempt at talk with a sharp gesture of her head. When Shoebridge had come back Blanche had been angry and indignant, not from feeling but from policy. But it had not helped her. Genuinely not knowing what line to take, she had given Shoebridge the explanation that she had come to see him about caravan sites. He had heard her without interruption, and then had taken her handbag and told his wife to serve her with some sherry.

  He sat there in silence now, the diary put aside, leafing through her address book. He pulled out the slip of paper on which she had written his name and address when Angers had telephoned her. He laid it on the table and went on examining the address book. Thought and observation running in tandem with her fear, Blanche watched him. All his movements were neat and deliberate, a kind of slow sureness which possessed his whole body. He was of middle height, wiry . . . that deceptive wiriness which masked strength. His face was tanned, weather-hardened. It was a still, inexpressive face. Once when she started to say something, to protest, to take some comfort just from the sound of her own voice, he had looked at her and shaken his head, his expression unchanging. She had stopped, cut off short by the cold, spiritual blow of his personality. It was then that a brief stir of panic touched her. This man, she thought, could easily kill her if he felt it necessary. She fought back fear, overwhelming it with a silent flood of disbelief. For God’s sake, Blanche, she told herself, keep your head and don’t act like a fool.

  Slowly Shoebridge sat back in his chair and looked at her thoughtfully. Unexpectedly he suddenly smiled, but the smile Blanche felt was not for her. It was for himself. Something had happened inside him. Something had suddenly changed. It came to her clearly, just as now and again with other people their thoughts inexplicably became hers. This man had made up his mind. Not only had he made it up, but he was happy with his decision, was no longer worrying about her presence here. So far as he was concerned the whole matter was finished.

  He said, “So you came to see us about this caravan business? And when we were out you went and had tea in Cheddar and then came back here later and waited for us?”

  “Yes. But I should explain now—”

  He cut her short with that quick shake of the head which was almost like a blow.

  “There is no need to explain. You are not interested in caravans. That was merely to see me. To get you into the house. You wanted to know something about us first so that you could decide how to handle your true business.”

  Curiously because of his matter-of-fact way of talking, his tones holding neither anger nor anxiety, Blanche was suddenly comforted. She would be silly to make too much of this, she thought. Maybe things weren’t as bad as she had imagined. Maybe she had imagined everything the wrong way round. Imagination could be a bad ally.

  With a smile, one gloved hand going up in nervous reflex to touch her pearls, Blanche said, “It was silly of me. But sometimes it’s best to know first when . . . well, when very confidential matters are concerned.”

  Shoebridge returned her smile briefly. He said, “You keep a very bare diary, Miss Tyler, but it’s easy to read between the lines. You’re from Salisbury?”

  “Yes, and I—”

  “I only want you to give direct answers. Your emotions are of little interest. I can read them anyway. You’re a professional medium?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a little terrestrial help on the side in some cases?”

  “There are truths in this world as well as the other. It is part of my ministry to reveal them.”

  “Professional jargon.” He reached out and picked up the address book. Without opening it, he said, “You’re here because of Miss Rainbird of Reed Court, Chilbolton?”

  “Yes.” She longed to do more than give straight answers. There had to be safety somewhere, somehow in a cloud of words. But she knew he would cut her off.

  “It’s a pity my telephone is ex-directory. You could have telephoned me and our business could have been settled in a few minutes. That would have left us both in peace. How did you get my address?” He held up the slip of paper. “Through a friend of yours. A Mr. Angers.”

  “A past friend. How did he know it and how did you find him?”

  “He remembered your interest in falconry and got it from the British Falconers’ Club. Look—” she made a quick bid to get away from his control “—why don’t we come straight to the point? What are you doing with the Arch—”

  “We are coming straight to the point.” His voice rose a little. “By the route I know as straight.” He smiled.

  Blanche stood up. Neither of the two moved. She forced anger into herself to drive out fear and said, “I’ve had enough of this. I insist that you let me leave at once.”

  Shoebridge said, “Sit down.”

  Blanche faced him across the table. He cocked his head a little to look up at her. Quietly, from the far side of the room, Mrs. Shoebridge said, “You’re not a fool, Miss Tyler. We have kidnapped the Archbishop. You have seen him. You can see that it is not possible for you to leave . . . yet.”

  There was no comfort in that lingering yet for Blanche. Slowly she sat down. Keep your head, Blanche, she told herself. Keep your head. You’re in a mess, but there must be a way out. Compromise. Some agreement. God, there had to be something. Shoebridge said, “How did you find Mr. Angers?”

  “Through a friend of mine who does that kind of work for me sometimes.”

  Shoebridge flicked the diary with one finger.

  “George Lumley? The one whose expenses and payments you list?”

  “Yes. Look, what you don’t understand is—”

  “I understand everything, Miss Tyler.”

  “No, you don’t! And just you let me speak! No, I won’t be bullied. You just listen to me. So you’ve kidnapped the Archbishop. Obviously for money. Well, all you have to do is to turn him loose . . . anywhere. Forget him. There’s plenty of money waiting for you. That’s what you don’t know. And I’m prepared to help you, to forget anything I’ve seen here. If you’ve got any sense that’s what you will do.”

  Shoebridge smiled. “You really would do that? Go away and forget everything?”

  “Of course I would. And there’s the money, too. You can be a rich man without this . . . this Archbishop thing. Oh, please, don’t you see that?”

  Shoebridge studied her, and then slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Tyler, but it won’t do. You see, I know all about Miss Rainbird of Reed Court. I’ve known it since I was sixteen years old. I know who my real father and mother were—and I am not interested. They rejected me and I was very happy with the people who took their place. I know all about Miss Grace Rainbird. She has money, but I am not interested in it. I have no wish to go to her to make any claim, or to be welcomed because that would ease her conscience or put anything right. Everything was put right when Ronald Shoebridge and his wife became my mother and father years ago. Miss Rainbird is probably worth two hundred thousand pounds. She could live for another ten years. The time is too long and the money not enough, Miss Tyler. So let us get back to the real problem. Does George Lumley know you were coming to see me?”

  Quickly Blanche said, “Of course he does.”

  “I am sure you are lying. But it makes no difference. So you came and told me a story about caravan sites. And then you went. That is all that I have to tell anyone who might question me.”

  He picked up the diary, the address book and the piece of paper with his name and address on it. He put the diary and the address book back in her bag. He looked at the sheet of paper and then across at Blanche. He said, “It may be true that this George Lumley knows my address and knows you are coming here today. But there is always the possibility that he knows nothing. You haven’t entered my name in your address book, and you haven’t made any note in your diary about getting it from Angers. I don’t think you told George Lumley about it. But, as I said, if you did it makes no difference.” He picked up the slip of paper, crumpled it in his hand and put it into his pocket.