“You really think he’s dead? You believe all that story?”

  “What do your German friends believe?”

  “God knows. That he is dead, I suppose, and that he will never surface.”

  “Sensible of them. All State archives have lacunae.” He stressed the plural ending purely for his own pleasure and then took more pleasure silently in the faint oral conjunction with lacustrine. Here, indeed was truly a lake secret – about which he had his own reservations. He added, “No records are ever complete. History is an iceberg. There’s more below than ever shows above.” He was – though not showing it – pleased with himself – a council school, then grammar school, moon-faced yokel from the leafy lanes of Devon . . . Where I have been and still am sad in this dull Devonshire. He could have said it aloud to Warboys and got a pat on the back for remembering his Herrick.

  Sir Julian rose, and then – to Kerslake’s concealed surprise – smiled, the change of features suddenly revealing something maybe of the long ago, uncorrupted, ambitious Julian Markover. He said almost cheerfully, “Well, one thing I’m glad about and that is that probably nobody is ever going to see them again.”

  Kerslake nodded, but not entirely in agreement. Though there was no logic in him to make him think otherwise. Life, however, was full of surprises. Part of the fun was trying to anticipate their advent. He said, “I’ll let Mr Warboys know you called. He’ll be very sorry to have missed you.”

  Sir Julian said, “I doubt it. But it is polite of you to say so. And if I may say so again – if you ever get tired of this place I could find you something very worthwhile in my organization. Think it over.”

  With Sir Julian gone Kerslake did think it over briefly but not seriously. He saw vividly one of his father’s sleek Scandaroon pigeons perched on the stump of his mutilated hand.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MONSIEUR BONIVARD PULLED his car up outside the cottage and sat for a moment or two admiring the neat strip of garden which fronted the road. Albertine roses flourished in profusion over the front wall of the cottage. The little roadside strip was planted with yellow and red hollyhocks and multi-coloured petunias and a bordering of pansies. House martins nested under the eaves, busily hawking the surrounding country for food to bring to their second broods. The window frames he noticed had recently been freshly painted. Gaston kept the place well, always had, and always for the sake of Madame Crillon.

  He got out of the car and walked into the side garden where the part open cottage door told him that Gaston was around somewhere working. He turned towards the large vegetable garden in search of him. From up the river came the sound of children shouting and playing, the thuds of a football being kicked bruising the air. Any ball that came over into the garden was held by Gaston for a week before it was restored to its owner. Transiently for a moment or two as he walked down the path to the river he wondered at the state of a mind which could hold so tenaciously to agnosticism as Gaston’s did. L’homme moderne . . . without belief and so without prayer. Such souls were waterless wastes . . . however God in His mercy understood all and was of infinite wisdom and forgiveness right up to the last moment. Miss that chance of supplication and Hell awaited. He had prayed that in his last moment Maurice had found such grace. Gaston, he knew, would never seek it. But the man had goodness in him.

  He found him taking a rest by the river, watching the swifts hawk low over it and the little rings of water where fish rose to take the insects that fell from the overhanging riverside foliage.

  Sitting by him, briefly greeted, he said, “I hear, Gaston, that your son is to be married?”

  “That is so, monsieur.”

  “Did you know that long ago Madame Crillon made her will such that on her death the cottage was to go to her son for his lifetime, and then at his death it was to come to the Church?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Well, it is so. And now poor Maurice has gone. The cottage is ours. Will it be against your principles to look after the place for us?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Ah, at least you are consistent in your beliefs. One day, though, you will understand them to be wrong. In the meantime I have a proposal to make to you. Madame Crillon was of the Faith, but you had no objection to working for her.”

  “Why should I have? She was a good woman. I did not look further than that.”

  “And is your son a good man?”

  “Who says he is not?”

  “No one that I know. He is a good son of the Church, too.”

  “Every man decides his own beliefs. I do not interfere with his or others’, monsieur.”

  “There is virtue in that. I was thinking that since you love this garden, and your son will need somewhere to live when he is married, I could let him have it at a small rent and you could carry on here. Does that appeal to you?”

  “I shall have to think about it, monsieur.”

  “Do that, Gaston.”

  “I will, monsieur . . . and, monsieur, thank you. I am grateful . . . on my son’s behalf.”

  “I understand.”

  The priest stood up, felt his arm begin to move automatically to bless the man and stopped the movement. All in good time, he thought. God is ever patient and so must his servants be . . . aye, even to the last second of an unbeliever’s life.

  As he went back to his car he was thinking of the lady who had visited him some days ago, surprising him on his hands and knees as he clipped the grass around his church’s old yew, and the talk they had had before she made confession. . . small sins of greed and envy . . . of the bottle and the table . . . and one small peculation in a tourist shop at Domme where she had stolen two china mugs on the spur of the moment – ‘Father, I really don’t know what came over me. But you see one had the name Maurice on it and the other the name Andrew. . . father and son . . . it was irresistible. But I sent the money anonymously two days later, though I do know that does not wash away the sin.’ Yes, a very pleasant lady whose husband’s distant ancestors had carried the Cross against the infidels and during their far from incontinent absence ensured the virtue of their own women with chastity belts.

  At that moment, sitting out on the balcony of their first-floor drawing room were Sir Andrew and Lady Starr. Sir Andrew, his eyes on the setting sun, waiting for its lower rim to be nibbled by the pinnation of a group of firs on the crest of the western slope of the hills across the river so that he could ring for Hanson and drinks, said, “It’s damned refreshin’ to have you back again, my dear. ’Fraid I’ve got into a lot of sloppy habits while you’ve been away. Hanson’s been chivvying me – but he lacks your charming authority. Tell you one thing I can’t find. Used to have rather fancy dress shirt . . . ruffles down the front, you know. Damn thing’s gone.”

  “I know my love. I sent it to the Women’s Institute jumble sale. Made you look like some pouting old fan-tail dove. My love . . . it is nice to be back. Do we have to go through all the sun and tree ritual. This is special. . . I’m back, and I need a drink.”

  Sir Andrew smiled. “For you – anything.” He reached back and pressed the bell push on the wall behind him, saying, “Tough titty about our dear Maurice Crillon, what? I mean one can’t feel as one would if it were all as it should have been and he had actually been with us bed and board, private school and Eton and all that from nappy days. But nevertheless . . . For whom the bell tolls, and you never know what day it’s going to. That’s why it makes good sense to start each day with a prayer. Rise every morning with the sun your daily course of whatever it is to run. Or something. Memory going a touch these days.”

  “You sound as though you’ve had one or two already, dear.”

  “Swear not. Delayed emotion, now released – you’re home and my heart leaps up. So you looked up this Trudi Keller gal?”

  “I tried to. I drove back by Thun and went out to Gunten. She’d left her lodgings and the school and gone back to Zurich. I really couldn’t be bothered then to go all the way up there.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’re not too upset are you, Andrew . . . about his being dead?”

  “Well, a little of course. You know, although it was a question of son and no son, I did really take to the chap.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I brought you something. When I unpack I’ll give it to you. It’s a little framed photograph of him as a boy. When I called on monsieur le curé we went round to the cottage and there it was hanging on the wall. He was charming about letting me have it.”

  “Good chap, was he?”

  “Splendid. We did the right thing, you know, dear. It would never have worked. You do agree?”

  “Yes. I agree. But the thought of that poncing, priest-loving great-nephew of mine taking over here . . . Well, that’s the way the world wags.” He leaned back again and thumbed the bell push.

  When Hanson arrived, Sir Andrew said, “Where the devil have you been, Hanson? We’ve been sitting up here with our tongues hanging out and the sun already well below the yard arm.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir Andrew, there’s been a little trouble below stairs.”

  “I don’t care if there’s been an earthquake. Get us some drinks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hanson gone, Lady Starr said, “You do bully the poor fellow, Andrew.”

  “Bully my foot. He thrives on it. And anyway it’s part of his job. Told him twenty years ago when he first came – remember him then? A ham-fisted, foot-shuffling young feller, unemployed miner from Kent, wanting to go into service. Why not? Better than breaking your back at the coal face. Can’t think why I took him on and trained him. Told him then it was a dog’s life being in service.”

  “Your memory is going, dear. It was his father who was the miner. Hanson was a barman at the Hotel Metropole in Brighton.”

  “Was he? Well, damme, whatever he was I told him that there would be nothing cushy about working here. Up with the lark and no bed some nights until cock-crow.” He turned as Hanson, coming up behind him, laid the drinks tray on their table. “That right, Hanson?”

  “More or less, sir. Yes.” Hanson deftly made and served their drinks; a large gin-Campari soda for Lady Starr, and a large Glenfiddich pure malt whisky, neat, for Sir Andrew who asked, “Why Glenfiddich, Hanson?”

  “Ignore him, Hanson,” said Lady Starr.

  Sir Andrew grinned. “Oh, yes, I see . . . Special occasion. Madam has returned from her Continental summer caperings.” He raised his glass and sipped her health, then continued, “And now what’s all this about trouble below stairs?”

  “Not exactly below stairs. In the main hallway. A young foreign person who wishes to speak to you.”

  “Is that so? What sort of a young foreign person? Black, red, yellow, white – and, of course, sex. And anyway – the garden shut fifteen minutes ago and I’m off duty. Tell it to go away.”

  “I don’t think she will, sir. If I may say so, sir – she’s a very determined sort of young . . . well, not so young lady. She asked me to tell you that her name was Fraülein Trudi Keller.”

  “Would you mind repeating that name?”

  Lady Starr said, “I got it very clearly, Andrew. Fraülein Trudi Keller.”

  Sir Andrew leaned back in his chair, drank some more of his whisky and then put the glass down on the table, his hand shaking a little, and said, “Well, I’m damned.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you mean – Yes, sir — Hanson?”

  “That you’re damned, dear – we all know it.” Lady Starr gave the butler a smile and went on, “Show her up, Hanson.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  When Hanson had gone Sir Andrew said, “Pretty rum turn-up for the book, eh? But what’s she doing here?”

  “I think she’ll tell us that – and probably more.”

  “You having one of your good-as-a-witch spells?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I can’t think what about.”

  “I shouldn’t try to anticipate. And do be nice, Andrew. You know . . . your really nice and sincere nice bit.”

  “How could I be anything else to a woman – no matter what kind? My dear father tanned my arse for being rude to an under house-maid when I was seven. You know what he said as he whacked me? ‘Courtesy to all is fundamental for the maintenance of good society. Hence, I impress this on you through your fundament. Never forget it.’ I never have. I couldn’t sit comfortably for three days.”

  Trudi Keller was ushered through the french windows on to the balcony by Hanson who announced, “Fraülein Keller, madame.”

  Lady Starr rose and took the hand which Trudi held out a little hesitantly, saying, “Fraülein – how nice to see you. Oh, forgive me. My husband, Sir Andrew.”

  Sir Andrew, already on his feet, gave her a big smile and said, “Surprise, surprise – but very welcome. Do sit down. Would you like a drink?”

  As Trudi sat, she said, “You are both very kind. Could I have, perhaps, a glass of milk? I am not very alcoholic, except now and then a little wine at meals.”

  “Bully for you, my dear. Hanson – a glass of milk for Fraülein Keller.”

  Lady Starr said, “This is your first visit to England?”

  “No, Madame. I am once here with a school party when I was sixteen. It is a country which I very much admire. You must have guessed, of course, that my being here now is to do with Monsieur Crillon. He talked often about you when we last met.”

  “Ah, yes. And how sad, too . . . we have heard about his death,” said Lady Starr. “In fact on my way back home from France I tried to find you in Thun – but you had gone. We both wanted to know so much about. . . well –”

  “I understand, Madame.” Trudi crossed her legs under her pleated white skirt, settled her handbag on her knees, and went on, “It is difficult to begin at the beginning of all things with Maurice . . . so you will excuse if I do it as it comes to me.”

  “You do it anyway you like, my dear. Never did believe in begin at the beginning and end at the end. You know . . . Crack! A pistol shot shattered the silence of the night. Well that’s a hell of a way from the beginning. Though, of course, a sure sign that it ain’t going to be great literature so “Andrew!”

  “Sorry, my love.”

  “I understand, please. Sir Starr is being kind.”

  “Sir Andrew you must call him.”

  “That is correct?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Ah, so. Well, I will tell you about Maurice. But first I must do other things. When he came to see me last, he said that he was worried that something bad might happen to him. Very worried. It is that which makes him drink so much. To forget. With Maurice, you understand, it is no good asking for reasons. You do as he says or you don’t. With me I could never say no and mean it for long.” As she spoke she opened her large white summer handbag and pulled from it a half-folded long brown foolscap envelope. She handed it to Sir Andrew, saying, “He did not tell me what was in it, but he said if anything happened to him I should come to you and say, ‘Find a safer place for them this time.’ Does that make sense to you, Sir Andrew?”

  Sir Andrew, fingering the envelope, made no attempt to open it. It could only hold one thing and this time he would put them away safely . . . double-bolted and double-locked and forever part of the family records, snug and warm within the family archives . . . Crusaders’ letters, the diary of the Starr who went down with his ship on the day Nelson died aboard H.MS. Victory . . . his father’s account of the last ever cavalry charge in the 1914 – 1918 war. . . dear girl, what a gift, and dear boy, chip off the old block. And more to come, he sensed, good as a witch, something in the air tonight. . . Prospero and Merlin. Magic still lived and worked, and a two-fingered gesture of contempt for all the Sir Julians of this world . . . Aye, and the same for Birdcage. Pity though he could never tell dear Warboys about it. Trust no one.

  At this point Lady Starr said gently, “Perhaps you will tell us about. . . the boating and what happened on the lake?”

  “Oh, that. . . well, he comes and finds me at the school one evening late. It is a Friday when I am on duty there for that is the evening that the Frau Direktorin goes out to play bridge with friends. He is in a bad state . . . already drinking, you know. Which is not like Maurice. So I see that he is really upset and very worried.”

  They listened, the light beginning to fade a little as the sun dropped from sight behind the hills. They heard about his heavy drinking all that week-end and then his insisting on bathing from the boat on the Saturday afternoon.

  “. . . he dives in and does not come up soon, but I think at first he plays a joke with me. . . staying under as long as he can. But in the end . . . he does not come up at all. . . Ah, such a moment I shall never forget.” She took a small handkerchief from her bag and touched her eyes with it.

  Sir Andrew reached out and gently patted her arm and said, “Nothing you could have done, my dear. Nothing . . .”

  “I try to find him, but I cannot. So there is nothing I can do. Nothing. Still they do not find his body.”

  “Happens sometimes, dear girl.”

  “He was not a good husband to me, but I loved him. The heart, you know, refuses to listen to the head. So, when all the business about his death is done, I leave the school and go back to my parents in Zurich. That is where we first met and got married. He worked for my father. His hands, you know, were as good with a mallet and chisel as they were with paint brushes.”

  Lady Starr said, “You were married to him?”

  “Oh, yes. My parents were against it so we went off together. In the end he leaves me – only coming back when he wants something or is in trouble. At Gunten I used my maiden name because I do not want people always asking questions about where is my husband. So, too, I leave Johan with my parents in Zurich. You say to yourself ‘How could anyone fall in love with a man like that?’ I say it to myself still. But it happens. After a time though, the pain goes. And now he has gone for good. I shall learn to live with that. I am a woman, and can be very sensible. When some men are what they are there is nothing else but to be . . . what you say? . . . philosophiseh?”’