“Philosophical. Quite right,” said Lady Starr.

  “Yes, so. But it is hard for others. The ones who are small and ask the questions that tear at one’s heart. Poor little Johan . . . he still does not understand. Still he says at times now, as he always used to say when Maurice was alive, ‘When comes pappa to play with me again and to take me on the carousel?’” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

  There was silence for a while as she sat there with her head slightly bowed, her face hidden from them. Sir Andrew looked across at his wife. She nodded gently to him.

  Sir Andrew said, “And how old is your little boy, Frau Crillon?”

  Trudi looked up. “It is right of you to call me that. He is seven the fifteenth of last month.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “Oh, he is a good, obedient boy. He waits for me in the car still.”

  Lady Starr asked, “And where are you staying?”

  “Oh, we go back to a hotel in Salisbury.”

  Sir Andrew stood up and touched her shoulder, and said, “No. Not tonight. Not any night. You stay here. I will go down and bring the boy up. In the meantime my wife will take care of you.”

  “Oh, no – that is not necessary. You are being too kind.”

  “Nonsense. You go and I will bring the boy up. And Hanson will see to your luggage. No argument now, my dear girl. We do this because we too were very fond of Maurice. Very, very fond as you will understand a little later.”

  * * * *

  The car – a dusty Volkswagen – was parked close to the edge of the sunken garden. When he got to it there was no one inside. But that did not worry him. No seven-year old was going to sit patiently on his arse in a car while grown-ups gabbed away. At least, no seven-year-old with his blood carrying its full and legal proportion of the ancient Starr ancestry. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose in it with a foghorn blast, feeling the tears prick close behind his eyes. My God, he thought, what a day for a miracle to happen. All homecoming and happiness. Dear Christine back, dear Trudi – and who would ever know whether on that last day Maurice had unbuttoned himself and told her that he was the heir to a baronetcy, and at his death his son would inherit? Probably he had – but it made no difference. Didn’t signify a sparrow’s fart. He had a grandson. Maurice now dead, his heir. And now that priest-loving great-nephew of his could go seek sympathy with his bishops and rectors and deacons and the whole gang of them who had had the almighty gall to muck about with the language of Latimer and Ridley and Cranmer or whoever it was – and bad cess to the lot of them. Watertight – he couldn’t fight it.

  Johan – damned soon to be turned into plain John, legal or not legal, for the boy’s sake. Though come to think of it there was one of the old Templars sleeping in the chapel who had been a Johannus. Might keep Johan, then. What’s in a name?

  He found Johan leaning perilously over the edge of the fountain basin, watching the fish. He wore tight shorts, white socks, one wrinkled down to his shoe, light-weight red windbreaker, big Micky Mouse emblem on the back, and turned to face him as he heard his footsteps on the gravel.

  He spoke in German, “You’re Johan Crillon, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve come to take you into the house to your mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Good question. Answer it later. Like fishes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And fishing?”

  “Yes, sir.” “

  “Good, we’ll do some together soon.”

  “Who are you, sir . . . please.”

  “I’m your grandfather.”

  The boy laughed. Nice teeth. Nice grin. And by God, yes – and not kidding himself, something of Maurice there and something of himself, too . . . well, wouldn’t swear to the last. too young yet for the genes to get busy and make their mark. “My grandfather is in Zurich, sir.”

  “I’m the other one. Your father was my son.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “I never knew that. I wonder why he never told me? He’s dead now you know. Mummy told me – he was drowned. She cried a bit. We didn’t often see him, you know. Did you know him?”

  “That’s a silly question, isn’t it? He was my son.”

  “Yes, of course.” He laughed. “I’m a bit stupid sometimes. Don’t stop to think, my mother says.”

  “Doesn’t do any harm sometimes. Act first, think later, live longer. Come on – we’ll have plently more time to talk soon.” He took Johan’s hand and led him away. As they passed the car, Johan said, “Should we lock the car?”

  “Good question. But no need for it now. We let the bloodhounds out when the place is shut up. Any strangers come along and, by God, they’re mincemeat before they know what’s hit them.”

  Johan laughed. “You talk like my father used to – but I suppose that’s why. Because you were his father . . . .” He paused for a moment, frowning, and then went on, “But how could you have been? My father was French.”

  “Bright as a button, aren’t you? I’ll explain that to you sometime.”

  * * * *

  The stable clock striking twelve, one window of Lady Starr’s bedroom open to let the cool night air in after the heat of the day, Sir Andrew came through in his dressing gown, holding a balloon brandy glass in his hand, and sat on the side of her bed. She reached out and took the glass from him, sipped at it, and retained the glass, saying, “You’ve had enough of that for one day.”

  “No question of enough on a day like this, my dear.” He flicked his hand at a moth that blundered past his head, and went on, “Can’t understand why you have a window open. Place full of moths.”

  “They go when I put the light out. I like moths.”

  “Well, what do you think of them?”

  “Charming. Give it a few months and they’ll fit in. She’s no fool.”

  “You think she understands all that is involved . . . her son heir to a baronetcy?”

  “Don’t be an ass. Of course she does. Maurice must have told her. But she isn’t going to bring it up first. You’ll have to do that.”

  “And the boy? What did you make of him?”

  She laughed gently. “My dear Andrew – if you could see your face.”

  “Cheshire cat?”

  “More than.” She handed him back the glass. “Here, I’ll be generous. A big day for you – and for me. Finish it. He’ll fight it, you know, your prissy-mouthed great-nephew.”

  “Let him. He’ll get nowhere. Hasn’t got a hassock to stand on. And if he does I can always go to Birdcage and play a trump card that would produce him a crack over the head by the Archbishop of Canterbury with his crozier. It is crozier, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. You’re sure you’ve got a trump card?”

  “Oh, yes. Abso-bloody-lutely.”

  “The lease on the dower house runs out in two months. She could take over. You’d have the boy to hand.” She sighed. “I suppose sometime we’ll have to have the Zurich stonemason and his wife over? Oh, Gawd!”

  “Takes all sorts. After all, trade is now the breeding ground of the new nobility.”

  “ Tant pis – why do I always make that sound rude?”

  “Because at heart you’re a common slut.”

  “If only – then I could have some fun.” She paused and then said seriously, “Do you believe all that story about Crillon’s drowning?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes – absolutely, my love. Now off you pop and get a good night’s sleep. I want the light out and the moths. Oh, yes – I meant to tell you. She rides, you know.”

  “My dear, who doesn’t these days? The world is full of people bumping around on sorry old nags with their legs semaphoring and their elbows wagging as though they wanted to take off and fly. Pleasant dreams . . .”

  Sir Andrew went back to his bedroom and switching on the lights stood for a while, his spirits roseate, the smile on his face probably – he told himself – to stay fixed there even while he slept. What a good day. A day of true grace. After all the storms and shipwrecks, the peace of harbour.

  * * * *

  Warboys, coming in late, the summer night near lipping into the beginning of a summer morning, found Kerslake sitting at his desk, jacket off and shirt sleeves neatly folded back, the electric fan purring softly and making little impression on the stifling night air. Before him was a great pile of folders and one open from which he had been making notes.

  “Midnight zeal and midnight oil. Dear, dear, shall I miss it after tomorrow? Big Ben has already signalled the beginning of the last day. I’ve just come back from dining with one of the Pursuivants of the College of Heralds.”

  “Which one, may I ask?” Kerslake, tired, wiped his hot brow with his handkerchief.

  “Timmy Anderson – Portcullis. Just filled a long vacancy. Now sits in style with Bluemantle, Rouge Croix –”

  “– and Rouge Dragon. Lot of old medieval nonsense!”

  “Never underrate continuity. Kind hearts and coronets and never mind the colour of the blood. He was interesting on Sir Andrew’s little turn-up for the book.”

  “You told him about it?”

  “Broad outline. He said that it was a matter for the Standing Council of the Baronetage. But as far as he could see the grandchild is O.K.”

  “Even if Crillon is alive somewhere?”

  “Time will solve that. Seven years to be exact. After that he’s dead. Declared so – and not a dry eye in the house. I was down at Avoncourt a few days ago. If Sir Andrew were a dog he would have two tails. Nice little boy, too. And a fair share of the Starr look and temperament. He’s learning English fast – the polite above stairs from doting grandfather and grandmother, and the plebeian from the stable and garden staff.”

  “So now we know why the fair Trudi put on all that act about Crillon drowning. She couldn’t resist what he had to offer her and the boy.”

  “Quite. Any other woman in her position would have done the same. I’ve always found that given the right incentive there’s no man living can compare with a woman when it comes to – Mentiri splendide.”

  “To lie magnificently?”

  “Splendid – you’ve been burning the midnight oil.”

  “And the German papers?”

  “If he’s got them they’re certainly not in the back of any picture. All very interesting, ain’t it? Curiouser and curiouser – as Alice said.”

  Kerslake smiled. “We could shoot a bow at a venture for Crillon . . . yes?”

  “No point. Not our job. He’d done nothing wrong. Nice to know now, though, the reason he took the risk of thumbing his nose at Andretti. For us he’s still at the bottom of the lake. Not all drowned bodies finally surface. Some float up, maybe for a last fleeting glimpse of the world they hated or made their oyster. Others stay put. Either way there is no impediment to – Est quaedam flere voluptas; Expletur lacrimis egeriturque dolor.”

  “I’m afraid that’s well beyond me.”

  “Persevere. You have the years ahead for it. ‘There is a certain pleasure in weeping; grief is appeased and expelled by tears. . . .’ though, of course, I think it should always be done in private. You seem to have an extraordinary number of files there.”

  Kerslake smiled. “I am reading through some old cases. To see how things were done in the past.”

  “Much as they are in the present. Make and mend. Guess and gamble. Treat your triumphs modestly and your failures with a bland smile. Leave emotion to the poets – who will make money, if they’re lucky, out of it – and to the peasants who regard it as a form of grace before the funeral meats and wine. Well, I must be off. A nice walk home. Pray God, no muggers, and then to bed.” Kerslake smiled. “Would you like a subject for thought or conjecture on your way back? Since you walk – we could call it a footnote.”

  “Tease me.”

  “I learned today from the Wiltshire police who have kindly been keeping an eye on some things for us that a certain Margery Littleton, solicitor’s confidential clerk or what-ever, has started a month’s holiday, brought forward somewhat since she wanted to spend it in Scotland with an ailing aunt.”

  “Good girl. How often the young lack such devotion.”

  “She hired a car to Heathrow – boarded a plane to Madrid.” Warboys smiled. “Well, well – that does seem a long way round to get to Edinburgh.”

  “Dundee exactly.”

  “C’est la même chose. When lovely woman stoops to folly . . . So?”

  “I just thought you’d like to know. Not that it’s of any great interest.”

  “No. But pleasing. Good night, my dear Kerslake.”

 

 

  Victor Canning, Vanishing Point

 

 

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