It was a beautiful van, George thought. The green was the shining green of the brightest, rain-washed spring grass, and the yellow sunflower heads on each side were like great round, golden shields. Exotic. Aztec. Eye-catching. George gloated quietly and let his eye wander over the trade inscription— Lumley’s Sunshine Gardens Ltd., and below that his address and telephone number. Beautiful. And he already had his first contract. A man he had met in the Red Lion bar had moved into a new bungalow and wanted his front lawn made up and seeded and a square of paving stones laid at the back surrounded by a small rockery. He was going to start next week. With luck he would have a boy by then because his advertisement was appearing in the local newspaper today.

  It was a pity, he thought, that Blanche couldn’t see the van. A real eye-catcher. It would have appealed to her. Maybe the old darling could see it. Looking down from up there and enjoying the sight. Well, he hoped so. Poor old Blanche. It still hit him hard at times. Coroner’s inquest on Friday. He had to be on call for that, the police had told him.

  Albert cocked a leg against one of the back tyres and sprayed it. George swore at him. Inside the house he heard the telephone bell begin to ring. Some early bird, he hoped, who had read the newspaper advertisement, some bright, hard-working lad keen to get on in the world, green-fingered, broad-shouldered and with a reasonably short hair-cut. He wasn’t taking on any hippie, freak-out types, no clock-watching, bead-wearing drop-outs.

  He went inside and picked up the telephone and said, “George Lumley here.”

  A man’s voice said, “And how are things, then? All bright and shining in the legal world? Fees and briefs coming in? Wills to be willed and conveyances to be conveyed, trusts to be trusted and widows to be wept with?”

  George recognised the voice at once as that of Mr. Angers and, since it was twelve o’clock, he guessed that a bottle of champagne had already been opened with some customer.

  George said, “Angers, isn’t it?”

  “Dead right. Thought I’d give you a call about Eddie. What happened when you looked him up at Blagdon?”

  For a moment George was lost.

  “Blagdon?”

  Angers laughed. “Come on, lad, you’re slow this morning. Late night lethargy? Eddie. Eddie Shoebridge. Remember? I phoned and gave your wife his address. Was just sitting here thinking about him. Wondered what had happened and how the old boy was and then said to myself I’d give you a ring and find out.”

  “Oh, that Shoebridge thing.”

  “Spot on. How did he take it? I mean, I don’t want to have you break any professional confidences—just give me the newsy stuff around the edges.”

  George’s mind worked fast. Angers had called his wife and given her Shoebridge’s address? That wasn’t difficult to put in its place. He said, “Well, as a matter of fact the thing’s still in the air a bit. You know . . . these things take time and—”

  “All right, old boy, I don’t want you to tell me anything you can’t. Just a friendly enquiry after old Eddie. Thought I might pop down to Blagdon one of these days and see him. Just wanted to know what the form was. Did someone go and see him or did you write?”

  George now could picture Blanche driving off that Saturday with her picnic, knew’ exactly where she had been going, and could see her standing at this telephone at some time while he was out . . . Clever, shrewd Blanche, keeping things to herself.

  He said, seizing the help from Angers. “Well, as a matter f of fact we wrote to him. The firm felt that was the best first approach. Trouble is . . . Well, so far we’ve had no reply.”

  “‘Gould be abroad, what?” suggested Angers. “And why not? If you’ve got money who’d want to spend a winter in this country?”

  George was on easy ground now and his mind found improvisation easily. “Well, he might be. But it’s funny you rang because the firm felt perhaps my wife had got the wrong address. I was going to check with you again if we didn’t hear in a couple of days. You’re sure it was Blagdon?”

  “Absolutely. Highlands House, Blagdon. Somerset. That’s what the secretary of the Falconers’ Club gave me.”

  “Highlands House, Blagdon. Yes, that’s what we’ve got. He must be away. I think I’ll have to take a run down there and check it over. If it had been anything dead serious, of course, we’d have done it before, but there’s no urgency about this matter.”

  Angers laughed. “If there’s money in it, it’s urgent, old boy. You show me the man who doesn’t believe that—no matter how much he’s already got. Well, when you see Eddie give him my love.”

  “I will. And thanks for calling.”

  George sat down on the settee and lit a cigarette. He stared across the length of carpet at Albert. who was sitting in the doorway. That Blanche. She was a quiet one. He would like to have asked Angers when he had telephoned but there had been no opportunity for that. In fact, he’d been damned lucky to get what he had. Quick as a flash he’d been about writing a letter. Well, he wasn’t so dumb that simple things had to be spelled out for him. Blanche had got the address, and he knew exactly why she hadn’t told him. There was an extra two hundred and fifty pounds involved. If she went and had a quiet chat with Shoebridge she’d know at once whether he was going to be acceptable to Miss Rainbird. If it were thumbs down . . . well, that would be that and she’d have saved herself some money. Anyway, that didn’t matter now. She was gone. The point was, what was he to do, if anything, about Shoebridge? Blanche must have gone to Blagdon. Once she had the address nothing would have stopped her except her regular appointments through the week. But Saturday she always kept free, and on the Saturday she’d gone off. He’d like to know what had happened at Blagdon that day. It might give some clue to her state of mind. It was all very well saying that suicide was in the family, but it must take some outside thing to spark it off. Some big disappointment, perhaps? Perhaps Shoebridge had turned out to be a hopeless proposition so far as Miss Rainbird was concerned. That would have been a blow for Blanche and her Temple of Astrodel. She really had been dead-set on that.

  The more he thought about it, the more George felt that he would like to see Shoebridge. In a way, just to check for his own satisfaction. It was only two hours away at the most. He could pop down there this afternoon. Give the new van an airing. Show the flag. And maybe pick up some information that would make a little more sense out of poor old Blanche sitting up there in the wood, finishing it all off.

  Half an hour later George was on his way to Blagdon. It had only briefly occurred to him to give the police this new information first, but he knew that if he had they might easily have told him not to go, that they would interview Shoebridge. He felt strongly that it was something he wanted to do. To see Shoebridge himself, a duty to Blanche to get a little closer to her and the way she had felt on that last Saturday. Dear old Blanche . . . why in hell had she done it? Why? God, you could never tell with women, could you? Making out she was Mrs. Lumley to Angers, too. Well, it was a pity she hadn’t been. They should have been married. They were both blind not to have known it. Then none of this would have happened.

  * * * *

  The Archbishop was by now well accustomed to the limited routines of his captivity. He was reasonably comfortable and certainly well fed. He also enjoyed a concession which had not been made to either Pakefield or Archer. He had been provided with writing paper and a supply of pencils. For this he was grateful. Prolonged time for thought and writing had been little enough in his public fife. Now, whether he wished it or not, he was being given a period of meditation and privacy which he valued highly. He was a monk in a cell, a hermit in a cave. God gave strange gifts and worked strange shifts in the pattern of men’s lives, and he acknowledged that for certain aspects of his captivity he was grateful.

  The previous day, over the loudspeaker system, the man’s voice, distorted but comprehensible, had told him that he would probably be released within a few days, and that the ransom being paid for him was a half a million pounds. The Archbishop had been distressed at the amount of money involved. It could have been used so much more usefully in the Church’s business. He was, however, glad to be told that while the news of his kidnapping had not been made public—which he knew anyway from his reading of the Daily Telegraph—all those nearest to him knew the truth about his disappearance. In the paper today was a brief note that he was still confined to his bed with a severe chill.

  Spending much of his time in prayer, meditation and writing, he found himself somewhat naturally concerned with the moral and practical attitudes which should be taken against evil— particularly current aspects of evil. Aircraft were hijacked and the lives of passengers and crew held against various exorbitant demands. Ambassadors and men in high public positions were kidnapped and equally outrageous demands were made either for pecuniary reward or political concessions. And always at risk in all the negotiations was human life. If demands were not met then men, women and children would die. Life was a gift from God which was to be treasured, but he wondered now whether it was not, too, a gift which men and women should be prepared to sacrifice in order to combat evil. The most foulmouthed, irreligious private in a regiment accepted that premise. Every soldier contracted to give his fife if it were necessary. Did people in high places make less solid contracts, underscoring them with saving clauses, or letting others write in saving clauses for them without protest? Of course they did. Sometimes, he thought, there was a purer conception of the true value to be placed on life, and the duty to offer it in sacrifice in the fight against evil among the men and women of the fighting forces. Why should his life be worth half a million pounds, which should have been spent in God’s urgent work, not only to succour but in some cases to save other lives. Against evil there should be a bold, Christian statement of no compromise no matter what sacrifice it entailed, and he was very concerned that, perhaps, until this philosophy was accepted there could not be any true beginning to a real victory against evil. Evil, he thought wryly, kept pace with these modern times. It renewed its armament and its strategy. The Church possibly was still fighting a medieval war.

  He wondered how he would feel if at this moment the choice could be given to him, the decision put absolutely in his hands to say or not to say ‘pay no ransom, let them kill me’. The saints and martyrs had never had any doubt. Against evil there is only one true answer. No compromise, no matter what the cost. Evil thrived on men’s fears and vanities. Until the day came when evil had that power stripped from it the battle had not really begun. Satan picked his people well. They were all ready to sacrifice themselves and gave no house-room to compromise. This man who held him, he guessed, would, if things went wrong for him, sacrifice himself or accept all the consequences of his act without flinching.

  If the decision were his now to reject all compromise, what would he do? He knew the answer in his heart immediately.

  * * * *

  From their sitting-room window Edward Shoebridge and his wife saw the van turn into the driveway and come up to the gravelled space in front of the house, a green van with great yellow sunflower heads on its sides.

  “Lumley’s Sunshine Gardens,” said Shoebridge. “George Lumley.” There was little concern in him. When the stakes were high you expected moments of strain. He and his wife had gone through many such moments and with each one their confidence in their own powers had grown.

  “Miss Tyler’s man,” said his wife. She looked at her watch. It had just gone four. “Be nice to him. I’ll get some tea.” She turned and left the room as George began to climb the porch steps.

  George rang the bell and it was answered by Shoebridge. George said, “Mr. Shoebridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Lumley. George Lumley. I wonder if you could . spare me a little time? It’s about a friend of mine, a Miss Blanche Tyler who, I think, must have called on you last Saturday. Did she?”

  Shoebridge nodded. “She certainly did. Come in, won’t you.”

  George was led into the sitting-room and offered a chair. He liked the room. It was comfortably furnished and not too tidy. Shoebridge seemed all right. A little younger than himself, perhaps; middle-height, wiry, thin fair hair, blue eyes crinkled at the corners and a tanned face, comfortable in corduroy trousers and a green sweater. Outdoor type he looked, easygoing George guessed, but no fool.

  George said, “I don’t quite know where to begin with all this. . . . Let me say that I knew Blanche very well. Used to work for her on and off and—you haven’t heard, of course, what happened to her?”

  “Happened to her? What do you mean?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “What!” Shoebridge’s face registered his surprise.

  “Yes, dead. You see that’s why I had to come and see you. She committed suicide . . . in her car . . . you know, gassed herself. In a wood near Salisbury. It happened last Saturday night. They didn’t find her until Monday morning.”

  “Good Lord—what on earth did she do that for?”

  “God alone knows. In a way, that’s why when Angers telephoned and gave me your address I felt I had to come and see you and—”

  “Angers? Oh, I remember—so that’s how Miss Tyler got my address originally?”

  “Yes. Only she didn’t tell me she’d got it. She was a bit close, poor darling, at times. If Angers hadn’t phoned me this morning I’d never have had any idea that Blanche had come down here. So I thought I’d just pop down and have a word with you about her.”

  “Naturally. Poor Miss Tyler. Why should she do a thing like that? That’s terrible.”

  “I know. It just gets me. Blanche of all people. Did she act at all odd while she was here?”

  Shoebridge was silent for a moment. It was quite clear that a readjustment of strategy was needed. Then he said, “You know, of course, why she came to see me?”

  “Yes, of course. I worked for her. She wanted to trace you and I did most of the work. Found old Angers and so on. But he phoned my place while I was out and she took the address and said nothing to me. He got the address from some falconry club. By the way, he’d like very much to hear from you. She came straight to the point with you, did she?”

  “Well, not exactly. At first she pretended she was looking for a caravan site.”

  “She would. That was one of her acts—until she’d made up her mind. She wanted to have a look at you first, size you up before she got down to the real business. What time did she get down here?”

  “About half-past six. She’d called earlier but my wife and I were out. So she came back. Were you two engaged?”

  “Not exactly. Good friends, you know. Knowing what you do now, how did she strike you?”

  “Well, certainly not as the sort of person who would commit suicide. Unless she was more disappointed than she showed.”

  “How come?”

  “You know about Miss Rainbird and the true facts of my mother and father?”

  “Yes I do. Blanche was dead keen on finding you and restoring you to the bosom of the family. Don’t get any of this wrong, though. Blanche had her funny little ways, but she really believed in herself as a medium. She’d go the long way round sometimes to get what she wanted, but she was never dishonest. She had Miss Rainbird lined up for a fat donation to a crazy plan she had for building a temple. Sort of spiritualistic church. Finding you must have put her on top of the world.”

  Shoebridge shook his head. “I’m afraid it didn’t. You see, Mr. Lumley, I’ve known for years and years the truth about my birth. I knew all about Miss Rainbird of Reed Court. My foster parents made me their own child. They gave me love and a good life. They were my mother and father. I told Miss Tyler all this. And I told her also that I wanted nothing to do with Miss Rainbird. Nothing at all. I didn’t want to see her, or hear from her, or accept anything from her. She was a stranger to me and I wanted to keep it that way. I’m afraid Miss Tyler was very upset about that.”

  “I’ll bet she was.”

  “She tried to persuade me to change my mind—but without success.”

  “Poor old Blanche. That must have been a blow for her. Good Lord, what with that, and if she had known she was pregnant . . . perhaps that accounts for it.”

  “She was pregnant?”

  “Two months—by me. Police autopsy showed it. We’ll never know if she knew. But if she did, even though she knew I would do the right thing by her, it might have been enough to set her off. It runs in the family, you know. Her old man and one of her uncles, they both committed suicide.”

  “I didn’t know that, of course. But it all begins to make sense now. doesn’t it? I hadn’t realised just how disappointed she must have been at my attitude towards Miss Rainbird. It must have been quite a blow.”

  “Knocked the stuffing out of her. Yes, I suppose that accounts for it. She was really counting on something big from Miss Rainbird if she had brought home the long lost nephew.” George could see her, sitting in the car with the rain drumming down. She’d missed a couple of periods and could guess what had happened, and the foundations had been knocked clean out of the Temple of Astrodel. Poor old love, sitting there and then, maybe, remembering how her father and uncle had gone. . . . The whole thing had been too much for her. Shoebridge said, “When is the inquest?”

  “On Friday. I’m sorry about the trouble it may give you, but now I’ve found you and know she was here and what went on . . . well, I’ve got to tell the police.”

  “Of course you have. If they want me to attend or to make any statement then naturally I’ll do it.”

  Half an hour later George was still in the house. Mrs. Shoebridge had brought tea in and had been shocked when she had heard the news about Blanche. George liked them both and found them easy to get on with. They were the last people who had had any contact with Blanche and what they had told him had eased his mind a lot. He could give credibility now to Blanche’s act. It was no longer the puzzle it had been. Clearly she had been backing on this Shoebridge discovery more than she had shown to help her set up her temple. He had two cups of tea and a large slice of excellent Dundee cake and slowly the talk drifted away from Blanche and he found himself telling them about his business venture and his hopes for it. They were interested and full of encouragement. They had no doubt that it would succeed. To George their enthusiasm was heartwarming. It was good to be told you were on the right lines, that with proper care there was a bright future ahead. Yes, he liked them both. A nice, easy-mannered couple, the kind you could easily have as friends. In a curious way he almost felt that they were friends, felt—from his researches for Blanche— that he had already known Shoebridge for a long time.