Before he left, he said to them, “When I tell the police about this, you realise that I’ll have to go into this Miss Rainbird thing. They’ll ask you about it anyway—but there’s one thing that bothers me. I think I .ought to go and see Miss Rainbird.”

  “Why?” asked Mrs. Shoebridge.

  “Well—she ought to know that Blanche found you. Blanche would have gone to her. I’d like to do it for her. I mean, unless you get in touch with her and tell her your feelings, she may go on looking for you and you’ll have it all in your lap again some time later, maybe. Of course, if you want to see her, then that’s fine and it lets me out.”

  Shoebridge said, “I’m quite happy for you to see her. There’s no need for any bad feeling about the thing. The Rainbird family didn’t want me when I was born. Now—no matter what Miss Rainbird might feel she could offer me—I don’t want the Rainbird family.” He smiled. “You tell her. I think you’ll find she will be relieved. She’s been suffering, I imagine, from a bad conscience on her sister’s behalf. Now she’s got absolution. We want nothing from her.”

  Driving back, George felt that although Miss Rainbird had got absolution from Shoebridge, he wasn’t so sure about from himself. Indirectly she had been the cause of Blanche’s death. In fairness it wasn’t Miss Rainbird’s fault, but the fact remained that Blanche could have still been alive if she had never started this Shoebridge lark. And it was all to no point anyway. Shoebridge wanted nothing from Miss Rainbird. And he didn’t blame him. The man had a proper pride. Well, he’d go and see the old girl and put the record right. Then there was the inquest to come and then the funeral—and after that he could really get down to his new business. By God he was going to make a success of that. For the first time in his life he was going to do something and make it stick. In a few years—if there were any truth in Blanche’s beliefs—then she’d be able to look down and be proud of him.

  Half an hour after George had left the Shoebridge house the telephone rang. It was their son calling from school. He rang them every Wednesday evening, talking first to his mother and then his father, giving and receiving news. School term finished the following week and he would be home for the holidays. Listening to his wife talking to the boy on the telephone, Shoebridge told himself that by the time the boy was home the Archbishop would have been returned. A new phase of living would begin for them.

  At eight o’clock that evening George called at the Salisbury police headquarters and gave a full account of his visit to the Shoebridges. Shortly after George had left the headquarters the new information was being passed on to Scotland Yard for transmission to Grandison’s department. George, himself, was on his way to see Miss Rainbird. He wanted to get everything cleared as quickly as possible. If the old girl was out, well, he would be unlucky and have to see her the next day. He had not mentioned to the police that he was going to see Miss Rainbird. He regarded it as a piece of personal business between himself and Blanche which had to be finished. Anyway, the police knew all about Miss Rainbird and the Shoebridge search now. He was doing nothing unorthodox. If they had not wanted him to see Miss Rainbird they could have said so. They had not, so he saw no good reason why he should not go. He stopped in Stockbridge to have a drink and bought a pork pie for Albert.

  At nine o’clock Syton came in to Miss Rainbird’s drawing-room where she was reading after dinner and told her that there was a Mr. Lumley at the door who would like to see her on behalf of Miss Blanche Tyler. Miss Rainbird, after a moment’s hesitation, said she would see him.

  * * * *

  After George Lumley had gone Miss Rainbird poured herself a large glass of sherry and sat down to think over the things Lumley had told her. She’d known a little of George’s relationship with Madame Blanche from Ida Cookson. George himself had been quite frank about it. She couldn’t say that she liked the man. His breath had smelt of gin and he had a seedy, slightly run-down look backed by a common sort of affability which she knew would have appealed to Sholto. In fact he was just Sholto’s type. Still there had been no doubt about his distress over Madame Blanche’s death. And he had been frank about her pregnancy and his responsibility. That he had been equally frank in revealing his part in tracing Edward Shoebridge did not surprise her. She had long ago guessed that Madame Blanche, no matter what genuine powers she had, must support her work with some kind of investigation in cases like hers. And now the police knew all about it. The thought of that was very irritating and she knew that she could easily become angry about it. The next thing would be that they would be in touch with her and she might have to go to the inquest and the whole affair would become public.

  The thought of publicity did upset her. To begin with she didn’t want her family affairs the subject of newspaper reports and, even more, she in no way welcomed the thought of what her friends would think—that she was a stupid, gullible woman who had been on the point of being taken in by a medium. It was what she herself would have thought of anyone else in similar circumstances. Really, the whole thing was too much. And all stemming from those stupid dreams about Harriet. All her life Harriet had been a worry and a responsibility to her . . . a soft-headed, stupid creature, no backbone, no steady character. In many ways she and Sholto had had much in common. It had been a relief to her when she had finally found herself alone and mistress of Reed Court. Years of peace and tranquillity had stretched ahead. And now—because of Harriet’s whining dream appearances and her own weakness in taking notice of them—she could easily become the laughing stock of the county. Tomorrow she would have to get on to her solicitor and see what could be done about it. Her solicitor was a conventional, afraid-to-say-boo-to-a-goose type, but she would have to bully him and insist that he use his influence with the authorities to make sure that she was not called at the inquest if it were at all possible. Surely the authorities would understand the undesirability of such an appearance for a woman in her position?

  And as for the Shoebridges—well, there was the final answer to any further whining demands on Harriet’s part, though she was happily free from them so far. Her sleep and her dreams had become her own again. So Edward Shoebridge had rejected the Rainbirds. He had looked on Ronald Shoebridge and his wife as his real father and mother, even though he’d long known the truth. Finishing her sherry and helping herself to another, she could find it in herself to be annoyed about that. All along she had seen herself—if Edward Shoebridge were traced—as the one who would do the deciding. It really was quite unforgivable of the man not to come and make his feelings known personally. That was Harriet’s blood in him all right. If there was anything unpleasant to do then you got someone else to do it for you. Well, if that were his decision then it absolved her from all further concern. But any real man would surely have come himself and made his position clear in a private conversation. Apart from all this nonsense of regarding the Shoebridges as his true parents, the man must be an idiot not at least to have had the common courtesy to see her and to find out what she had to offer. Perhaps if he had he might have changed his mind. She was Miss Rainbird of Reed Court and at the last check of her properties and investments she had been worth nearly a million pounds. One didn’t advertise it, of course. But if she had liked him, she might have hinted at it. After all, he had a wife and a son—about fifteen the Lumley man had said—and a responsible father would have considered their welfare. No, all she had had was a curt dismissal through an intermediary. Cheek! Pure, arrogant rudeness!

  So strongly did emotion overcome her at the thought that her hand shook and she spilled sherry over the brocaded arm of her chair. If she had the man here now she would tell him exactly what she thought of his way of behaving. Perhaps, she thought, the correct response from her would be to write and tell him in frank terms what she thought of his rudeness and to point out that, if at any time in the future he changed his mind, it would be quite useless to make any approach to her. No, she wouldn’t do that. She would do nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  She finished her sherry and could feel her head swimming a little. Not much, but just that much which she knew now was enough to send her to sleep the moment her head touched the pillow, to sleep without dreams. As she went up the grand staircase she remembered the dream she had had of Madame Blanche visiting her, Blanche the old friend. Ridiculous. And the lad, youth, young man, whatever he had been, seen fishing through the landing window? Who had that been? Shoebridge’s son? Certainly not. His father had rejected her, rejected everything concerned with her. And thank God for that. She turned and looked down the stairs, remembering Sholto’s drunken fall. . . Harriet disgracing them . . . pestering her, still bothering her after death . . . and Sholto disgracing her, too, with his women and drink. . . . But for them both she might have married and had her own family. . . . Well, she hadn’t. And she wasn’t the kind who wasted time crying over spilt milk.

  Just for a moment as she looked down into the half-lit hallway below she fancied she could see Sholto’s form lying crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Poor Sholto, what a fool he had been to himself. Like Harriet he had been wrapped up in himself From no one in this house or elsewhere, Miss Rainbird thought, had she received real love and affection.

  * * * *

  Bush went into Grandison’s room. It was ten o’clock in the morning and he had spent the night in the department. At midnight the department had received the additional report from the Salisbury police containing the information about Blanche Tyler’s visit to the Shoebridges’ house. The report had been passed on to Grandison at once. Elation was in Bush like a slow, smooth current, flowing easily and with a deep strength. The pleasure that this moment brought him had come from little that the department had done. Its work was now only beginning. Time and chance had run for them, and there was a certainty in him that it would go on running.

  He sat down opposite Grandison. His chief was in heavy tweeds and there was a green silk cord to his monocle—always green or red. Bush felt there was some hidden rhythm or significance in the changes of colour. One day he would give it thought—correlate it to mood or weather conditions. He smiled. He was feeling good and could indulge in the occasional side fancy now.

  Grandison said, “You look like a cat that’s been at the cream.”

  Bush shrugged his shoulders. “You know we’ve got him. There’s no room for doubt in my mind.”

  “There’s always room for doubt. But, I agree, little here. What have you got?”

  “I’ve been in touch with Salisbury and with Somerset. The only approach that Somerset will make—on a request from Salisbury—is to visit Shoebridge, acting on information received through this Lumley man, and take a statement about Miss Tyler’s visit. He has no record, but they know something about him and we know more now. His birth and his foster parents and so on. It’s his second marriage. His wife—his second—was a doctor. Gave up practice when she married him.”

  “She’d manage the theopentone stuff?”

  “Yes. He was never thrown up by the computer because there was no cellar to his house. They made a mistake there. It’s a house built on the site of an old one which did have cellars. Gould still have.”

  “Must have if we’re going to be right.”

  “I’d bet on it. One of your long shots which are certainties. He’s mad about hawking. That’s how the Lumley man got his address. An old friend remembered he was a member of the British Falconers’ Club.”

  “Lumley seems to have done all our work for us.”

  “Unwittingly. The noise Pakefield heard could have been one of the birds. Falconers carry them around with them a lot. He could have been working the intercom system and it became disturbed. They have these little bells on their feet. The house is high. Well-drained. He and his wife were out of the house last Saturday when Miss Tyler first called. They didn’t get back until around six-thirty.”

  “She walked in on them at the wrong moment? Probably saw the Archbishop, is that it?”

  “Something like that. They had to fix her. They must be cool customers. First they get a visit from her and then one from the Lumley man. They handle both without turning a hair. Lumley told the Salisbury police he was a nice chap. He liked them both and they were helpful and quite prepared to go to the inquest.”

  “We don’t want that. I’ll get in touch with Salisbury and arrange it. The Coroner will be satisfied with a certified statement from Shoebridge through the Somerset people. Lumley can be called. This Miss Rainbird—I think she should be kept out too. A statement from her will be enough. We want the whole thing quiet and unobtrusive. The Salisbury people will understand that. I’ll explain the position to them. If Shoebridge is our man we don’t want the slightest thing to ruffle him. The inquest must go through smoothly. Woman pregnant, big disappointment over this medium business with Shoebridge, family history of suicide . . . the Coroner won’t want more than that. And after that the exchange of the Archbishop goes through with the same smoothness. Nothing is ever going to make the headlines. Only a few people are going to know the truth and then lock it away. We want no checks, no watch on the Shoebridge couple. They must be left alone.”

  “Until Sunday. Then what?”

  Grandison smiled. “Then this department does something it was created to do—if the Shoebridges are the right couple.” Grandison stood up. “There’s been no credit in this for us. We’ve been lucky—if the Shoebridges are our people. All we can do is to tidy up at the end. I want one man down at Blagdon on Saturday. At midnight. They’ll have left by then to return the Archbishop. Our man stays until they return and then lets us know.”

  “They may take off. We ought to warn all ports and airfields.”

  “If it is them they’ll return. They’re not going to abandon the house. It’s full of birds. The cellar is there. No, they’ll go back and just go on living normally for some time. My guess is that they haven’t even sold the diamonds they’ve already collected.”

  “What are they after? Money. The good life?”

  “If the gods are really going to be kind to us, then we’ll have the pleasure of asking Shoebridge. I’ve an idea what he’ll say already.”

  “The good life?”

  “Yes. As he sees it.”

  Bush stood up. “It’ll be good to have it all finished.”

  Grandison shook his head. “Nothing’s ever finished. It’s an endless pattern.”

  * * * *

  George went to the inquest with Blanche’s mother. Neither Miss Rainbird nor Edward Shoebridge was called, but statements had been submitted on their behalf. It was all over very quickly and a finding of suicide while the balance of her mind had been disturbed was brought in on Blanche. The next day, Saturday, he went to the funeral at the crematorium with Blanche’s mother. There were quite a few wreaths, many of them from Blanche’s clients including Miss Rainbird. (Miss Rainbird, since her name had featured at the inquest, had decided against sending an anonymous wreath.) Blanche’s mother cried a little on the way back to the house, and they sat in the kitchen and had tea with whisky in it. Mrs. Tyler decided that she would have a rose planted in the crematorium grounds in memory of Blanche. She brightened up a little as they discussed what kind of rose and George, burgeoning now as an horticulturalist, said he’d get some rose catalogues for her so that she could choose. Personally he felt that neither the rose nor the little pot of ashes had anything to do with Blanche. When the coffin had sunk slowly out of sight within the marble platform it had been like a log disappearing through melting ice and he had been incapable of connecting Blanche with it. Blanche had gone days before. She was over on the other side, happy with her Henry, and he sincerely hoped that it would be all that dear old Blanche had wanted it to be. He doubted it. Disappointment was the lot of humankind. When he left Mrs. Tyler he went to the Red Lion and had three or four whiskies as a private farewell to Blanche and, not wanting Albert to feel neglected—though Blanche had never been very fond of Albert—he took the dog out two meat pies to have for its supper when they got home.

  Driving home he was a little tight and turning into the narrow lane entrance to his cottage he lightly grazed the side of his beautiful van on one of the posts. He was furious at his clumsiness and decided that Albert should have only one meat pie.

  In the cottage he poured himself another whisky and began to go through a small pile of applications he had had for the post of assistant. The illiteracy of most of them made him angry and he had another whisky to show what he thought of modern education and the youth of his day. He put the whole bundle of letters on the fire and by the time he went up to bed he was very drunk.

  The last thing he remembered was standing in his pyjamas and casting his eyes up to the badly papered bedroom ceiling and calling heavenwards, “Send me a sign! Blanche, send me a sign!” and then collapsing across the bed before he could know whether Blanche had obliged. In the morning when he went out, badly hung-over, to his van to inspect the damage he found that he had left the headlights on all night and the battery was flat. At that moment he came very close to abandoning his project.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FOR THE THIRD time they were in the large hallway of the Officers’ Mess of the Army Aviation Centre at Middle Wallop. It was fifteen minutes past midnight. Outside, the driveway lights were on and a warm wind was blowing from the west. The bowl on the centre table held dwarf, crimson-bloomed tulips. Alongside it lay the washleather bag of diamonds, a jeweller’s optic and the set of balances. The diamonds were genuine, a half a million pounds’ worth. Trader’s letter of instruction had stated that he wanted blue whites, fine whites and whites and none of them were to have a clarity value of less than vsi (very slight inclusions) and that among the blue whites—the most valuable of all the colours—there had to be at least fifty per cent which were flawless. If the man himself came this time, Bush thought, then he would closely examine at least some of the diamonds. On this third sortie nothing would be taken on trust.