Arcadia

63

It was the pigeons in the great entrance hall which convinced Angela that Henry was telling the truth when he said that his great-aunt’s house was semi-derelict. The ‘semi’ bit was the only part she disputed. His aunt Gertie matched the place perfectly as well, more a character out of a Gothick novel than somebody real. She was dressed in ragged velvet, carried a huge candelabrum about with her and smelled as though she had not had a bath for months. Her hair was thin and unkempt and her conversation bizarre.

Henry, though, was delighted to see her. He gave her a big hug and she examined Angela closely by thrusting the candlesticks into her face and squinting up at her. ‘A pretty one, eh?’ she cackled. ‘That makes a change. Are you here to fix the plumbing?’

‘No, Auntie. Just to collect a few papers,’ Henry bellowed into her ear.

‘They’ve stopped delivering. Say I don’t pay the bills.’

‘Manuscripts, darling. Not newspapers.’

‘You can read it over breakfast, like your uncle Joseph. Have you seen him?’

‘He died in 1928.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. He drove his car off a cliff, remember?’

She shook her head. ‘Tell him to be more careful when you see him.’

‘I will. Now, you go and sit down and pour yourself a nice gin. I just want to go upstairs and collect this thing I’m after. Then, I’m afraid, we’ll have to run off. Angela and I are in a bit of a hurry.’

‘Angela?’

‘This is Angela.’

She peered again. ‘A pretty one, eh? That makes a change.’

‘Blimey,’ Angela said as she followed Henry to the door.

‘She’s very sweet, and I love her dearly, but my head starts to spin after half an hour with her.’

‘She’s right about Uncle Joseph, you know.’

‘Don’t you start.’

Henry left me to deal with his aunt and disappeared up the stairs to go to the family archive. It would, he said, only take a few minutes.

Oddly, I have always found the company of the ancient relaxing. What is condemned in this brutal age as dementia, senility and worse is, in fact, a substantial step forward which aligns the mind rather more accurately with reality than our normal state.

Aunt Gertie could not tell the difference between 1928 and now. Uncle Joseph was dead and alive. In other words, she grasped the essential non-existence of time. Generally speaking, our minds impose an entirely artificial order on the world. It is the only way that such an inadequate instrument as our brain can function. It cannot deal with the complexity of reality, so simplifies everything until it can, putting events into an artificial order so they can be dealt with one at a time, rather than all at once as they should be. Such a way of interpreting existence is learnt, rather in the way that our brain has to turn the images which hit our retinas upside down in order to make sense of them.

Children have little sense of time; nor do the very old. They live in an ever-present now, which stretches into the past and off into the future. Effect triggers cause, and both happen at the same moment, be that yesterday or tomorrow. Aunt Gertie sensed this because all the acquired mental discipline of the years was falling away from her. Once you realised this, her conversation was perfectly comprehensible, even if it did make me a little dizzy.

Alas, I didn’t have long enough for a proper talk; Henry was as good as his word. He returned dusty but triumphant.

‘Got it,’ he said. ‘Just where I thought it would be.’

It was a thin tome, bound in red morocco and calf skin, with no lettering, but I knew the moment I opened it that he had indeed found what I was looking for. Page after page, all in Tsou, meticulously written out by hand. I was astonished at the workmanship. Tsou is a very dense script; the slightest error and it is gibberish. Doing it by hand must have taken years. Despite myself, I felt a little surge of admiration for Lucien Grange, or sympathy for the desperation which pushed him to even contemplate such a task. He must have had a perfect copy in his head even to attempt the job. That answered the question of who had accessed the computer before I left.

I checked through as much as I could to make sure. All was well; it was a fine summary of my work, except for the last symbol, which seemed a little odd. That one I absorbed properly and decoded, and unravelled instructions in plain English. Crop yields and rentals, folios 27–8.

‘Henry?’ I said. ‘What does this mean?’

‘What it says, I imagine. In the archives there are shelves of accounts in chronological order according to the estate’s different sources of income.’

‘Can I look?’

‘I’ll go for you, if you like.’

‘No!’ I said. ‘You have a good chat with your aunt here.’

‘As you please. Second floor, third door on the right. I left it open. If you get to the servants’ staircase you’ve overshot. Do you want me to destroy this, by the way?’

‘Not yet. I’d better find out what this reference means first of all. It can wait for a bit.’

So I went, leaving the Devil’s Handwriting with Henry, who stowed it carefully in his jacket pocket. Another coincidence, you see. I could easily have taken it with me, or had him set light to it in the fireplace.

‘To whom it may concern,’ began the piece of paper, which I found after only ten minutes of searching. One thing about these aristocrats, they were always very tidy when it came to money.

‘I very much hope that one day someone capable of understanding this letter finds and reads it. My name is Charles Lytten, although I took his identity many decades ago when I arrived in this place. Before that I was called Lucien Grange, and I was an administrator, first class, in the research institute of Zoffany Oldmanter. Unless this means something to you, you might as well stop reading now.’

On it went in a somewhat self-pitying fashion. Grange had written down the code in the hope that someone might find it and get him back, although quite how he expected this considering that he clearly believed he was in a parallel universe was unclear. I suppose he was desperate, and willing to clutch at straws. As I read I could understand why. He had made a decent fist of living in the eighteenth century, and had adapted well, but was worried nonetheless.

‘My concern is that the colonisation programme will wipe out the indigenous population with me still in place here. I beg anyone who reads and understands this to ensure I am recovered before any such attempt is made.’

That was the last piece I needed. A programme to clear out a world and make it available for colonists from my time. Of course that would appeal to a megalomaniac like Oldmanter. It was obvious how it would be done, as well. Oldmanter liked money; he would choose the quickest and cheapest option, and the further you went, the more power would be required. How to clear a world of its population quickly and efficiently? The evidence of Anterwold gave the answer.

This was where the next significant coincidence came in, the final proof, if you like. As I walked to the door I heard a noise through the window which looked out over the main driveway — once a fine avenue of trees, now more like a weed patch. Still, there were remains of old gravel covering it, and it was the crunching of this which made me look to see what was happening. A black car and a plain van were pulling up outside. From the car, I could see the unmistakeable figure of Sam Wind get out.

That was not good. They would knock, Henry would answer, they would find the Devil’s Handwriting and think it was some code for communicating with the Soviet Union. Sam Wind always had a limited imagination. I would not be able to destroy it. It was required to survive. Or rather, probability dictated it was more likely to than not.

I could hardly hang around to argue about it; I didn’t intend to go back to jail merely for the satisfaction of demonstrating that history cannot be greatly influenced by the actions of a single individual. I still wanted to prove that wrong. There wasn’t much I could do for Henry, but at least I might be able to save myself.

I tiptoed down the servants’ staircase at the far end of the corridor, down into the bowels of the old kitchens, and, when I was satisfied that Henry had unleashed the full conversational power of Aunt Gertie on them, slipped quietly out of the tradesmen’s entrance and across the grass to the nearest trees, then circled round to the road where we had left the car. I drove to Hereford, left it in a side street and took the train back to Oxford.

The cars that arrived while Lytten was waiting for Angela to come back down were very quiet, he had to admit. When the doorbell rang he was sitting, unsuspecting, across from his aunt, concentrating hard to make some sense of her increasingly bizarre conversation. Perhaps that was why he had not been as alert as usual. Once upon a time he would never have been caught out so easily.

He looked out of the window. A little posse led by Sam Wind was already at the door, grim and determined. Not much to be done; he was far too old for gymnastics and anyway his mind was on other things. One by one they filed through, but Lytten was already walking silently back to the sitting room.

‘Our dinner guests!’ screeched Aunt Gertie. ‘They’re early!’

Sam ignored her. ‘I’m afraid it’s all over, Henry,’ he said.

‘It is, I fear. I’m disappointed in you, Sam, coming all this way when you have better things to do.’

‘What did you come here for?’

Lytten took the thin volume from his pocket. ‘You won’t find it very illuminating.’

Sam looked at it. ‘What the hell is this?’

‘Ah, now. I suppose you will decide it is some abstruse code. It isn’t. At least, not the variety you want it to be.’

‘When did you become a Soviet agent, Henry? During the war, or was it before that?’

‘What a lazy idea,’ Lytten said mildly. ‘I’m quite offended.’

‘Years of leaks and betrayals. You were untouchable, Portmore’s golden boy throughout the war. No one ever thought of you, you were so protected by his aura. Age, my friend. You should have given up years ago.’

‘You are probably right there,’ Lytten said.

‘The final proof was that man who showed up, and the attack on Volkov.’

‘I see you have been thinking hard. Are you planning to whisk me off somewhere?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then before we leave, Sam Wind, I would like a word in private, if you don’t mind. It won’t take long.’

Wind looked suspicious, then nodded.

‘I think the study still has some glass in the panes. If your friend would stay here...’

Lytten led Wind out of the doors and across the entrance hall. ‘Poor fellow. Half an hour of Gertie and he’ll be the one who goes over to Moscow.’

The room was dark, cold and dusty. It had been his great-uncle’s once, and Lytten thought he could just make out the last whiffs of the pipe tobacco the man had smoked, a peculiar concoction, cherry-flavoured Cavendish, that he had blended specially for him in a tobacconist’s on Holborn. Lytten stood by the fireplace — why he wasn’t certain, as it had not been lit for years. It was where his great-uncle had liked to denounce the iniquities of the unions, or the socialists, or the Germans, or anyone who had recently incurred his wrath.

‘Right then. Sit down and listen, if you will. It won’t take long, and then you can take such action as you please. You believe I have incriminated myself. You decide to take Volkov away, so I immediately summon aid from the Soviet embassy, which organises a rapid assassination attempt. Or maybe it was Chang. Rather peculiar behaviour, don’t you think? I may be getting addled, but I am not so far gone that I could not have killed Volkov myself the moment I saw him in Paris.’

‘Volkov is in hospital with a bullet in him.’

‘So you tell me. How is the poor fellow?’

‘He will survive. He was damned lucky.’

‘Good, good.’ Lytten paused for a moment to reflect. ‘That makes it all much easier. Although it is going to be very difficult to explain to him.’

‘I’m sure he understands all too well.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t. It’s not what he signed up for.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘His name is David Kupransky. A part-time lecturer in Russian literature. Always a bit short of cash since his wife left him. She had the money, you see. A great pity, but she found his extravagant White Russian ways a little too much after a while...’

‘Henry!’

‘Hmm? Oh. Yes. I offered him a little money to take part in some amateur theatricals. I wrote the note, sent it to myself via Portmore, and packed him off to Paris, just to see what would happen when he said he could identify a traitor in the service. He was very convincing, I must say, although he hammed it up rather. The point is, I would hardly go to such lengths to shoot a colleague. Common-room politics can get nasty on occasion, but rarely that bad.’

‘You can prove this?’

‘Of course I can. Very easily. Even if he dies, his wife will be able to identify him.’

‘So what about Volkov? The real one? Was there a real one?’

Lytten shrugged. ‘I knew someone of that name in Berlin, but I’ve not heard anything of him since. He might have been shot, for all I know.’

‘All of this was a trick? Why?’

‘To catch you. Portmore’s orders. Or rather, not to catch you.’

Sam Wind tried to take up a pose of knowing lack of concern, and Lytten leant against the mantelpiece and wished he had a pipe.

‘I have gone through everyone over the last two years, Sam. Portmore was convinced there was a traitor and told me to find him before he retired. I didn’t want to, but you know how persuasive he is. So I did as he asked, ticking you all off my list, one by one. Slogged through the papers, the old reports. I laid little traps to see who responded. Nothing. Two years of work, and nothing. Not even the suggestion of a bite.

‘So I was down to you. Everyone else could be cleared. You were the last. Poor old Portmore was getting very agitated by this stage, or as agitated as he ever gets, and I felt sure I was close to finding out. You were the only person I hadn’t checked on.

‘Then it occurred to me that I should be thorough. There was a huge gaping hole in my investigation; one other person I’d left out. So I decided to do both at the same time.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Portmore himself,’ Lytten said. ‘I could see a trial where some defence counsel tried to get you off by besmirching his reputation, making innuendos and asking why he hadn’t been subject to the same investigation as everyone else. So I gave some information about Volkov to you, some to Portmore.

‘I told him I was going to Paris, but I didn’t tell you, and I was followed. I told you, but not Portmore, when Volkov was coming to Oxford, and that man Chang showed up.

‘So it was even. Either of you could be the one. Except that Mr Chang, my watcher, was a nobody. He’s reappeared, by the way, and you can talk to him yourself. The point is, he is completely harmless and was only interested in that manuscript you just took off me. I came to fetch it as I felt somewhat guilty about him getting an arrow in his backside.’

‘A what?’

‘A long story. The point is that I didn’t have any proof one way or the other, so I had one last go. When you stuffed Volkov into a van and packed him off to a secure location, I rang Portmore to say where he was going and when he would arrive. Two hours later, he was shot. Couldn’t have been you. You were with me all the time, or with that young man from counter-intelligence next door. You didn’t make a phone call. You could not possibly have ordered the attack, and only one other person could have done it. As I say, it is going to be hard to apologise enough to Kupransky. Do you think you could get him a proper lectureship in London? Something with a nice pension?’

‘Henry, you are being—’

‘Portmore isn’t afraid of handing the Service over to a Russian spy when he retires, Sam. He is afraid of not handing it over to a Russian spy.’

Lytten now sat down next to Wind, rubbing his hands together to ward off the cold. ‘You are — must be — a front runner for Portmore’s job. He wanted you out of the way and discredited so his own candidate would succeed. He even told me he thought it necessary to bypass all the senior candidates. If I could somehow nail you that would have been good, but I’m sure his idea was that I should come up with nothing conclusive. He would then argue that a shadow hung over everyone, so you would all have to be passed over just in case. Gontal gave me the idea.’

‘Who?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Who is his candidate?’

‘I have no idea. We will just have to wait and see.’

‘You mean leave him in his post? That’s ridiculous.’

‘Think of the entirely false information you can funnel to the Russians. Think of the ways you now have of guarding the few people we have left. Think of the pleasure of waiting until his chosen successor is named, then grabbing both of them.’

‘Are you sure of this?’

‘I have tried not even to think about it too much. But yes. I am sure.’

Wind sat disconsolately on the settee, looking, for the first time in years, incapable of dealing with the situation.

‘I’m sorry, Sam. I have had longer to get used to the idea than you have. I revered Portmore as well. He was — and in his way he still is — courageous and loyal. He was magnificent during the war, but I am certain he is the spy we’ve all been hunting for so many years. If you set up a proper investigation I’m sure you will find enough to confirm it.’

‘It is a thin case.’

‘At the moment. It would not stand up in court, and if the Americans ever find out that every secret they shared was as good as posted direct to Moscow, we would never be able to hold our heads up in public again.’

‘So?’

‘Quiet retirement, a knighthood, maybe the master of a Cambridge college, in exchange for a full accounting and his protégé’s head on a platter. Not much choice, really. Besides, he once really was a hero. We owe him that.’

Wind leant forward, his hands together against his mouth. ‘Jesus,’ he said softly. ‘When did you work this out?’

‘I didn’t suspect him until I had to. I took him for granted as the best and most doggedly loyal of men. Which he was, of course. Just loyal to something else.’

‘I wonder where Angela is?’ Lytten asked, after a brief search of the house produced no sign of her. ‘Sam, could you send some of your minions round the back to see if the car is still there?’

They came back ten minutes later to report that there was no car, just some fresh tyre tracks.

‘She must have heard you arrive and feared the worst. Not surprisingly, I suppose; she’s already spent much of the day in a cell, and she’s a bit busy at the moment. Her opinion of you will probably never recover.’

‘I will apologise unreservedly when I get the opportunity.’

‘I just hope she doesn’t do anything rash, like disappear for good.’

‘How could she do that?’

‘You’d be surprised. Now I’m stranded. You’ll have to drive me home, Sam. I can’t stay here.’

‘Not immediately. I must see Volkov first, or whatever his name really is. I need a statement from him, and I’ll need one from you as well. That can’t wait. I can get you to a train in the morning.’

‘Very well,’ Lytten replied. ‘I don’t suppose a few hours will make any difference.’

So Sam dispatched his men, while Lytten said goodbye to his aunt and promised that he would come again soon.

‘Bring that nice young girl with you. Very charming, she is.’

‘I will if I can,’ he promised.

Then he and Wind walked out into the evening air.

‘At least it’s not raining,’ Lytten said. ‘Quite a pleasant evening, in fact.’

‘It won’t last,’ Wind grumbled. ‘You’ll see.’