The House on the Strand

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I DID NOT wake up until after ten, and when I did Vita was standing by the bed with the breakfast tray of toast and coffee.

"Huh," I said. "I must have overslept."

"Yes," she said, and then, looking at me critically, "Are you feeling all right?"

I sat up in bed and took the tray from her. "Perfectly," I said. "Why?"

"You were restless during the night", she told me, "and perspired a great deal. Look, your pyjama top is quite damp."

It was, and I threw it off. "Extraordinary thing," I said. "Be an angel and get me a towel."

She brought me one from the bathroom, and I rubbed myself down before reaching for the coffee.

"Something to do with all that exercise on Par beach with the boys," I said.

"I wouldn't have thought so," she replied, staring at me, puzzled, "and anyway you took a bath afterwards. I've never known you perspire from exercise before."

"Well, it happens to people," I said. "It's my age-group. The male menopause, perhaps, striking me down in my prime."

"I hope not," she said. "How very unpleasant." She wandered over to the dressing-table and surveyed herself in the mirror as if that might hold the answer to the problem. "It's odd," she went on, "but both Diana and I remarked on the fact that you weren't looking yourself despite that suntan from sailing." She wheeled round suddenly, facing me. "You must admit you're not a hundred per cent," she went on. "I don't know what it is, darling, but it worries me. You're moody, distrait, as if you had something on your mind all the time. Then that funny bloodshot eye…"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I interrupted, "give it a miss, can't you? I admit I was foul-tempered when Bill and Diana were here, and I apologise. We all had too much to drink, and that was that. Must we do a post-mortem on every hour?"

"There you go again," she said. "Always on the defensive. I hope the arrival of your Professor straightens you out."

"It will," I answered, "providing this inquisition on our behaviour doesn't continue through the entire weekend."

She laughed, or rather her mouth twitched in the way wives mouths are wont to twitch when they desire to inflict a wound upon the husband. "I would not dare presume to conduct an inquisition on the Professor. His state of health and his behaviour are no concern of mine, but yours are. I happen to be your wife, and I love you."

She left the room and went downstairs, and this, I thought, as I buttered my piece of toast, is a good beginning to the day — Vita offended, myself with the sweating sickness, and Magnus due to arrive some time in the evening.

There was a card on the breakfast tray from him, as it happened, hidden by the toast-rack. I wondered if Vita had obscured it deliberately. It said he would be catching the 4.30 from London, arriving at Saint Austell around ten. This was a relief. It meant that Vita and the boys could go to bed, or at any rate only stay up for the courtesy of greeting the new arrival, and then Magnus and I could talk in comfort on our own. Cheered, I got up, and bathed and dressed with a determination to improve upon the morning's mood and abase myself before Vita and the boys.

"Magnus won't be here until after ten," I shouted down the stairs, "so there's no food problem. He'll dine on the train. What does everybody want to do?"

"Go sailing," cried the boys, who were hanging about in the hail in the customary aimless fashion of all children who are incapable of organising their own day.

"No wind," I said, with a rapid glance out of the window on the stairs.

"Then hire a motor boat," said Vita, emerging from the direction of the kitchen.

I decided to appease them all, and we set forth from Fowey with a picnic lunch and our skipper Tom in charge, this time not in the sailing-boat but in an ex-lifeboat of his own conversion with an honest chug-chug engine that forged along at about five knots and not a centimetre faster. We went east, out of the harbour, and anchored off Lanlivet Bay, where we picnicked, swam, and took our ease, everybody happy. Half a dozen mackerel caught on the homeward journey proved a further delight for Teddy and Micky, and a sop to Vita's culinary plans for the evening meal. The expedition had proved an unqualified success.

"Oh, do say we can come again tomorrow," pleaded the boys, but Vita, with a glance at me, told them it would depend upon the Professor. I saw their faces fall, and guessed their feelings. What could be more boring than to have to adjust themselves to this possibly stuffy friend of their stepfather's whom instinct told them their mother did not care for anyway?

"You can go with Tom", I said, "even if Magnus and I have other plans. " In any event, I thought, a let-out for us, and Vita would hardly allow them to go alone, even in Tom's charge.

We arrived back at Kilmarth about seven o'clock, Vita going immediately to the kitchen to see about the mackerel, while I had a bath and changed. It was not until about ten to eight that I wandered down the front stairs into the dining room and saw the piece of paper in Mrs. Collins handwriting propped up against the place where I usually sat. It read: 'Telegram came over the phone to say Professor Lane is I catching the 2.30 train from London instead of the 4.30. Arriving Saint Austell 7.30.'

God! Magnus must have been kicking his heels at Saint Austell station for the last twenty minutes… I tore into the kitchen.

"Crisis!" I shouted. "Look at this! I've only just seen it. Magnus caught an earlier train. Why the hell didn't he telephone? What a bloody mess-up!"

Vita, distraught, looked at the half-fried mackerel. "He'll be here for dinner, then? Good heavens, I can't give him this! I must say it shows very little consideration for us. Surely—"

"Of course Magnus will eat mackerel," I shouted, already half-way down the back stairs. "Brought up on it, very probably. And we've cheese and fruit. What are you fussing about?"

I tore out to the car, in half-agreement with her immediate reaction that to change his time of arrival, knowing we could easily be out for the day, showed small consideration for his hosts. But that was Magnus. An earlier train had suited his plans and he had caught it. If I arrived late to meet him he would probably take a taxi and pass me en route with a callous wave of the hand.

Ill-luck dogged me to Saint Austell. Some fool had driven his car into the side of the road, and there was a long queue of traffic waiting to get past. It was a quarter to nine before I drew up at Saint Austell station. No sign of Magnus, and I did not blame him. The platform was empty, and everywhere seemed to be shut up. Finally I routed out a porter on the other side of the station. He looked vague, and told me that the seven-thirty had been on time.

"I dare say," I replied. "That's not the point. The point is I was meeting someone off it, and he isn't here."

"Well, sir," he grinned, "he probably got tired of waiting and took a taxi."

"If he'd done that", I said, "he would have telephoned, or left a message with the chap in the booking-office. Were you here when the train came in?"

"No," he said. "The booking-office will be open again in time for the next down train, due at a quarter to ten."

"That's no good to me," I told him, exasperated. Poor devil, it wasn't his fault.

"I tell you what, sir," he said, "I'll open it up and see if your friend left a message."

We went back to the station and laboriously, or so it seemed to me, he fitted a key in the lock and opened the office door. I followed close behind. The first thing I noticed was a suitcase standing against the wall with the initials M. A. L. upon it.

"That's it," I said, "that's his case. But why did he leave it here?" The porter went to the desk and picked up a piece of paper. "Suitcase with initials M. A. L. handed in by guard on seven-thirty train," he read, "to be delivered to gentleman named Mr. Richard Young. You Mr. Young?"

"Yes," I said, "but where's Professor Lane?"

The porter studied the piece of paper. "Owner of suitcase, Professor Lane, gave message to guard that he had changed his mind and decided to get out at Par and walk from there. Told guard Mr. Young would understand. He handed me the scrap of paper, and I read it for myself."

"I don't understand," I said, more exasperated than ever. "I didn't think the London trains stopped at Par these days."

"They don't," replied the porter. "They stop at Bodmin Road, and anyone wanting Par changes there, and gets the connection. That's what your friend must have done."

"What a bloody silly thing to do," I said.

The porter laughed. "Well, it's a fine evening for a walk," he said, "and there's no accounting for tastes."

I thanked him for his trouble and went back to the car, throwing the suitcase on the back seat. Why the hell Magnus should take it into his head to alter every one of our arrangements beat me. He must be at Kilmarth by this time, sitting down to his mackerel supper, making a joke of the affair to Vita and the boys. I drove back at breakneck speed and arrived home just after half-past nine, furiously angry. Vita, changed into a sleeveless frock and with fresh make-up on, appeared from the music-room as I ran up the steps.

"Whatever happened to you both?" she said, the hostess smile of welcome fading as she saw I was alone. "Where is he?"

"You mean to say he hasn't turned up yet?" I cried.

"Turned up?" she repeated, bewildered. "Of course he hasn't turned up. You met the train, didn't you?"

"Oh, Jesus! What the hell is going on? Look," I said wearily, "Magnus wasn't at Saint Austell, only his suitcase. He left a message with the guard on the 7.30 train that he'd be getting out at Par and walking here. Don't ask me why. One of his bloody silly ideas. But he should have been here by now."

I went into the music-room and poured myself a drink and Vita followed, the boys running down to the car to fetch the suitcase.

"Well really," she said, "I expected more consideration from your Professor, I must say. First he changes trains, then he changes connections, and finally he doesn't bother to turn up at all. I expect he found a taxi at Par and has gone off to have dinner somewhere."

"Maybe, I said, but why not telephone to say so?"

"He's your friend, darling, not mine. You're supposed to know his ways. Well, I'm not going to wait any longer, I'm starving."

The uncooked mackerel was put aside for Magnus's breakfast, though I was pretty sure orange juice and black coffee would be his choice, and Vita and I sat down to a hasty snack of game pie, which she remembered she had brought down from London and had put at the back of the fridge. Meanwhile Teddy rang, or tried to ring, Par station, with no result.

"They did not answer. You know what," he said, "the Professor may have been kidnapped by some organisation in search of secret documents."

"Very likely," I said. "I'll give him half an hour longer and then ring Scotland Yard."

"Or had a heart attack," suggested Micky, "flogging up Polmear hill. Mrs. Collins told me her grandfather died walking up it thirty years ago when he missed the bus." I pushed aside my plate and swallowed the last drop of whisky.

"You're perspiring again, darling," said Vita. "I can't say I blame you. But don't you think it might be a good idea if you went up and changed your shirt?"

I took the hint and left the dining-room, pausing at the top of the stairs to glance into the spare-room. Why the hell hadn't Magnus telephoned to say what he was doing, or at least written a note instead of giving the guard a verbal message that had probably been garbled anyway? I drew the curtains and switched on the bedside light, which made the room look more snug. Magnus's suitcase was lying on the chair at the bottom of the bed, and I tried the hasps. To my surprise it opened. Magnus, unlike myself, was a methodical packer. Sky-blue pyjamas and Paisley dressing-gown reposed beneath a top layer of tissue paper, with blue leather bedroom slippers in their own cellophane container alongside. A couple of suits, a change of underwear beneath. Well, it was not an hotel or a stately home; he could do his own unpacking. The only gesture from host to guest — or was it the other way round? — would be to place the pyjamas on the pillow and drape the dressing-gown over the chair.

I took both out of the case, and saw that there was a long, buff-coloured envelope immediately beneath them, and typed upon it the words: 'Otto Bodrugan. Writ and Inquisition. 10 Oct. 5 Edward III. (1331)'

The student must have been at work again. I sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the envelope. It was a copy of a document giving the names of the various manors and lands owned by Otto Bodrugan at the time of his death. The manor of Bodrugan was amongst them, but he apparently paid rent for it to Joanna, Relict of Henry de Campo Arnulphi (which must be Champernoune). A further paragraph followed: 'Henry his son, aged twenty-one years and more, was his next heir, who died three weeks after his said father, so that he had no seisin in the inheritance aforesaid, nor did he know of his father's death. William son of the aforesaid Otto, and brother of the said Henry, aged twenty years on the morrow of the feast of Saint Giles last, is his next heir.' It was a strange sensation, sitting there on the bed, reading something I already knew. The monks had done their best, or perhaps their worst, for young Henry at the Priory, and he had not survived. I was glad he had never been told of his father's death.

There was another long list of properties which Henry, if he had lived, would have inherited from Otto, and then a further note, taken from the Calendar of Fine Rolls.

'Oct. 10. Westminster. 1331. Order to the escheator on this side Trent to take into the King's hand the lands late of Otto de Bodrugan, deceased, tenant-in-chief.'

The student had scribbled P.T.O. at the bottom of the page, and turning over I found a half-page attached, also taken from the Calendar of Fine Rolls, and dated Nov. 14th, 1331, from Windsor.

'Order to the escheator on this side Trent to take into the King's hand the lands late of John de Carminowe, deceased, tenant-in-chief. The like to the same touching the lands of Henry son of Otto de Bodrugan.'

So Sir John must have caught the infection he had so greatly feared and died immediately, and Joanna had lost her choice of a second husband…

I forgot the present, forgot the mix-up at the station, and sat there on the spare-room bed thinking about the other world, wondering what advice, if any, Roger had given to the disappointed Joanna Champernoune. The two Bodrugan deaths, with the successor her nephew and a minor, must have given her every hope of greater power over the Bodrugan lands, and just as the power was within her grasp she found the tables turned, and the Keeper of Restormel and Tremerton Castles gone as well. I felt almost sorry for her. And for Sir John, who, luckless fellow, had held his handkerchief to his mouth in vain. Who would take his place as keeper of castles, woods and parks in the county of Cornwall? Not his brother Oliver, I hoped, the bloody murderer…

"What are you going to do?" Vita called up the stairs. Do? What could I do? Oliver had ridden off with his gang of thugs leaving Roger to take care of Isolda. I still did not know what had happened to Isolda…

I heard Vita coming up the stairs, and instinctively I put the papers back in the envelope and stuffed them in my pocket, closing the suitcase. I must switch myself back to the present. This was not the moment to become confused.

"I was just getting out Magnus's pyjamas and dressing-gown," I said as she came into the room. "He'll be pretty well fagged out when he does turn up."

"Why not run his bath for him as well?" she countered. "And lay a tray for early morning tea? I didn't notice you being so attentive a host to Bill and Diana."

I ignored the sarcasm and went along to my dressing-room. The murmur of the television came from the library below. "Time those boys went to bed," I said, without conviction.

"I promised them they could wait up for the Professor," said Vita, "but really I think you're right, there's not much point in their hanging about any longer. Don't you think you ought to drive down to Par? He might be in some pub getting blind to the world."

"Magnus isn't the type to hang about in pubs."

"Well then, he must have come across old friends and has been taking dinner off them instead of us."

"Very unlikely. And damn rude not to telephone," I replied. We went together down the stairs and into the hall, and I added, "Anyway, he doesn't have any local friends, to my knowledge."

Vita suddenly gave a little cry. "I know," she said, "he's met the Carminowes! They haven't got a telephone. That's what's happened. He must have run into them at Par, and they took him back to dine with them."

I stared at her, my brain confused. What on earth was she talking about? And suddenly I knew. Suddenly the message from the guard came clear and full of meaning. Owner of suitcase, Professor Lane, gave message to guard that he had changed his mind and decided to get out at Par, and walk from there. Told guard Mr. Young would understand. Magnus had taken the local connection from Bodmin Road to Par because it would travel more slowly through the Trees-mill valley than the express. He knew, from my description, that he had only to look left and up, after passing above Treesmill Farm, to see the Gratten. Then, because it was still light when the train arrived at Par, he would have walked up the Tywardreath road and cut across the fields to inspect the site.

"God!" I exclaimed. "What a fool I've been! It never entered my head. Of course that's it."

"You mean he's gone to see the Carminowes?" said Vita. I suppose I was tired. I suppose I was excited. I suppose I was relieved. All three in one, and I could not bother to explain or think up some different lie. The most natural thing to say just tripped off my tongue.

"Yes," I replied. I ran down the steps and across the front path to the car.

"But you don't know where they live!" called Vita.

I did not answer. I waved my hand and leapt into the car, and in a moment I was tearing up the drive and out on to the road. It was quite dark, with only a waning moon that did not help, but I took the short cut up the lane skirting the village, meeting no one on the way, and parked in the lay-by near the house called Hill Crest. If Magnus found the car before I found him he would recognise it, and wait for me. It was hard going across the field to the Gratten, stumbling about amongst the banks and mounds, and I shouted for him, once I was well out of earshot of the house, but he did not answer. I covered the site thoroughly, but there was no sign of him. I walked along the lower path to the valley itself and down to Treesmill Farm, but he was not there either. Then I walked up the road to the top of the hill and back to the car. It was as I had left it, empty. I drove down into the village, and walked round the churchyard. The hands on the clock-face said after half-past eleven; I had been searching for Magnus for over an hour. I went to the telephone-box near the hairdresser and dialled Kilmarth. Vita answered immediately. "Any luck?" she asked. My heart sank. I had hoped he might have arrived home. "No, not a trace of him."

"What about the Carminowes? Did you find their house?"

"No," I said, "no, I think we were on the wrong track there. It was stupid of me. Actually, I've no idea where they live."

"Well, someone must know," she said. "Why don't you ask the police?"

"No," I said, "it wouldn't do any good. Look, I'll drive down the village to the station and then come slowly home. There's nothing more I can do."

But Par station appeared to be closed for the night, and though I circled Par itself twice there was no sign of Magnus.

I began to pray, Oh, God, let me see him walking up Polmear hill! I knew just how he would look, my headlights picking him up at the side of the road, the tall angular figure with a loping stride, and I would hoot loudly and he would stop, and I would say to him, What the bloody hell..

He was not there, though. There was no one there. I turned down the Kilmarth drive, and walked slowly up the steps into the house. Vita was waiting for me by the porch. She looked distressed. "Something must have happened to him," she said. "I do think you ought to ring up the police."

I brushed past her and went upstairs. "I'll unpack his things," I said. "He may have left a note. I don't know…"

I took his clothes out of the suitcase and hung them in the wardrobe, and put his shaving tackle in the bathroom. I kept telling myself that any moment I should hear a car coming down the drive, a taxi, and Magnus would jump out of it, laughing, and Vita would call up the stairs to me, He's here, he's arrived!

There was no note. I felt in all the pockets. Nothing. Then I turned to the dressing-gown, which I had unpacked already. My hand closed upon something round in the lefthand pocket, and I drew it out. It was a small bottle, which I recognised at once. It bore a label: B. It was the bottle I had posted to him the week before, and it was empty.