Provender Gleed (16 page)

Late in the afternoon, with Venice all but gone, Cynthia came out and exchanged a few words with the foreman overseeing the demolition. If the foreman thought she seemed wan and listless, her conversation not at all sparkling, he put it down to the effects of a hard night's partying.

Back indoors, her duty discharged, Cynthia debated whether to try taking a nap again. She was bone-deep weary. However, she had gone to bed earlier in the afternoon and not managed so much as a wink of sleep, her head a churning vortex of suppositions and fears. She didn't think she would have any better luck this time.

Keep moving. Keep busy.

She headed for the eastern end of the house, where Great's quarters were. On the way, she passed Triumph. The statue's ivory eyes, gazing down from its golden face, seemed to taunt her as she went by. Cynthia, by way of rebuke, reminded herself that Triumph's beauty was purely superficial. Such a weight of soft metal and brittle tusk could not support itself unaided. Within the statue lay an armature of thick iron bars, the crude, mundane truth behind the magisterial illusion.

Great lived in what had come to be called the Granny Flat - a self-contained ground-floor annex with its own private patio outside and, inside, all the plush amenities you would expect. For Great's benefit, it was additionally kitted out with a panoply of medical and orthopaedic equipment, and there was a telephone hotline straight to the nearest hospital, in Reading, where the doctors were ready to drop everything and come running if an emergency arose. The annex was a more than agreeable place in which to spend the last few years of your life, and back in another age, before the events of this morning, before her world collapsed, Cynthia had always foreseen herself retiring happily here, conceding full run of the house to the next generation and its progeny. Anticipating that she would outlive her husband, she had looked forward to being a resident grandmother, on hand but not in the way. Now, all at once, the prospect of such a future seemed an unrealisable dream.

Her knock on the Granny Flat's main door went unanswered. She knocked again, with still no response, and so opened the door and strode in. Sounds of splashing drew her to the bathroom, and she tendered a 'Hello?' as she neared it.

'One moment, ma'am.'

Not one but several moments later, Carver emerged from the bathroom. He had an apron on and his shirtsleeves rolled up, and he was drying off his forearms with a towel.

'Great offers his apologies but he is taking a bath and cannot see you right now. If you were to come back in half an hour...?'

'As a matter of fact, Carver, it's you I want to talk to. Would that be possible?'

Carver glanced towards the bathroom doorway. 'I'm sure I can spare a minute or so. Great will summon me back if he needs me. How may I be of assistance?'

Cynthia marshalled her thoughts. Deprived of sleep, her brain seemed to be mired in mud.

'My husband has left for the Island,' she began.

'Indeed, ma'am. He and Master Fortune departed for the airfield an hour ago. I imagine the dirigible is taking to the sky even as we speak.'

'He's called an Extraordinary Congress.'

'That he has.'

'I'm afraid he's going to do something rash.'

'It's not my place to speculate on such matters.'

'He's blaming the Kuczinskis for Provender's disappearance.'

'The enmity between the two Families goes far back, ma'am.'

'Do you think he's right, then?'

'I couldn't say.'

'But you fought in the War.'

'I fought against the Pan-Slavic Confederation army. I fought Eastern European soldiers. I didn't fight the Kuczinskis directly. I was a mere infantryman, as was my master.'

'But war was sparked by a dispute between Gleeds and Kuczinskis.'

'A spat at a Family Congress - that, as I recall, was the catalyst, ma'am. Wojtek Kuczinski believed that Basil Gleed made an insulting reference to his albinism. Allegedly Master Basil called him a "white bastard" but in all probability what he said was "right bastard". Still an insult but not quite so personal. If only Master Basil had been able to overcome his speech impediment... It always flared up at moments of tension. But then it is said, isn't it, that the wheels of history turn on the tiniest of factors. Cleopatra's Nose and all that.'

'And I'm concerned that history is about to repeat itself, Carver. Prosper has gone completely off the deep end. I've never seen him like this. It's as if he's suddenly discovered a purpose in life, after fifty-odd years of significantly failing to do so. But the thing is, he's spent so long doing nothing, just idling along, that now that there's a crisis he doesn't know how to react. He's
over
reacted.'

'Again, ma'am, not my place to speculate.'

'I know. I know. I shouldn't really be burdening you with all this.'

'However, ma'am,
were
it my place, I would be expressing an opinion not entirely contrary to yours. I would add that it is good that that Master Prosper's brother has gone with him. My hope would be that Master Fortune might act as a calming influence on Master Prosper. Perhaps, when they get to the Island, Master Fortune will be able to mitigate anything Master Prosper might say to the head of the Kuczinskis. Serve as a buffer between the two of them, perhaps.'

'I wish I shared your optimism.'

Carver gave a broad-shouldered shrug. 'Master Fortune's conviviality can be infectious. But I'm sensing, ma'am, that you're not here for just a sympathetic ear. You want something more from me. Perhaps some form of practical help...?'

'Carver,' Cynthia said, nodding, 'practical help would be immensely welcome.'

'Specifically?'

'There has to be something we can do.
You
can do. To find out who has Provender.'

'Go to the police, perhaps.'

'Not the police. Not yet.'

'They have the resources. The manpower.'

'They also don't know how to keep their mouths shut. Gone are the days when you could be sure the police would act on a Family's behalf quietly and discreetly. Now, you call them in, and next thing you know, one of them's gone to the press or a TV station and told all, and it becomes a circus.'

'The modern media's interest in the Families is insatiable.'

'There's money to be made out of us, that's the trouble.'

'It's a debased age,' Carver said, with feeling.

Cynthia did not demur. 'So no, not the police. Not unless we absolutely have to. The longer we can keep this to ourselves, the better. What that leaves us with, however...'

Carver waited, then realised he was being asked to contribute. 'What that leaves us with, ma'am,' he said, 'is some kind of private avenue of investigation.'

'Yes.'

'Some independent organisation without authority ties, looking into the matter.'

'You sound,' Cynthia said, 'as though you may have something in mind.'

'Not necessarily.'

'Please say you do.'

'There is one possibility that occurs, ma'am. I cannot guarantee it will bear fruit, but I do believe discretion could be assured, which is a significant factor.'

'What is it? What do you have in mind?'

'I would require your permission to act in any way I see fit, and a substantial discretionary fund to draw on.'

'You have both.'

'I will not, however, be able to set anything in motion until tomorrow.'

'Why not?'

'Late on a Sunday afternoon, I fear that I would not be able to contact those whom I need to contact.'

'But you could first thing tomorrow?'

'I could, ma'am. First thing.'

There came a tapping from the bathroom, the familiar arrhythmic drumming of Great's signet ring. Against the bath's ceramic side the ring made a sharper and more resonant sound than it did when striking the frame of Great's wheelchair.

'My master calls,' Carver said. 'I must go to him. You'll excuse me.'

'Of course. Oh, but before you do, just one last thing. Fort mentioned something about an anomaly. Some kind of problem with the catering staff last night. He said you were looking into it.'

'That's correct. I have indeed looked into it.'

'And?'

'Master Prosper didn't inform you of my findings?'

'Obviously not.' Cynthia had had no contact with her husband since slapping him in his study. She and he had been scrupulously avoiding each other all day.

'It may be that two members of the catering staff left the party early last night,' Carver said. 'The head count at the end of the proceedings came up short. Now, it's by no means certain that the two were the kidnappers. They may simply have got fed up with working and decided to leave.'

'It's odd, though. They wouldn't have got paid.'

'Very odd. Unfortunately, we have little further information to go on.'

'We don't even have their names?'

'We have what appear to be false ones. It seems that the catering company is somewhat lackadaisical in its employment practices. It's very much a cash-in-hand, quick-turnover-of-staff type of business. I don't think a great amount of background vetting goes on.'

'But that's appalling. We hired these people! They were doing the catering for a Family event!'

'I suspect, if it proves they
were
at fault, they shan't be doing the catering for any kind of event ever again. But as I said, it's by no means certain this has any bearing on the situation whatever. There may even have been a miscount. I will continue to look into the matter and see what I can turn up.'

'Do.'

The tapping from the bathroom became louder and more insistent.

'And now, ma'am, if you don't mind, I really must attend to my master.' Carver leaned close, dropping his voice. 'Between you and me, Great isn't in the best of moods this evening. I'm due to give him his bimonthly prostate massage later - a procedure he seldom looks forward to. A procedure I can't say
I
look forward to much either.'

Cynthia wrinkled her nose. 'Who would? Off you go then. And Carver?'

'Yes, ma'am?'

'Thank you.'

She left the Granny Flat feeling comforted. She had been reluctant to go to Carver but was now pleased she had. He would do what he could. He hadn't held out any false hopes but he had at least given her
some
hope where before there had been none.

She ate a light supper with Gratitude and Extravagance, and retired to bed straight afterward.

There was a bottle of Oneirodam in the drawer of her nightstand which Cynthia usually had recourse to when she found herself in bed alone. Tonight, however, she didn't need to take any of the sleeping pills. No sooner had she lain down than oblivion engulfed her in a warm, welcome wave. Her night was empty of dreams.

Monday dawn came.

PART III

21

In an insalubrious borough of London, off an insalubrious street, down an insalubrious side-alley, you would come across the entrance to an insalubrious office building. Inside the building, if you mounted an insalubrious flight of stairs, through storeys that were of ever increasing insalubriousness, to a top floor that was the most insalubrious of all, you would find yourself on an in-no-way-salubrious landing. Passing along this landing, perhaps abandoning all hope of ever rediscovering salubrity, you would arrive at a door which may once have been tidy and shipshape, its paint not peeled, its mottled-glass windowpane not cracked, but which was now regrettably of a piece with its surroundings, a portal that was the epitome of insalubriousness. And on the windowpane you would see inscribed, in mostly intact transfer letters, the words:

MILNER & MOORE

ANAGRAMMATIC DETECTIVES

accompanied by the slogan:

'
HONESTLY
? OR
ON THE SLY
?

WE CAN TELL YOU WHICH!'

And if, during usual office hours, you were to pass through this door, you would almost inevitably discover two men sitting in the room within. Two besuited, unassuming-looking men whom you might, if you didn't know otherwise, take for accounts clerks or bank tellers. That punctiliousness in their faces. That air of needing everything to be exact and due. That sharply side-parted hair. Those analysing eyes.

Their full names were Merlin Milner and Romeo Moore, but their parents could hardly have christened them less appositely, since neither man lived up to his forename. There was nothing wildly wizardrous about Milner, nor anything dashingly romantic about Moore. Then again, both possessed abilities which some might say were magical, and both were passionate about words and wordplay to a degree that might be called amorous.

Their names, at any rate, had played a significant role in determining their choice of career. Born and brought up in different parts of the capital, at an early age Milner and Moore separately came to the same realisation. Each noticed that his forename and surname consisted of the same letters jumbled up. This led to an interest in anagrams and in word games generally, and, as time went by, interest blossomed into an overwhelming compulsion. Acrostics, telestichs, pangrams, chronograms, codes - all grist to the mill for Milner and Moore. But anagrams were their first love, and though they might dally for a while with palindromes, say, or rebuses, or even lipograms, to anagrams they would always faithfully return.

There was, it seemed to them, something almost mystical about the way one word or phrase could be reconstituted to form another word or phrase. It felt as if one were playing with the stuff of existence, the very building blocks of life. To manipulate the letters, to randomise, to induce chaos and then reassert order, a new order - it was a heady thrill, and one they could not tire of. Research told them they were not alone in this. Anagrammatising had a long and noble tradition, going back to the medieval Jewish Cabbalists and even further to the Ancient Greeks. The use of anagrams as a tool of divination was common to those two races and to many others.