The Secret Vanguard (5 page)

Sheila suppressed an impulse of panic and thought hard.
There’s a rug in the car
…the words of a young man who had once tried to make love to her near the Forth Bridge. It was not that she apprehended anything of the sort from the man opposite. The words – words which were a kind of password or call-sign – had already drifted into her head that day when she was on the bridge, when – yes, that was it – when the man she had thought of as Pennyfeather had said ‘Poetry?’ so irritably. Surely–’

‘Showing off, I suppose,’ said the man opposite. ‘Quite little chaps like that often try. Scribbled poetry himself when he ought to be totting up his ledgers, no doubt. And I must say it sounded just like the rest to me… Are you going far?’

‘Drumtoul – four stops on.’ Sheila spoke automatically. The rhythm of the train had changed; it was running downhill and on one side the pass had opened out upon a lonely moor. A single large cloud, ragged and tinged with evening, was in the sky; the sheep as they scuttled away from the line were already uncertain outlines merged in dusk. Something prompted Sheila to add: ‘I’m being met by friends.’

The man opposite said nothing, but he took another glance at the baggage in the rack. Then he looked at the communication cord: it ran above his and Sheila’s head. And then, as if he wanted a different view, he moved casually across the compartment to the corner where Sheila had first sat. He smiled – a smile which belonged accurately to Burge’s better self. Imaginative young women, the smile seemed to say, sometimes liked to feel that the communication cord was securely within their grasp. So let it be like that.

And panic died in Sheila. But perplexity and the beginnings of coherent speculation remained. And in these she was so absorbed that the train had stopped and her mysterious companion jumped out and vanished before she was well aware of what had happened.

So that was that – and a considerable relief, too. But still the puzzle and the wild speculation remained, and with them a more or less urgent sense that something ought to be done… It seemed rather a long stop. Sheila, who was uncertain where the train had got to, put her head out of the window and tried to read the name of the station. The train moved as she did so, and in the same moment the door opened and a man tumbled in. It was her problematical companion once more. He sat down and panted, and it was evident that he was really blown. ‘A near thing,’ he said – and added: ‘No consideration for the travelling public – no consideration at all.’

Burge at his most Burgeish – which meant, surely, that she had not really given herself away? For otherwise would he bother? This time Sheila saw without taking her eyes off
The
Antiquary
and cursed herself for a smart fool. She had put her foot through the ice with a deliberate thrust, and she had deserved to be engulfed. Unless indeed she was making it all up in her head. To steady herself further she drove her mind back to the book. Two new characters had appeared: Lord Glenallan and an alarming old fisherwoman called Elspeth Mucklebackit. They appeared to be discussing some horrid and long-buried secret and they had their being in an atmosphere of the purest melodrama. Had she wantonly generated just such an atmosphere out of nothing in this commonplace railway compartment? Or could it be true that the two men she had called Burge and Pennyfeather…?

Quite abruptly, the train came to a halt. And the man in the corner said: ‘Drumtoul. Here you are.’ Sheila fancied he spoke a shade reluctantly, as if he had barely made up his mind to let her go. But once more he got up to help with her luggage. And as he did so their eyes met.

Sheila rose – and felt herself suddenly trembling. For now she was certain. And it was necessary to get away, to get advice, to find the right person to whom to explain… She was out on the dark platform and he had climbed out too with her bags. She thanked him. He was bare-headed, silhouetted against the dim light from the compartment. He bowed. And there was a faint click in the darkness.

Not Burge, she thought as he climbed back. Not Burge. Dousterswivel – that was it.

And the train whistled and drew off into the night.

My Dear Appleby,

I am sorry to have to put off our next week’s meeting. It appears that the dig at Dabdab must be completed before the rains and Niven is to go in October and my annual holiday is put forward as a consequence of this. If you are in town I shall expect you at our customary place of refection on the twenty-third.

My mind has lingered on the Ploss affair, but not to the extent of seeking it out in the press. I judge it likely that you have ‘cleared it up’ by this time. It may however interest you to know that I traced the inquiry on Bishop Sweetapple – as also another letter to a newspaper which I now enclose. If my memory serves it must have appeared actually after the poor fellow’s death. You remember telling me that he had latterly been coming more frequently to town? It has occurred to me that this might well be on account of the literary work on which he was engaged, and that his visits were to one or another of the metropolitan libraries. Here at the Museum he appears not to have been a reader lately and I am wondering if Dr Borer’s Library in Mecklenburg Square would not be a likely place. I have thought it not quite proper to inquire myself, but I believe you would find Tufton – he has been librarian for many years – most ready to help.

Forgive these probably otiose suggestions and believe me with kind regards – whatever they may be!

AMBROSE HETHERTON

Appleby set down this letter and picked up the scrap of newsprint which had been enclosed with it. Here, he saw, was that ‘something about a poem’ which Hetherton had vainly tried to recall at their last meeting. It was addressed to the editor of a Sunday newspaper and represented a species of inquiry familiar in such journals.

Sir,

I have recently heard repeated – in somewhat peculiar circumstances – a poem of which only the following lines remain in my memory:

Deep in a garden

Far to the north

On a single branch

The Spring crept forth.

Though the air not warm

Nor winter fled…

Would it be too much to ask one of your readers to enlighten me on the authorship of these rather trivial lines?

I am, etc,

PHILIP PLOSS

It would, thought Appleby, be much too much. For by the time any reader could have replied Ploss was dead. He had been shot on a Friday night and this odd little letter had appeared in print two days later. When had it been written? The chatty parts of voluminous Sunday newspapers were probably put in type very early in the week… Appleby picked up a telephone and spent fifteen minutes finding out. It appeared that normally a letter received later than Wednesday was unlikely to appear in the issue next succeeding. But in this particular case it was not so. Another letter had been withdrawn and the responsible sub-editor when searching for a suitable substitute on the Friday morning had noticed Ploss’ name and sent his letter up to the compositors. It had come in only that morning and was dated from his club on the previous day, Thursday. And Thursday, Appleby remembered, had seen Ploss’ last expedition to town.

These were surely what Hetherton might call otiose inquiries. And was it not Hetherton who had once remarked to him with mild severity that thoroughness was an indifferent substitute for logic? Appleby got up, walked to his window, and looked out over the Embankment and the river. What logic could possibly connect with Ploss’ death this futile belletristic inquiry which had been one of his last acts on earth? And what light was likely to be gained from the crepuscular recesses of Dr Borer’s Library? But then – he glanced at the fragment of newsprint again – what did Ploss mean by writing that he had heard the poem repeated in
somewhat peculiar circumstances
…? Appleby reached for his hat.

It was the time of year in which London is theoretically dusty and jaded; ‘empty’ even, if one has a certain point of view. Crossing Trafalgar Square to go up Charing Cross Road, Appleby tried to imagine it as empty indeed. There floated into his head a sinister composition of Chirico’s: a dream picture of vast deserted streets and colonnades, peopled only by a single enigmatic shadow. Like that, perhaps. Only it was impossible to imagine, really. Impossible despite hints and promptings enough. For the city could no longer be called normal – or could no longer be called normal simply. It was normal and waiting: the contradiction alone could express it. Waiting. And when everything waits one has an instinct to hurry. Appleby, who liked to get about London walking, found himself hurrying. It might help if he hurried. It might help if he hurried to Bloomsbury and discovered whether poet Ploss had been getting up Bishop Sweetapple in Dr Borer’s Library.

He hailed a taxi – not because of these irrational speculations but because his time, after all, belonged to a Secretary of State. And in five minutes the taxi, much as if it had been a contraption in a scientific romance, deposited him at the threshold of the eighteenth century. Strange how these severe façades satisfied the mind. Or rather not strange; nothing subtle or inspired was involved – nothing more, probably, than observance of the law of golden section. Strange rather that as if by some act of vast inattention people had just ceased to build that way… Appleby ran up the steps and rang the bell. It was the sort of bell, very evidently, that does not really ring.

He went in, fingering a card to send to Mr Tufton. The place smelt of old leather, tobacco smoke, indifferent drains, and China tea. On the left an Adam staircase, much encumbered with books and papers, swept upwards to a remote skylight; before him hung a large portrait of Dr Borer; from a room on the right came the slow tap-tap of a typewriter inexpertly employed. Appleby turned right. The typewriter was very old; it was being used by a lady who was older still; it was being used, nevertheless, as if it were an intriguing new toy. ‘Can you tell me,’ said Appleby, ‘where I may find Mr Tufton?’

The old lady glanced dimly up from her keyboard. ‘Mr Tufton?’ she said dubiously. ‘Well, he has been in the cellars for some days. And dreadfully busy. A great deal of work on hand. I really wonder’ – the old lady’s nose twitched faintly, as if she was conscious that Appleby had not the right odour of old leather and drains and tea – ‘I really wonder if you could come back another day?’

‘Unfortunately I have rather urgent business. It was my friend Ambrose Hetherton who–’

‘Mr Hetherton of the Museum!’ The old lady was suddenly wreathed in faded smiles. She stood up – not without a cautious glance at the typewriter, as if it was liable to take advantage of her inattention to bound out of the room. ‘I am sure Mr Tufton would like to see you. Will you try the first floor?’ She burrowed amid a pile of papers, unearthed a teapot, and sat down again. ‘Though he really is very absorbed. Ever since Dr Borer died he has had a
great
deal of work on hand.’

Appleby returned to the hall. The portrait of Dr Borer, he was startled to observe, was undoubtedly a Raeburn; Mr Tufton must have been busy for quite an uncommon length of time… He tackled the staircase. It presented considerable difficulties: amid these reefs of mouldering brown leather and breakers of scattered paper it was possible to feel that a stranger would have been the better for a chart. From above, the dingy skylight peered distrustfully down, as if doubtful of its ability to beacon the adventurer to port. On a shadowy landing halfway up, and while he was placing a foot carefully between two enormous folios, he was considerably disconcerted to see an indeterminate patch of faded leather stir before him; for an instant the faded leather became the mild and learned face of a Hindu gentleman; then the appearance faded once more. It was in an almost dreamlike state that Appleby reached the top and walked into the first room he found.

It was filled with tobacco smoke. Through this he presently discerned a second Hindu gentleman perched high on a library ladder and holding a book open in each hand; he was glancing rapidly from book to book with the determined action of a person following fast tennis. Below him and at a small table yet a third Oriental was prosecuting similar literary studies: with the aid of a strong electric light he was subjecting to a species of X-ray examination the pages of a volume yellow with age. And at a desk in the middle of the room sat a man with a long white beard. Appleby advanced to this presiding figure and said: ‘Mr Tufton, I presume?’

It was the man with the white beard who was smoking: the only objects other than books and papers on the desk were a tobacco jar and a fire extinguisher. Now he took his pipe from his mouth and said in a matter-of-fact way: ‘1837. I really believe we have got most of 1837 together at last.’ He looked at Appleby as one who has provided a definite conversational cue.

‘My name,’ said Appleby, ‘is Appleby. I have called–’

‘I believe,’ said Mr Tufton firmly, ‘that we have ’37 pretty well cornered.’

Rather awkwardly, Appleby remarked that this was a capital thing.

‘And I hope,’ continued Tufton, ‘that we shall get some months into ’38 before the end of the present year. Of course it keeps one fairly busy. One feels–’ He glanced round the paper-littered room and hesitated for words.

‘One must feel,’ said Appleby, ‘that there is a great deal of work on hand.’

Tufton, who appeared to be a person of somewhat sombre habit, brightened perceptibly. ‘You phrase it,’ he said, ‘very well. Dr Borer was an indefatigable collector, but I fear he sadly lacked system.’ He began to hunt vaguely about his desk. ‘Yes – I fear the truth is there. And since his death – it happened in ’77, you will recall – I confess that I have been hard at work. The Collection is now in pretty good order, I am glad to think – or will be in quite a measurable time. But then Dr Borer was a diarist too, a voluminous diarist’ – he sighed – ‘a
most
voluminous diarist, it would not be too much to say. I sometimes wish that it had occurred to him to keep his diary in
books
. Loose paper is really not a suitable vehicle for records of that kind. Particularly’ – something which was almost asperity crept into Tufton’s voice – ‘particularly if one is rather careless about inserting dates.’