The Sun Chemist (20 page)

I still couldn’t tell if I was being watched.

As it turned out, there were also a few other things I couldn’t tell about at that time.

I merely got cautiously on with my work, and while I did it,
another government or two collapsed, and the odd riot erupted here and there. But that was in 1974, and I was safely back in the chamber of horrors of 1934.

Kaplan was still too poorly a couple of days later to speak to me, but the great-niece had something useful to offer.

‘I know he is worrying about you, Mr Druyanov,’ she said.

‘Does he say why?’

‘Isn’t it Miss Greatorex’s pension?’

‘What is?’

‘That is worrying you. If she is getting it.’

‘Ah. Yes,’ I said. Kaplan, like Sherlock Holmes, evidently had his methods.

‘Well, she is. He said so when he came back.’

‘Well, that’s very good,’ I said. A moment’s reflection showed that it was; very good. Miss Greatorex; pension; still getting it.

‘He was making further inquiries, knowing your concern, and then this happened. I’ll let you know when he can write, though.’

He was able to write – or, rather, dictate – a couple of days after. I told her not to send the letter to my address but care of the central post office in Trafalgar Square, and next day I went to get it. I made a leisurely journey via the bookshops of Charing Cross Road, and bought a couple of stamps before producing my passport at the post office.

The letter was there; a rather guarded letter, dictated in English.

From the education authorities in Manchester, he’d learned that Miss Greatorex had retired in 1956, at the age of sixty; they had lost track of her when she dropped out of an old teachers’ circle not long after. Taking another tack, he’d contacted the local office of the Ministry of Social Security to insure that her pension was being duly paid; which he was sure I’d be very glad to know was the case, but owing to a certain officiousness they wouldn’t say where.

Through contacts in Bolton he had found the family of a second cousin of Miss Greatorex’s, with whom she had lived in retirement. He had been to see the family and had learned that
on the death of the second cousin, and not wishing to be a burden to the children, Miss Greatorex had decided to remove to
Manchester
to be nearer old friends.

The family in Bolton, although fondly attached to the old lady, had not been in touch with her since 1969, when an exchange of Christmas cards had ceased. This had coincided with a decision of the old lady’s to convert a ‘little bit of money she had on one side’ into a life annuity for herself. With this annuity, she had removed to a private ‘retirement home.’

From the proprietor of her last address he had gathered that the old lady was rather ‘short’ in her ways and not reliable in the matter of correspondence, but from
all
contacts he had gained the impression that her recollections of Mr Bottomley were still green, as were all
mementos of him
, and that she was
hot on pickles
. I could almost hear him smacking his lips as he’d told his amanuensis to underline the relevant phrases.

Before being forcibly put to bed he had apparently written, to her at the retirement home, and though he didn’t expect an answer, he would go there as soon as he was ‘up to snuff.’

I read the letter in a telephone box in the post office, and I carefully tore it into tiny pieces, below the level of the glass window. I felt a fool doing this, but I burned the pieces when I got home.

*

Kaplan was no sooner out of bed than he was up to snuff, and on the phone again.

He had been to the retirement home, a place called Barraclough House, and had found the old lady very short in her ways.

‘I don’t think she is quite mad,’ he said, ‘but it’s a fine line – very fine, you know, in these cases.’

The case seemed to be that Bottomley had been a genius, and some annotations he had made in the lab books had the effect of altering the whole scope and dimensions of science. Unscrupulous people had tried to lay hands on them before, for purposes either of financial gain or scientific renown – apparently a reference to the Bottomley family and Dr Pickles – and she had known how to deal with them.

‘But didn’t you explain –’

‘Of course I did. I told her everything about the Institute.’ She apparently wanted to check his credentials before seeing him again, and he thought I had better write to her immediately on Institute notepaper. ‘Sign yourself as the official representative, you know. She won’t reply but I’ll go and see her again right away.’

*

I wrote the letter, and told Kaplan, and two days later he rang me again, in rather a lather. She wanted to see me herself. She wanted to see me tomorrow. He had tried to get the appointment delayed, but owing to some reason to do with a lawyer, it would have to be tomorrow.

‘You mean a lawyer will be there?’ I said.

‘It’s hard to talk to her, you know. Very short. She talks over you. But she was impressed by your name. She knows all about your father. I think something will be doing. But I have to tell her, you know. Would there be any special difficulty in it?’

I was trying to think of the difficulties. If I got the lab books, I didn’t want to return with them to the flat. I would have to take them immediately to Israel. It was because Olga had, without reason, acted so fast that we had got the letters. Speed was the thing.

‘No. No special difficulty,’ I said slowly.

‘Good. Very good. Take the train, my boy. It’s hard for me to get to the airport. There’s a good one at ten-thirty, nonstop, gets you in well before one. I’ll meet it.’

‘Oh, that isn’t – We could surely meet –’

‘No, I’ll do it. Don’t hold me back now. I think something will be doing! I must get on to her. Ten-thirty, mind. Yes.’

Yes. In some confusion I flew down seven floors, and out to the travel agent, and booked a train return to Manchester and an air return to Israel and flew back again and rang Connie. I didn’t tell her much. I told her I’d located the lab books, and might be seeing her the day after tomorrow. If I didn’t ring her, I wouldn’t have them.

It was raining in Manchester, and Kaplan was looking by no means up to snuff. He was in galoshes and an enormous overcoat and looked like a little question mark under his baggy old umbrella. Despite the curly bowler, I scarcely recognized him; there was a beaky strained look about the Mr Punch face.

‘I’m sorry to bring you out in this, Mr Kaplan.’

‘I’ll survive.’

He was looking none too sure of this, however, so we went into the warmth of a buffet and had a brandy, which did him good. He grew discursive about the Bottomley-Greatorex situation. Thousands of young women had never married after the enormous casualty rate of the first war, and Miss Greatorex had been one of them. Many had developed delusions, and he had been warned in Bolton about Miss Greatorex’s. The family knew all about the ‘silly old cat’s’ treasures.

‘What exactly is Rehovot’s interest?’ he said.

‘Weizmann’s first work in England, you know,’ I said, nodding easily.

‘There is some genuine value in it, is there?’

‘Oh, I think so, Mr Kaplan – historically. I’m sure you’ll get a letter of appreciation from Mr Weisgal.’

‘Well, that would be nice. Hmm. But I have been thinking, you know. I have been wondering about these books.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said cheerfully, in some dismay.

‘I mean, if they are of genuine value … The President of the State is a professor there, isn’t he?’

‘President Katzir? Yes, he is.’

‘I mean, if they are of genuine value.’

‘Oh. A letter from him, you mean?’

‘That would be something, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well, I could try.’

‘I mean, if they are of genuine value,’ Mr Kaplan said earnestly.

He primed me further in the taxi on how to cope with Miss Greatorex. She hadn’t apparently taken to him, but he thought she was still susceptible to younger male charms. She had delved
a good deal into the connection with my father. ‘Knows all about the Popular Front – from her active days, you see.
Nineteen-thirties
, hiking clubs, workers’ educational weekends. A bit weak on Israel, but kibbutz all to the good. Tractors, oranges,’ he said vaguely.

Barraclough House was an old Victorian pile, lurking in shrubbery, not so very far from the university. The lab books hadn’t wandered far since written. Weizmann, passing with brisk tread (and Kaplan pointed out that he probably would have passed this way), might easily have cast eyes on this old magnate’s mansion. It would have looked to him somewhat newer and more stately than the white House at Rehovot now looked to me.

There was a determinedly cheerful air about the place, and we were conducted briskly enough to Miss Greatorex’s room along a creaky corridor. She looked to me absolutely normal, younger than her years, despite a thatch of rather wild white hair and somewhat startling eyes, enlarged by her glasses. She was slim, a bit above average height, neatly turned out, rather ‘refined’ Northern accent: a retired teacher.

‘But you haven’t come just to see me, have you, Mr
Druyanov
?’ she said after some minutes. ‘You’ll forgive my
pronunciation
, I’m sure. How do you say it again?’

‘Dru-
ya
-nov.’

‘Dru-
ya
-nov. I love to hear it properly pronounced. I have such respect for your father, Mr Druyanov, for all of your great people, of course … What exactly are your intentions with regard to Mr Bottomley’s work?’

I explained about the publications program.

‘Yes, I understand that. But you do know that Mr Bottomley made rather great changes to the scientific theories?’

‘That naturally adds to the interest.’

‘I mean, it hasn’t been unknown for the work of great men to be appropriated – I don’t cast the slightest aspersion on
you
, Mr Druyanov,’ she said, with a swift look at Kaplan. ‘There, I’ve got it wrong again, I know you’ll forgive me. Please say it once more.’

‘Dru
ya
nov.’

‘Yes.’ She was glowing at me with her magnified eyes. ‘It’s lovely. It really is. You won’t take amiss what I’m saying?’

‘I’m not sure I understand it.’

‘No, well – from your background,’ she said, with another glance at poor Kaplan. ‘It’s simply that – It’s Mr Bottomley’s work, you see. It’s a
trust
. It would be published exactly as it is, without alteration?’

‘Nothing at all will be published without your permission, Miss Greatorex.’

‘To me, a sacred trust.’

‘I can give you my word.’

‘Well, I do think that would dispose of the problem.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ I said; which it certainly was. ‘Perhaps I could see the books.’

‘I shan’t lose a minute. I shall go and see Mr Hinchcliffe right away.’

‘Mr Hinchliffe?’

‘My lawyer. They are in his keeping.’

‘Oh. When could we –’

‘Well, I
did
actually have a word with him about it, she said, glowing at me.’ I was sure with your background, everything would be all right, Mr Druyanov. Druyanov?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was sure of it. He can start tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow,’ I said dismally.

‘And have something prepared by next Tuesday, I am certain.’

‘Next Tuesday.’

‘So if we could meet again on Wednesday?’

‘Wednesday.’ My life seemed to be drifting past.

‘Easter in between, you see.’

So it was; Easter. The world had swung and the season of redemption was at hand. Christmas I’d been in the Holy Land last.

Kaplan had kept the cab, and we shambled back to it under his umbrella.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I was certain she’d got the books there. I didn’t understand about the lawyer. Another
journey
for you.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, wondering how the devil to manage it. I’d left the flat early in the morning and had taken rather a spin around London, by various means of transport, to shake off any possible pursuit. The prospect of having to do it again was not so very promising.

Kaplan had now begun to sneeze rather a lot, and it seemed best to get him home as soon as possible, so we went there first. The great-niece opened the door, and with a single exclamation of ‘Oh, Uncle!’ pulled him inside.

‘We haven’t yet made arrangements,’ he said to me weakly.

‘I think you’d better get to bed now.’

‘Immediately,’ the great-niece said. She was stripping his coat off him.

‘Look, come upstairs with me and have –’

‘Goodbye, Mr Druyanov,’ the great-niece said rather grimly.

Kaplan was in something of a half nelson, and I coudn’t quite shake his hand, so I shook his sleeve, nodded encouragingly, and trotted back through the rain to the taxi.

On the return journey I thought up a story for Caroline, but she wasn’t there when I got back, and she didn’t ring all evening, so it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t necessary to ring Connie now, either.

I thought hard that evening. It seemed to me that if surveillance was going on, I could expect some action now after my
disappearance
. Except that after Hopcroft’s disappearances, to
Bradford-on-Avon
and Manchester, there hadn’t been any action. This was strange, when I considered it.

He had received attention just once – when he was definitely expected to have papers on him. He hadn’t had the papers, and the places where the papers might have been had then received their due of attention. Didn’t this show rather expert intelligence?

It was true that Hopcroft had yarned a good deal before his attack, and not much after it: still he
had
disappeared on a couple of occasions, and might have found further papers. Why hadn’t further attention been paid to him, or to my flat where
the papers might have been? Well, there hadn’t been any further papers. But whoever knew that had known a lot. It showed intelligence of an even more disturbingly accurate nature.

There was another factor. On the first occasion, I’d been on the point of going to Israel. The idea seemed to have been to prevent my taking the papers with me. It was obviously a first-class idea not to let anyone know I was going to Israel now, and an even better one not to tell anybody anything. There was evidence here of the Hopcroft syndrome; and as I thought this I recalled another aspect of it. He had thought himself safe enough when innocently employed going there and back to the Public Record Office. My thoughts were tending in the same direction.