Wayward Winds (22 page)

“Didn't he say that his grandfather misplaced it?” asked Jocelyn.

“That's right, I remember now,” added Charles. “I do begin to recall a vague rumor along such lines myself. It was also said by some that the London Rutherfords had stolen it.”

“That could hardly be, Father,” said George, “if Gifford knows nothing about it.”

“I suppose you're right. But none of the conjectures get us any closer to knowing how so prominent an object could have disappeared without a trace.”

 40 
Curious Gathering

As Charles greeted the other eight or ten individuals present at the Cambridge home of Hartwell Barclay, the man to whom he had been introduced at Green Park, the unmistakable impression came over him that this was
not
a government-sponsored gathering.

They were friendly enough. The food and drink and hospitality were lavish. He could not have asked for a warmer, more congenial environment. But Charles had been part of politics long enough to recognize parliamentarians and diplomatic types. And there weren't any here.

Charles' dealings with the secret service—Barclay's supposed background—had been minimal. He realized the intelligence community made use of individuals who weren't exactly your run-of-the-mill Whitehall crowd. That sometimes included foreigners. He supposed this
could
be some kind of preliminary recruiting attempt by an obscure branch of the foreign office, although that still wouldn't explain what they would want with him. There seemed to be three others here, too, who likewise didn't know the purpose of the meeting, and who had been invited, like him, under a certain cloud of mystery. Whatever was going on, it was an odd mix of unlikely individuals.

Many introductions were made all around as wine and hors d'oeuvres flowed freely.

“You remember Lord Burton's widow,” said Redmond, greeting the tall, stately woman.

“Yes, of course,” replied Charles. “I am sorry about your husband, Lady Halifax.”

“Thank you, Sir Charles,” replied the lady in measured tone. “Fortunately the shock of his passing is now over.”

The woman held Charles' eye an instant or two longer than normal small talk would account for, though nothing in her placid countenance divulged so much as a hint of additional expression. Charles moved off with Redmond and was soon shaking hands with another of the newcomers, unaware that her eyes followed him for several moments more.

After having been served a sumptuous tea, and now with fresh cups of tea and coffee in their hands, all the participants took seats in the comfortable lounge.

“You several whom we have invited here this evening,” Charles' naval associate Redmond began, speaking primarily toward Charles, but glancing at each of their other guests in turn, “have been chosen for very specific reasons. You are all men of impeccable reputation, experts in your various fields of endeavor, intelligent and skilled. You represent, as it were, our nation's finest, everything, indeed, that has made us great through the years. It is our sincere hope that you will want to dedicate the high level of your personal talents and resources to the future, to help us insure that the future is as bright, brighter, in fact, than has been the past.”

As Redmond paused, a few
Here, heres!
and raisings of cups and glasses on the part of his colleagues affirmed their concurrence with his opening remarks.

“We are concerned for England, of course,” he went on, “but even more for the entire future of Europe. . . .”

As Charles listened, he almost found himself wondering if someone had drugged his tea. The whole atmosphere was sleepily mesmerizing, yet try as he might he could not isolate a single point of specificity or substance in anything Redmond said. After ten or fifteen minutes he concluded, turning toward their host, who now began in much the same manner. Gradually, however, he became sufficiently specific as to finally attach a name to their organization, if organization it could be called.

“We represent an association,” he said, “not known widely at present, but with adherents in all the nations of Europe. Our affiliates are devoted to a new order which we believe will emerge one day very soon out of, and even in the midst of many countries, nationalities, and races. It is called the Fountain of Light.”

He paused to allow his words to sink in.

“Light and truth are our goals during these perilous times when most seek only their own ends,” he went on. “As Morley has said, you whom we have invited are each influential in your own way and in your own circles. We believe you all will be very effective in helping us bring light and truth as the masses prepare for this new order which is to come.”

“Are you talking about a new governmental order?” asked one of the guests. “What is it exactly—a United Europe, is that what you mean . . . something like the United States?”

“I think I can truthfully say that you are thinking along lines that are generally correct,” replied Barclay. “Yet it will also transcend governmental systems altogether. It will not primarily be political in nature.”

“What then? All governments are political.”

“But the new order will be
new
,” said Barclay softly but with intensity. “All will be clear as you know more.”

As Barclay spoke, he gazed straight into the eyes of his questioner. Though his words conveyed nothing, his expression somehow seemed to alleviate any thought of further inquiry. The man slowly nodded his head in apparent understanding, though almost as a reflex action.

“I . . . I see,” he mumbled, then sat back with a nearly glazed expression and said no more.

One by one the other newcomers raised various questions, each with the same eventual result. Barclay's voice was mesmerizing. A spell of acceptance was woven about his listeners by his very words, such that in the end everything made perfect sense. He spoke a while longer, then turned to Charles.

“You haven't spoken yet, Sir Charles,” he said.

“I am listening,” Charles replied.

“Do you have any questions you would like to raise?”

“I did find myself curious a few moments ago,” said Charles, “whether you have any written literature, anything I might study that would shed more light on your organization.”

“We prefer to discuss our precepts by word of mouth.”

“But is anything written?”

“There are our
Annals
.”

“Might I see a copy? I think it would help a great deal toward an understanding of your beliefs, motives, and goals.”

Barclay glanced around. A few heads shook on the part of his colleagues.

“I'm afraid copies are scarce,” he said, turning again toward Charles. “We do not seem to have one readily available.”

Charles nodded. He had almost expected it.

As the exchange had proceeded, he was aware that Barclay was attempting to catch his eyes and hold them. Having seen the result on the part of the other guests, however, Charles prevented it by continuing to address his remarks about the entire room. He was now aware of a silent frustration beginning to set in on Barclay's part.

“Light and truth can be vague terms,” said Charles. “Everyone believes in truth. I am all for light. But I cannot get involved in something without knowing specifics. Frankly, Mr. Barclay, I've heard nothing here—nothing of substance at all. Can you just tell me plainly, what does ‘Fountain of Light' really mean?”

“Simply this, Sir Charles,” replied Barclay, with great effort keeping his voice calm, “that one day very soon, a new order will spring up, will appear as a fountain bursting forth. Its characteristic feature will be light—pure light . . . light itself, and truth.”

“But all that means nothing. It's more nebulous than air. Where did the name originate?”

“All these questions will be answered in time, Mr. Rutherford,” answered Barclay in the smoothest tone possible. Again, with great determination he sought to lock on to Charles' eyes, but still was not successful. “I am sure you can understand that all revelations must come in their proper order, that precept must be built upon precept, as it were. If you choose to help your nation and join us as we spread light into the lives of our fellowman, I can assure you that you will be satisfied at all the points you have raised.”

“I'm sorry to be importune about it, Mr. Barclay,” said Charles, now at last summoning the strength to return the man's stare. Now
he
locked on to Hartwell Barclay's eyes and held them, “but it still sounds vague and nebulous. If you will forgive me, I have heard nothing here of substantive foundation. Therefore, I must tell you
very clearly, my allegiance is not something that can be divided. I am looking for no cause, nor can I commit to any nebulous new order with man at its center. I am not merely a Christian, I hope I am a disciple as well—a follower. I have but one Master, and that is Jesus Christ. You talk about truth . . . what you call a fountain of light. I believe in truth. I have committed my life to the one who
is
Truth. But at this point, I simply do not know what you mean by the term. I will have to have very direct answers to these questions,” said Charles, “or I am afraid I will not be able to participate further.”

“Our goal is truth. Our enemy is darkness,” replied Barclay. “I can say most emphatically that you will have not the slightest difficulty incorporating your religious views in with everything our cause stands for. As to our name, I will say this much now—it was given as a revelation, as a glimpse into the future, as a picture of the new order which we have been shown and which we now desire to expand as we are given opportunity. For in the days to come, the light of this revelation shall indeed become as a fountain, from the heavenly realms as only light is capable of. . . .”

As he listened, at last Charles found his resolve weakening. He glanced away. He could no longer hold Barclay's eyes. Gradually he felt himself being lulled into complacent acceptance, just as the others had been.

With great effort he rose, excused himself briefly, and sought the lavatory. He needed to dash some cold water on his face.

 41 
A Caller

Hubert Powell drove up the driveway to Heathersleigh Hall feeling especially pleased with himself for having stumbled upon the information that the lord of the manor of this second-rate estate had left Devonshire for London the day before. How long he was going to be gone he didn't know, but he intended to take no chances and to strike quickly. This time he would bypass the old fool altogether and not allow himself to be humiliated with all that religious idiocy.

He rang the bell at the front door and waited. Half a minute later it was opened by Sarah Minsterly. She knew him instantly, though betrayed nothing on her face.

“Good morning,” said Hubert, presenting his card, “I am calling to speak with Sir Charles.”

“I am sorry, Mr. . . . er, Powell. Sir Charles is away from Heathersleigh at the moment.”

“Oh, I see . . . hmm, that is a shame. I have driven some distance.”

He paused as if thinking to himself.

“May I please, then, perhaps speak for a minute with Miss Catharine?”

Sarah hesitated briefly, then nodded and reentered the house. She went straight to Catharine's room, knocked, handed her the card, and related the brief encounter that had just taken place at the front door. Catharine thanked the housekeeper, thought to herself briefly, then left her room and descended to the ground floor. She found
Hubert waiting patiently outside where Sarah had left him, looking every inch the gentleman and country squire.

“Hello, Mr. Powell,” said Catharine without expression. “What may I do for you?”

“It is wonderful to see you again, Catharine,” replied Hubert, smiling graciously. “I came to call on your father, just as you suggested.”

He paused to allow a crestfallen expression to fill his face.

“I seem,” he went on, “to have the misfortune to have timed my visit badly. So I thought, since I was here, you might enjoy a short ride in the country with me. As you can see I have my Opel, and it
is
a spectacular day for a drive.”

“I am afraid I shall have to decline,” said Catharine.

“Surely there can be no harm in a short ride in the middle of the day.”

“I thought I had made it clear earlier,” said Catharine, “that any further relationship between us must initially include my parents.”

“Yes, but your father isn't here.”

“Then you may call again, Mr. Powell.—Oh, wait . . . I have an idea!” she added excitedly. “I'll go get my mother. I'm sure she would love to go. The three of us can have a lovely ride together.”

Catharine spun around and disappeared inside.

She walked up the stairs, not exactly hurrying, then paused and crept to the edge of the window and glanced outside. Already the Opel roadster was disappearing from sight down the driveway far more rapidly than was advisable.

Nearly as much smoke was coming from the ears of its driver as from the automobile's exhaust.