The Human Factor Part 25

'Yes.'

'He stayed behind?'

'Yes. You see, we had decided to separate. For good.'

'A quarrel?'

'A decision, Inspector. We've been married for seven years. You don't flare up after seven years.'

'Did he own a revolver, Mrs Castle?'

'Not that I know of. It's possible.'

'Was he very upset-by the decision?'

'We were neither of us happy if that's what you mean.'

'Would you be willing to go to Berkhamsted and look at the house?'

'I don't want to, but I suppose they could make me, couldn't they?'

'There's no question of making you. But, you see, they can't rule out a robbery... There might have been something valuable which they couldn't tell was missing. A piece of jewellery?'

'I've never gone in for jewellery. We weren't rich people, Inspector.'

'Or a picture?'

'No.'

'Then it makes us wonder if he might have done something foolish or rash. If he was unhappy and it was his gun.' He picked up the Chinese bowl and examined the pattern, then turned to examine her in turn. She realised those kindly eyes were not after all the eyes of a child. 'You don't seem worried about that possibility, Mrs Castle.'

'I'm not. It isn't the kind of thing he'd do.'

'Yes, yes. Of course you know him better than anyone else and I'm sure you're right. So you'll let us know at once, won't you, if he gets in touch with you, I mean?'

'Of course.'

'Under strain people sometimes do odd things. Even lose their memory.' He took a last long look at the pipe rack as if he were unwilling to part from it. 'I'll ring up Berkhamsted, Mrs Castle. I hope you won't have to be troubled. And I'll let you know if I get any news.'

When they were at the door she asked him, 'How did you know I was here?'

'Neighbours with children get to know more than you'd allow for, Mrs Castle.'

She watched him until he was safely in his car and then she went back into the house. She thought: I shan't tell Sam yet. Let him get used to life without Buller first. The other Mrs Castle, the true Mrs Castle, met her outside the sitting-room. She said, 'Lunch is getting cold. It was a policeman, wasn't it?'

'Yes.'

'What did he want?'

'Maurice's address.'

'Why?'

'How would I know?'

'Did you give it him?'

'He's not at home. How should I know where he is?'

'I hope that man won't come back.'

'I wouldn't be surprised if he does.'

2.

But the days pa.s.sed without Inspector Butler and without news. She made no further telephone calls to London. There was no point to it now. Once when she telephoned to the butcher on her mother-in-law's behalf to order some lamb cutlets she had an impression the line was tapped. It was probably imagination. Monitoring had become too fine an art for an amateur to detect. Under pressure from Mrs Castle she had an interview at the local school and she arranged for Sam to attend it; from this meeting she returned in deep depression it was as though she had just finalised the new life, stamped it like a doc.u.ment with a wax seal, nothing would ever change it now. On her way home she called at the greengrocer's, at the library, at the chemist's Mrs Castle had provided her with a list: a tin of green peas, a novel of Georgette Heyer's, a bottle of aspirin for the headaches of which Sarah felt sure that she and Sam were the cause. For no reason she could put a name to she thought of the great grey-green pyramids of earth which surrounded Johannesburg-even Muller had spoken of their colour in the evening, and she felt closer to Muller, the enemy, the racialist, than to Mrs Castle. She would have exchanged this Suss.e.x town with its liberal inhabitants who treated her with such kindly courtesy even for Soweto. Courtesy could be a barrier more than a blow. It wasn't courtesy one wanted to live with it was love. She loved Maurice, she loved the smell of the dust and degradation of her country now she was without Maurice and without a country. Perhaps that was why she welcomed even the voice of an enemy on the telephone. She knew at once it was an enemy's voice although it introduced itself as 'a friend and colleague of your husband '.

'I hope I'm not ringing you up at a bad time, Mrs Castle.'

'No, but I didn't hear your name.'

'Doctor Percival.'

'It was vaguely familiar. Yes. I think Maurice has spoken of you.'

'We had a memorable night out once in London.'

'Oh yes, I remember now. With Davis.'

'Yes. Poor Davis.' There was a pause. 'I was wondering, Mrs Castle, if we could have a talk.'

'We are having one now, aren't we?'

'Well, a rather closer talk than a telephone provides.'

'I 'm a long way from London.'

'We could send a car for you if it would help.'

'We', she thought, 'we'. It was a mistake on his part to speak like an organisation. 'We' and 'they' were uncomfortable terms. They were a warning, they put you on your guard.

The voice said, 'I thought if you were free for lunch one day this week.

'I don't know if I can manage.'

'I wanted to talk to you about your husband.'

'Yes. I guessed that.'

'We are all rather anxious about Maurice.' She felt a quick elation. 'We' hadn't got him in some secret spot unknown to Inspector Butler. He was well away all Europe was between them. It was as though she too, as well as Maurice, had escaped-she was already on her way home, that home which was where Maurice was. She had to be very careful just the same, as in the old days in Johannesburg. She said, 'Maurice doesn't concern me any more. We've separated.'

'All the same, I expect, you'd like some news of him?'

So they had news. It was as when Carson told her, 'He's safe in L.M. waiting for you. Now we've only got to get you there.' If he were free, they would soon be together. She realised she was smiling at the telephone thank G.o.d, they hadn't yet invented a visual telephone, but all the same she wiped the smile off her face. She said, 'I'm afraid I don't much care where he is. Couldn't you write? I have a child to look after.'

'Well no, Mrs Castle, there are things one can't write. If we could send a car for you tomorrow...'

'Tomorrow's impossible.'

'Thursday then.'

She hesitated as long as she dared. 'Well... We could send a car for you at eleven.'

'But I don't need a car. There's a good train at 11.15: Well then, if you could meet me at a restaurant, Brummell's-close to Victoria.'

'What street?'

'There you have me. Walton-Wilton-never mind, any taxi driver will know Brummell's. It's very quiet there,' he added soothingly as though he were recommending with professional knowledge a good nursing home, and Sarah had a quick mental picture of the speaker-a very self-a.s.sured Wimpole Street type, with a dangling eye-gla.s.s which he would only use when it came to writing out the prescription which would be the signal, like royalty rising, that it was time for the patient to depart.

'Until Thursday,' he said. She didn't even reply. She put down the receiver and went to find Mrs Castle-she was late again for lunch and she didn't care. She was humming a tune of praise the Methodist missionaries had taught her, and Mrs Castle looked at her in astonishment. 'What's the matter? Is something wrong? Was it that policeman again?'

'No. It was only a doctor. A friend of Maurice. Nothing's wrong. Would you mind just for once if I went up to town on Thursday? I'll take Sam to school in the morning and he can find his own way back.'

'I don't mind, of course, but I was thinking of having Mr. Bottomley for lunch again.'

'Oh, Sam and Mr. Bottomley will get on very well together.'

'Will you go and see a solicitor when you are in town?'

'I might.' A half-lie was a small price to pay in return for her new happiness.

'Where will you have lunch?'

'Oh, I expect I'll pick up a sandwich somewhere.'

'It's such a pity you've chosen Thursday. I've ordered a joint. However'-Mrs Castle sought for a silver lining-if you had lunch at Harrods there are one or two things you could bring me back.'

She lay in bed that night unable to sleep. It was as if she had procured a calendar and could now begin to mark off the days of term. The man she had spoken to was an enemy-she was convinced of that but he wasn't the Security Police, he wasn't BOSS, she wouldn't lose her teeth or the sight of an eye in Brummell's: she had no reason to fear.

3.

Nonetheless she felt a little let down when she identified him where he waited for her at the end of a long gla.s.sy glittering room at Brummell's. He wasn't, after all, a Wimpole Street specialist: he was more like an old-fashioned family doctor with his silver-rimmed spectacles and a small rounded paunch which seemed to prop itself on the edge of the table when he rose to greet her. He was holding an outsize menu in his hand in place of a prescription. He said, 'I'm so glad you had the courage to come here.'

'Why courage?'

'Well, this is one of the places the Irish like to bomb. They've thrown a small one already, but unlike the blitz their bombs are quite liable to hit the same place twice.' He gave her a menu to read: a whole page was given up she saw to what were called Starters. The whole menu, which bore the t.i.tle Bill of Fare above a portrait, seemed almost as long as Mrs Castle's local telephone directory. Doctor Percival said helpfully, I'd advise you against the smoked trout it's always a bit dry here.'

'I haven't got much appet.i.te.'

'Let's wake it up, then, while we consider matters. A gla.s.s of sherry?'

'I'd rather have a whisky if you don't mind.' When asked to choose, she said, 'J & B.'

'You order for me,' she implored Doctor Percival. The sooner all these preliminaries were over, the sooner she would have the news she waited for with a hunger she hadn't got for food. While he made his decision she looked around her. There was a dubious and glossy portrait on the wall labelled George Bryan Brummell-it was the same portrait as on the menu and the furnishing was in impeccable and tiring good taste you felt no possible expense had been spared and no criticism would be sanctioned: the few customers were all men and they all looked alike as though they had come out of the chorus of an old-fashioned musical comedy: black hair, neither too long nor too short, dark suits and waistcoats. Their tables were set discreetly apart and the two tables nearest to Doctor Percival's were empty she wondered whether this was by design or chance. She noticed for the first time how all the windows were wired.

'In a place like this,' Doctor Percival said, 'it's best to go English and I would suggest the Lancashire hot pot.'

'Anything you say.' But for a long time he said nothing except some words to the waiter about the wine. At last he turned his attention and his silver-rimmed gla.s.ses towards her with a long sigh, 'Well, the hard work's done. It's up to them now,' and he took a sip of his sherry. 'You must have been having a very anxious time, Mrs Castle.' He put out a hand and touched her arm as though he really were her family doctor.

'Anxious?'

'Not knowing from day to day...'

'If you mean Maurice...'

'We were all very fond of Maurice.'

'You speak as though he were dead. In the past tense.'

'I didn't mean to. Of course we are still fond of him-but he's taken a different road and I'm afraid a very dangerous one. We all hope you won't get involved.'

'How can I? We're separated.'

'Oh yes, yes. It was the obvious thing to do. It would have been a little conspicuous to have gone away together. I don't think Immigration would have been quite so foolish as all that. You are a very attractive woman and then your colour...' He said, 'Of course we know he hasn't telephoned you at home, but there are so many ways of sending messages a public telephone box, an intermediary-we couldn't monitor all his friends, even if we knew them all.' He pushed aside his sherry and made room for the hot pot. She began to feel more at ease now that the subject was laid plainly there on the table before them like the hot pot. She said, 'You think I'm a traitor too?'

'Oh, in the firm, you know, we don't use a word like traitor. That's for the newspapers. You are African I don't say South African and so is your child. Maurice must have been a good deal influenced by that. Let's say-he chose a different loyalty.' He took a taste of the hot pot. 'Be careful.'

'Careful?'

'I mean the carrots are very hot.' If this was really an interrogation it was a very different method to that practised by the Security Police in Johannesburg or Pretoria. 'My dear,' he said, 'what do you intend to do-when he does communicate?'

She gave up caution. As long as she was cautious she would learn nothing. She said, 'I shall do what he tells me to do.'

Doctor Percival said, 'I'm so glad you've said that. It means we can be frank with each other. Of course we know, and I expect you know, that he's arrived safely in Moscow.'

'Thank G.o.d.'