He smiled. The old Nicholas, as if he'd emerged from a chrysalis, born again. But it was true enough. The world was exactly the same, only his perception of it had altered. Matured, rather. What did they call it? Realpolitik. And his first encounter with that phenomenon had come two days ago, the morning Vernon Langley had let him out of the cell, telling him he was free to go.
Greg Mandel had arrived at the station, looking grieved and tired, and told him what had actually happened. There was a secrecy order to sign and thumbprint, and it had been made very clear he wasn't to speak to anybody about paradigms or retrospective neurohormones ever again. Officially, MacLennan had let Liam Bursken out of Stocken Hall for the night, bringing him to Launde to murder Kitchener.
Bursken was permanently incommunicado, unable to protest his innocence, perhaps not even wanting to—let the sinners believe the Lord could reach out to them through bars of steel. MacLennan was dead. Suicide, Greg said. And looking at his stony, impassive face, even Nicholas's perpetual inquisitiveness had tacitly retreated.
As the price of being vindicated, adopting that particular masquerade was cheap indeed.
He emptied the last drawerful of socks on to the bed. It was raining quite heavily again, thick clouds darkening the morning sky. Roll on April and the start of England's long summer. When he walked over to the window he could just make out the grubby grey strip of road running through the park.
Night-time, when the rain had fallen like a biblical deluge. The jeep crawling down the slope cowards the river. The vivid flash he had thought was lightning.
He shuddered and turned away.
The cacti on the copper-topped table hadn't been watered for over a week, the soil in their pots was bone dry. And he never had seen them flower the way Kitchener had told him they would.
He decided to take a couple with him. There had to be something of the old man's that would stay with him, some tangible personal memento. And he doubted he would be welcome to visit Rosette and her baby. Although you never knew. Motherhood might soften her…
Nah. No chance.
Grinning, he picked up two of the cacti pots.
Someone knocked quietly on the door.
"Come in." He put the cacti down again, thinking it would be the uniformed policeman.
It was Isabel.
He stared dumbly at her, completely tongue-tied. The old Nicholas wasn't so distant after all.
She was wearing a lavender-coloured dress, curly hair held back by a broad black velvet band. As lovely as always. It was so painful just seeing her. Everything he ever wanted. Unreachable.
"Hello, Nick."
"Er, hello. I was just collecting my things." Nothing had changed, he still couldn't talk to her, say what he wanted. Pathetic!
"Me too. The executors are going to take over the running of the Abbey in a couple of days. Did you know they are going to open it as a sort of ashram for university science students?"
"Yes, I'd heard." He looked down at his trainers.
"I'm sorry I didn't help you with the police." She clenched her hands in front of her, fingers twisting. "We all are actually. It was so unfair on you. I don't know how I could have ever believed you were involved."
"That's all right."
"Hardly, Nick."
He risked a glance. She was looking out of the window, face composed, dispassionate.
"I did do it, you know," he said. "It was me."
"No. Your hands, but not you."
He considered that. If Isabel, someone so intimately involved with Kitchener, could accept his innocence, then maybe he was blameless after all. "Isabel?" he began.
She parted her lips in a small knowing smile. "No, Nick, I didn't love him. That was just a part of Launde, the wonder and the craziness. I was swept along like all the others. I wanted to tell you. I was going to tell you the next morning."
He hung his head.
"And what about you?" she asked. "What are you going to do next?"
"Er, I've been offered a research post by Event Horizon, actually. In Ranasfari's team at Cambridge. I think I detect the hand of Greg Mandel behind that. If Event Horizon is prepared to employ me, then I must be innocent. That's what people will think, anyway."
"Yes. That was nice of him."
"Greg's all right. Once you get round him having a gland."
"You've changed, Nick. You're stronger now. That's good."
Not enough. Not enough. I haven't! "What are you going to do?"
She smiled secretively. "I'm going to get my doctorate. At Cambridge, actually; I've been accepted by a college."
Nicholas turned bright red. He heard Kitchener's delighted mocking laughter echoing out of… somewhere, and took a deep breath. "Isabel, I love you. And, I know I'm not much—"
She kissed him softly, silencing him. His arms went round her. They fitted just fine.