‘How the hell did that happen? Whose idea was that?’
‘I assumed that Henry wanted him,’ Angela said meekly. ‘The policeman said they had picked him up, and what were they to do with him now? I didn’t know anything about it, and didn’t want to interrupt...’
‘So you gave him tea in the kitchen? Tea?’
‘He didn’t want coffee. Besides, what else was I supposed to do with him? I thought you must have known all about it.’
‘What did he say? Who was he?’
‘He didn’t say very much.’
‘How did he escape?’
‘He went to the toilet and never came back. How should I know?’
Wind grunted and stumped downstairs into Lytten’s cellar. Lytten and Angela followed.
‘What is all this rubbish?’ Wind said as he surveyed the dust-covered junk and peered scornfully at a rusty iron structure against the wall covered in old cans and bits of tinfoil.
‘That is called “Momentum”,’ Angela said. ‘It’s a sculpture I’ve been making. I’m rather proud of it. It is a re-evaluation of traditional mores as metamorphosed under the incessant impact of consumerist...’
‘What?’
‘Really it’s just a Victorian iron pergola. French, so I suppose not Victorian really. Fin de siècle, if you prefer, although I can’t date it precisely. You put it in your garden and grow roses over it. I keep meaning to take it back to France. But somehow...’
Her voice trailed off. Not that Wind cared. All he cared about was who that man was. How he had escaped. What it all meant. To those questions, he found no answer in the gloomy and damp cellar.
‘Who was he, Henry?’ Wind asked ‘Why were you interested in him?’
‘He was watching the house. I thought it worth pursuing.’
‘What do you mean by watching?’
‘What most people mean by watching. The first time he was standing in the middle of my driveway with his mouth hanging open. Then he was walking up and down the street. Another time he stood on the other side of the road. He was trying to look nonchalant, but didn’t do it very well. The last time was yesterday. I pointed him out to the policeman who came about the missing girl.’
‘What missing girl?’
‘She’s not missing,’ Lytten said shortly.
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Angela added.
‘Can we stay on the subject, please?’ Wind said. ‘If he was a Russian, then they must know Volkov is here.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It does indicate that Volkov is the real thing, of course. Why the hell did you let him go?’
‘I didn’t let him go,’ Angela said tartly. ‘He went to the toilet.’
‘That was exciting,’ Angela said, once Sam had finally given up and only she and Lytten remained in the house. ‘Sam Wind agitated. I’ve never seen that before. I am sorry, by the way, if I did something wrong.’
Lytten was on the phone and not paying her any attention. ‘Oh, I think so, Portmore,’ he was saying. ‘Volkov says he has information to identify the man you are after. No, he won’t say yet. They left half an hour ago. They’ll take him to the usual place... It does, doesn’t it...
‘It’s not your fault,’ he reassured Angela when he put the phone down. ‘You weren’t to know. You may recall that Sam is overly concerned with not looking bad. Potentially compromising a defector does look bad. In fact, if the Americans ever hear about it they will laugh themselves silly. That won’t make any difference to me, but Sam will spend the next day or so rushing around trying to find someone else to blame. He wants so desperately to get the top job, and this might torpedo his chances.’
‘Oh, you boys,’ Angela said. ‘You never grow up, do you?’
‘It seems not. In the circumstances, I think a glass of whisky would be a good idea.’
He got two glasses, blew into them to make sure there was no dust and poured two generous measures before sitting in his old armchair. ‘Did that man really say nothing of interest?’ he asked Angela, who had returned to the settee. ‘Did he have a name, by the way?’
‘He said his name was Alexander Chang.’
‘Chinese?’
‘Not by the look of him. A little, maybe. But not much. He was very flustered,’ she said. ‘Most of the time he talked what you would consider nonsense. By the way, did you ever thank me in some article you wrote a year or so back?’
Lytten blinked in confusion. She did sometimes have trouble keeping on the subject, but this was bizarre even by her standards. ‘An article on As You Like It. I believe I thanked you for your help. The translations, you know. Could we keep on the point?’
‘This man mentioned it to prove he was some scholar interested in your work. His story was that he was plucking up courage to ask you a question about the Devil’s Handwriting. Do you know what he meant?’
‘I assume he meant a little article I published last year. It was about a manuscript bought by one of my ancestors. I was convinced that not a single person ever read it, judging by the lack of impact it had. Mind you, it was a very little thing.’
‘What is it?’
‘The Devil’s Handwriting? Something written in an incomprehensible script that people thought in the eighteenth century was the work of the devil. I argued that it was a rather bad fake.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘Tudmore; what is grandly called the family seat. It’s a bit of a ruin, but my great-aunt still lives there. I constantly worry about what will happen when the old girl dies. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it to you before.’
‘Who bought it?’
‘You seem remarkably interested, if I may say so. It was acquired by Charles Lytten, the Founding Father. He was the only one with any drive and he seems to have used up the family supply of initiative for the next three centuries. Have I never shown you the painting of him?’
Angela shook her head.
‘Come and have a look, if you want. It’s in the spare bedroom. No one else wanted it.’
I followed him upstairs into the spartan back bedroom. A tarnished brass bed, a side table, bare floors and thin, dirty curtains completely inadequate to the task of keeping out either light or cold. I never understood why the English went out of their way to be uncomfortable. Something to do with the schools, I think.
I was still in a state of shock. Suddenly hearing Hanslip’s voice, coming out of Chang’s mouth in that way, had been decidedly spooky. The message was spookier still. Why would he think that would influence me? I knew who he meant, of course. I hadn’t given my daughter a moment’s thought for years until I met Grange and he tripped my memory, and now there was this. I knew Hanslip well. He wouldn’t have put such effort into delivering that message unless he was pretty certain it would have an effect. So how was I meant to react? Was I reacting? All I knew was that I was thoroughly unsettled by the whole thing.
On top of it all, there he was in front of me; the man responsible in a distant sort of way, although much changed from the man I remembered. There was no doubt, once I was able to ignore the powdered wig and silly clothes. It was Lucien Grange, aged about seventy. Henry was his descendant, not his ancestor. I’d never even thought of that possibility. Even so, I remained just a little sceptical until I studied the portrait with greater care.
‘Not very good, is it?’ Henry said, peering at it over my shoulder. ‘I don’t keep it for its artistic value. In fact, I don’t know why I keep it.’
He answered my questions with an air of surprise that I should take any interest. This Charles had been, he said, a proper paterfamilias. He had insisted on his children having a serious education (the girls as well as the boys) and had held exceptionally advanced views on religion and politics. ‘A woman without a brain is like a sandwich without a filling,’ was his apparent response to one possible marriage partner. That was a clue, when I checked the etymology of the word ‘sandwich’. He was also exceptionally long-lived, which was another clue. He outlived his children, two wives and some of his grandchildren, finally succumbing in 1753 at what was thought to be an age of some 107 years, when he was run over by a horse and cart in Piccadilly.