“I’ve been in such a daze,” she said. “I’ve let you take charge as if you had a right to, and yet you still haven’t told me anything about yourself. Except now you talk about burgling an art gallery as if it were like making a phone call. And the way you got that recording—”
“I told you my real name,” he said. “Apparently it didn’t ring a bell. I may have to get a new press agent. Would it help if I mentioned that a few people also call me the Saint?”
He hadn’t actually expected her to give an imitation of a punctured balloon, but that was the approximate result.
Chapter 8
“There it is!” Julie cried, scooting forward on the car seat. “There, I can see the sign!”
“The Happy Huntsman,” Simon acknowledged blandly, without easing the pressure of his foot on the accelerator.
Julie’s head turned to keep her eyes on the old inn as the Hirondel sped past it. Over her pretty face came contours of dismay such as might distort the countenance of a lady watching her fallen handbag disappear in the wake of an ocean liner.
“Why didn’t you stop?” she asked unbelievingly.
“Terrible place,” Simon remarked, jerking his head back in the direction of the now-vanished building. “Even the huntsman wasn’t really happy there, by the look on his face.”
Julie stiffened her back and glowered at the road, a slender band of pavement which had zigzagged through a brief kink where it passed the fieldstone structure of The Happy Huntsman, but now flowed smoothly as an old river through rich pastures grazed by lazy cows.
“You’ve been making a joke out of this ever since we started out from London this morning,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t fancy this a picnic, as you seem to. We must have spent at least an hour and a half over lunch when we could have got by just as well on a sandwich, and at one tenth the cost. How you can even keep this car on the road after all that wine, I can’t imagine. And now you’ve roared right past the one place we know of that’s near my brother.”
“You underestimate my capacity to incorporate wine harmoniously into my system as much as you underestimate my good judgement,” said the Saint placidly.
Julie glanced at the chiseled lines of his tanned face against the blurred background of sky and green fields. His strong fingers lay easily but with perfect control along the steering wheel of the powerful car. She could not keep her eyes on him without being tempted into renewed confidence. Her voice went on almost pleadingly after a moment, nervous strain giving way to an only slightly sarcastic supplication: “My brother. Adrian. Remember him? He’s a prisoner around here somewhere.”
“And we’ll have a much better chance of finding him,” Simon answered, “if we don’t stay at an inn which Caffin considers a landmark. If we’d stopped there we might very well get found ourselves — by Pargit if he comes out to check on your brother’s progress in his artistic endeavours. Also, Caffin and his mob may even have connections with the place. And furthermore, if you’re still not satisfied, I’d rather not advertise our presence in the neighbourhood anyway.”
“I’m satisfied,” Julie sighed grudgingly. “Where are we going?”
“To the nearest hotel that offers decent accommodation to a bird watcher and his nature-loving sister. There happens to be one...”
“Sister?” she echoed.
“Yes, sister.” He defined: “Sister: A female born to the same parents as another person. Also, a nun or head nurse. But I had in mind the first meaning of the word. Unless you’re tired of being somebody’s sister, in which case I’d be glad to take you along as my bride. You’ve been Adrian’s sister for so long you might find a change of roles refreshing.”
She found it hard to resist the light-hearted sparkle in his eyes, but she made herself respond coldly.
“I think I’d better start as your sister.”
“And work your way up,” agreed the Saint encouragingly. “Not a bad idea, if you can remember not to blow the gaff by calling me ‘darling.’ “
“That’s one thing I shall never call you,” she announced primly.
The highway snaked gently from the open pastures into a grove of tall old trees, where gilt lettering on the varnished wood of another sign announced the presence of the Golden Fleece Hotel.
Simon slowed down and came to a stop in front of the building, whose red-shuttered windows peered as quietly out through the trees as did the eyes of an old man who regarded them from a bench outside the public bar.
“Remember,” Simon told Julie, “bird watchers. Brother and sister.”
“What name do we use?” she asked.
He glanced again at the name of. the hotel.
“Jason,” he decided. “Simon and Julie Jason.”
They strolled from the car across the lush green lawn to the old fellow in the chair, who acknowledged their arrival with an almost indetectible inclination of his bald head. His chin was less bald than his head, for it looked as if he had shaved himself with a chip of poorly sharpened flint that had left patches of stubble in some areas and in others had scraped away most of the skin. His eyes were red as he waited to see what the world and the road and the hours would bring.
“Good afternoon,” Simon greeted him cheerfully. “We’ve come from London to watch birds.”
The elder received this news with an impassivity evolved through many years of witnessing every form of human folly.
“There do be birds here,” he pronounced.
“We’ll be walking through the woods and fields studying them,” Simon explained further, satisfied that this information would be spread throughout the countryside before nightfall. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”
Seeing that this Londoner was a man of poor but flattering judgement, the old man brightened up a little, admitted that he had no business connection with the hotel, and pointed the way to the main entrance.
Simon made quick work of getting a pair of rooms for himself and Julie, admitting no more than their aliases, their fictitious relationship, a bogus address, and their avian interests. If the plump soft-spoken woman who registered them had any doubts about their identity or purposes she kept them to herself as she ushered them up the creaking stairs to their adjoining accommodations.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” she said, and left them, while a husky teen-aged girl brought in two suitcases which she would not permit Simon to touch until she had deposited them at his feet.
Every floorboard and timber of the Saint’s room seemed to have slowly gone its separate eccentric way during the centuries since the inn had been built, but the crazy tilts and angles of the place had a kind of informal friendliness that no shiny modern motel would ever achieve. Simon put his elbows on the warped windowsill, from where he could look out over his parked car and the surrounding landscape, and called to Julie, whose head soon appeared at the neighbouring window.
“We’d better get going,” he said. “The late afternoon is a very good time for finding birds.”
The particular bird’s nest which they were seeking was much less elusive than many a naturalist’s objective. First Simon had the directions that had brought them this far, and next he had the benefit of a local’s knowledge of the terrain, for the old man he had first spoken to on their arrival was still on his bench when they came out of the hotel in their hiking clothes.
“I wonder if I could bother you for a little information?” Simon asked him. “I understand that a blue-billed twit was seen recently between here and The Happy Huntsman. An acquaintance of mine says he heard they were nesting near an old stone farmhouse. I don’t believe anyone lives there. A road leads up to it between stone walls, and it has something like a red well in front.”