"I was acting as his secretary," she said. "I should know."
"Well, if it's not in book form, then it's in notes-nobody exhausts his personal resources on a series of expeditions without recording the result."
She gave a little shrug. "You can't judge Dr. Van der Voort by your own or anybody else's standards. He kept everything
in his head." And she added pointedly, "He didn't trust anybody, you see."
"Then what was Gilmore talking about?" Professor Hol-royd's voice had sharpened. Her attitude had clearly got under his skin. "He said something about a Journal."
"Dr. Van der Voort's Journal would hardly interest you."
"Why not? A Journal-a diary-call it what you like. ."
"His Journal was concerned with behaviourism. It was a
very personal document, nothing to do with his expeditions or any discoveries. ."
"I don't believe it." His tone was blunt, his accent more pronounced. "A journal is just what I would expect him to keep; the basis for another book." He had risen to his feet, and now he moved towards her. He was a big, flabby man, and she looked tiny as she stood facing him. "Come on, lass. Better tell me where it is. He's disappeared, you know-with money that doesn't belong to him. I don't have to bring the authorities into it, but if the expedition is to go on, it must have all the necessary information." He stood there, waiting, while she hesitated.
Finally she said, "Very well then-Dr. Gilmore has it." "Gilmore?" He didn't bother to hide his annoyance. "But you have a copy, haven't you?"
She gave him a tight-lipped smile. "It was in manuscript."
"I see." He hesitated. "Well, I expect Dr. Gilmore will be
at the Rijksmuseum for tonight's lecture. I'll have a word with
him." He turned to me. "And I'll contact you again as soon
as I have any news. I take it this address will find you?"
I was about to say I was leaving next day, but Sonia Winters intervened. "I'll see to it that any letters are forwarded." He smiled, his eyes twinkling. "I'm sure you will, Miss Winters." He was suddenly all charm as he said goodbye to her. I took him downstairs then. "Tell me," he said, as I opened the door for him, "is Miss Winters a relative?"
"No."
"Do you know her well?"
"I've met her twice."
He grunted. "Well, it's none of my business, but she seems to regard herself as something more than a secretary." And he added, "I would strongly advise you to make certain you have control of your father's writings-his notes, his Journal, everything. They could be of great value-scientifically." His manner was suddenly confidential. "I have a great deal of influence in academic circles and I know what I'm talking about." He smiled and patted my arm in a friendly way. "I hope when we meet again the situation will have resolved itself."
Back in the study I found her standing in the same position. "That man." Her voice trembled. "If Dr. Van der Voort had known the money came from him …" She stared at me. "Have you got a cigarette, please?"
There were only three left in the crumpled packet I took from my pocket. She took one almost blindly and I lit it for her. "He hated the academic world, all the institutional professors who sit in judgment, never dirtying their hands in the field, never getting sweaty and tired, living off the work of others and not risking a penny of their own money. The English in particular."
"He always hated the English," I said. "He was a South African, remember."
She turned on me then. "You think that lets you out-that he hated you because you're English. Let me tell you this: It was because of what you are, not your nationality. . Goede Hemell" she said. "Can't you understand? The academic world is a terribly ruthless one. That's why he opted out. He said they were like leeches, sucking the blood of others, taking all the credit. And that man Holroyd is the worst of the lot. His whole life, his whole reputation-it's built on the brains of others."
"Then why did you tell him Gilmore had the Journal?"
"Because he's the only one Dr. Van der Voort trusted. The Journal is safe with him. He knows the sort of man Holroyd is. And anyway, it isn't the Journal Holroyd's after-that wouldn't help him."
She paused then and I said, "Where's the old man now- d'you know?"
"How should I know?" She went over to the desk, drawing on the cio^arette as though she had never smoked one before and staring out of the window, her back towards me. "It would never have happened if he'd known. He'd never have accepted the money. But he was desperate, and then he remembered the letter he'd had from Lord Craigallan. It was like the answer to a prayer. Even then he delayed for months. And after he'd written to Craigallan and had been promised a Land-Rover and the help of a qualified assistant, he never suspected."
"He must have realized there were strings attached."
"Political strings, yes. He was used to that. Politics meant nothing to him any more. All he cared about was completing the work he had already started. He was like a child in some ways, and his illness had frightened him. It had made him realize that he hadn't much time. And now this." And she added, "I never read the Journal. But Dr. Gilmore has. That's what he wanted to see him about. I think he was afraid something like this. ." Her voice trailed away. She was silent for a moment. Finally, she stubbed out her cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray. "I didn't expect you back here." Her voice was hard and brittle. "Then, when I saw the light on this evening, I came straight over. I felt I had to tell you what Hans had said in his letter." And she added, "But it doesn't matter now. You know it all." She turned suddenly and faced me. "I suppose you didn't get the job you were after?"
"No. But I've got the offer of another."
"Oh." Her face looked tired. "And it makes no difference — what's happened out there?"
"No." What the hell did she expect me to say? "I haven't the money to go looking for him."
"No, I suppose not." Moving slightly her hand touched the plate I had left on the desk and she glanced down at the sordid remains of my meal. "I should have thrown those biscuits away." She seemed at a loss for a moment. Then she smiled, a bright, artificial smile. "I'll make you some coffee, shall I?" She was already moving towards the kitchen and I didn't stop
her. She clearly felt the need to do something actively feminine and I needed time to collect my thoughts.
Two things filled my mind-the way this house drew those who were connected with my father, as though his brooding personality were a living force within its walls, and the extraordinary pattern that was dragging me almost against my will into the area of his activities. What if that pattern continued? I sat down at the desk and lit one of my two remaining cigarettes, thinking about it, conscious of a sense of inevitability, wondering what I would do if our paths crossed.
I was still thinking about that when the girl returned with coffee on a tray. "I'm sorry, there's no milk," she said. "And it's instant coffee." I offered her my last cigarette and she took it. The coffee was thin and bitter. We drank it in silence, our thoughts running on different lines. And when I tried to get her to explain what had happened, she only shook her head and said, "It's no good. It wouldn't mean very much to you." And she added, half to herself, "I'm worried about Hans. He's a very serious boy and so absorbed in his studies that he wouldn't know what to make of this." She was withdrawn and very tense, sitting there, nursing her steaming cup and puffing at her cigarette. Her fingers were long and slender, her wrists small. The boyish cut of her hair emphasized the delicacy of her features. It was the first time I had had the chance to study her face. It was like a piece of fine china, very pale, very clean-cut, the brow high, the nose straight and finely chiselled, the mouth and jaw strong.