To his chagrin, the timetable required him to change buses at Avebury. He had no wish to go back there so soon, if only because he feared Percy Nevinson would somehow contrive to wander past the bus stop at some point during the seven-minute interval between the arrival of the 48 and the departure of the 49. But he had no choice in the matter.
In the event, Nevinson did not materialize during his brief visit to Avebury and the banalities of village gossip, as exchanged by the other two passengers waiting at the stop, kept assorted ghosts at bay. The 49 arrived on time. And Umber climbed gratefully aboard.
Just over an hour later he was pacing the platform at Trowbridge railway station, debating with himself once again whether there was any good excuse for the covert nature of his journey. His parents would not think there was if they ever got to know about it. But explaining to them why he had come back to England was something he was willing to go to considerable lengths to avoid. One thing could not be avoided, however. He needed to establish who the mysterious Mr Griffin was – now more than ever, given that Sharp's approaches to the problem were generating more heat than light. Griffin brought him back to Junius – and the necessity to revisit all he had once known about that enigmatic, unidentified figure from two and a half centuries ago. Maybe he had missed some clue that would have taken him to Griffin long since. Maybe not. There was only one way to find out.
The train reached Yeovil at ten o'clock. It was a fifteen-minute walk from the station to the red-brick semi in which Umber had spent his youth and where his parents seemed content to spend their old age. They were creatures of habit. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were shopping mornings. There was close to no chance of their being at home. And there was scarcely any greater chance that one of the neighbours would recognize Umber. The few who might remember him no longer lived in the area.
As it happened, the street was quiet and empty when Umber hurried along it to the front gate of number 36. A few steps took him to the front door. He let himself in and stood in the hall for a few moments, testing the silence. It was total. He was alone.
This was unusual, if not unprecedented, since he had moved out for good more than twenty years ago. The sensation was strange to the point of eeriness. There were ghosts here as well as at Avebury, albeit more benign ones. In many ways, they were ghosts of himself, of his several former selves, of turnings taken in life – and turnings not taken.
He ran up the stairs to the landing, opened the door of the cupboard straight ahead of him and lifted out a metal rod with a curiously fashioned hook on one end. Then he positioned himself beneath the loft-hatch, fitted the other end of the rod to the hatch fastening and turned it. The hatch fell open. He used the hook to pull down the loft-ladder, locked it in position and climbed up into the roof.
There was a switch to his left. When he pressed it, a fluorescent light above him flickered into life. The loft was much as he remembered, an elephants' graveyard of possessions his parents no longer had any use for but had failed to dispose of: plastic bags full of old clothes and blankets, tea chests crammed with books and redundant crockery, a gramophone, an ancient television, a dodgily wired convector, an unstable ironing board; and there, in the shadow of the water tank, the thing he was looking for.
It was a white cardboard box, fastened with string. When he pulled it round, he saw, written on the side in felt-tip block capitals, the single word JUNIUS. And the writing was his.
He dragged the box to the hatchway and, cradling it awkwardly in his arms, climbed down. He was panting with the effort by the time he reached the foot of the steps and had to sit on the box for a moment to recover himself. Then he scrambled back up to switch the light off before pushing the ladder back into place and closing the hatch. He replaced the rod in the cupboard, then carried the box down to the halclass="underline" mission accomplished.
It was going to be an arduous walk back to the station. The box was heavier than he remembered. But that could not be helped. He should be there in ample time for the 11.45 train. And his parents would be none the wiser.
He opened the front door, carried the box out and put it down on the doormat while he locked up. Then he turned and picked up the box again.
That was the moment at which Umber saw the man smiling at him from the front gate. He was tall, broadly built and middle-aged, wearing a dark suit and a sober tie, his grey-brown hair cut short, his tanned face split by a sparkle-toothed grin beneath darting, humorous eyes. His left hand was resting on the latch, his right was curled round the handle of a black briefcase. He opened the gate.
'Mr Umber?' he asked, his voice neutral and low-pitched.
'Er… No.'
'But this is the Umber house, isn't it? Number thirty-six?'
'Yes. But…' Umber reached the end of the path and rested the box on the gate between them. 'They're not in.'
'Right.' The man looked quizzically at Umber. 'Any idea when they'll be back?'
'Not really. I…' Some kind of explanation was clearly called for, preferably one close to the truth. 'I'm their son. David Umber.'
'I see. Of course. My name's Walsh. John Walsh. Lynx Aluminium Windows. I have an appointment with your parents at eleven thirty. Did they mention it to you?'
'No. But… I don't actually live here.'
'Ah. That would explain it.'
'Anyway, aren't you rather early?'
'Terribly. The truth is I had a previous appointment in the area which has just been cancelled, so I called round in the hope of bringing this one forward. Looks like no dice.'
'Yes. It does. I'm sure they'll be back by eleven thirty if that's when they're expecting you.'
'I'm sure they will.'
'Actually -'
'Can I give you a hand getting that box to your car? It looks a real handful.'
'I don't have a car.'
'No? Well, can I give you a lift somewhere? I may as well, with this gap in my schedule. Besides, doing a favour for a potential customer's son can't be a bad idea, can it?'
'Okay. Thanks. I need to get to the station.'
'Pen Mill?'
'Yes.'
'No problem.'
Umber was happy to accept the lift for a reason unconnected with the weight of the box. In the course of it, he needed to give Walsh a good and compelling reason not to mention their encounter to his parents. Such a reason began to shape itself in his mind as Walsh helped him load the box into the boot of his BMW and had attained its final, appealing form by the time they set off.
'There's another favour I need to ask you, Mr Walsh.'
'Oh yes?'
'Well, it's my father's eightieth birthday in a few weeks.' (A few months was nearer the mark, but the distortion was necessary.) 'We're planning a surprise party for him. I've been to the house making some… preparations. I'd be awfully grateful if you didn't
'Spill the beans? You can rely on me, Mr Umber. Would it be better to say nothing about running into you?'
'It would.'
'You coming out of the house lugging a heavy box. Me giving you a lift to the station. It never happened.'
'Exactly.'
'My lips are sealed.'
'Thanks.'
'I like surprises. They make life more interesting. What's in the box, then?'
'I, er…'
'No, no. Don't tell me.' Walsh flashed a grin at Umber. 'The less I know the better.'
A few minutes later, they turned down the approach road to Pen Mill station. Walsh swung the car round in the forecourt next to the ticket-office entrance and stopped.
'Need a hand with the box?' he asked.
'I can manage, thanks,' Umber replied.
'OK. Well, have a good journey. And don't worry. Your secret's safe with me.'