Styles rapped the knocker hard. Presently the door opened, a gloomy hallway glimpsed sketchily beyond. Whoever opened the door remained unseen behind it.
‘Hello?’ said Stafford.
‘Please come in,’ a disembodied voice invited. ‘I take it you are DCI Stafford?’
Stafford stepped over the threshold, Styles following close behind. A man stood in shadow behind the door. ‘That’s right,’ Stafford said, ‘and this is DI Styles. You are Charles Rayne?’
The man closed the door swiftly, whipped back a thick curtain to cover it entirely. ‘That’s correct. Please forgive me,’ he said warmly, reaching out and flicking on a light switch. ‘My condition,’ he explained. ‘I have to avoid all sunlight.’
Stafford did his best to hide his surprise at seeing the old man before him. His face was a mass of tumour-like growths, particularly down the left-hand side of his face. His lips looked painfully cracked and sore, his eyes rimmed red. His white hair had all but fallen out, clumps of it desperately clinging onto the yellow skin of his head. There were growths on the top of his skull too, above the ear. He held out a gloved hand for Stafford to shake.
‘Don’t be alarmed; it isn’t contagious.’
‘No, of course not,’ Stafford said, shaking his hand.
‘Over the years my exposure to sunlight has caused me to have a few skin problems, as you can see. It is more unsightly than harmful. Is that the book?’ Rayne said. ‘Can I see it?’
The officer handed it over. ‘Your grandfather was a famous man in his time. A good police officer by all accounts,’ Stafford complimented.
Charles Rayne handled the book carefully, delicately almost. ‘This is a rare thing. I knew it existed, but assumed they had all been destroyed. I have never been able to track one down.’
‘It belonged to a colleague of yours,’ said Styles. ‘Carl Wood.’
‘Carl? Oh, yes, poor Carl.’
‘You heard about his death, obviously,’ said Stafford.
‘Oh yes. Very sad. Very sad. Though we had not seen each other in perhaps ten years or so. I did not know he had a copy of this.’ Then he smiled. ‘Sorry, how rude of me, keeping you standing in the hallway like this. Please come through to the living room. Can I get you something to drink? Tea, perhaps?’
‘No tea,’ said Styles abruptly. ‘No thank you; we had something on the way here, sir.’ They followed the man down the hall and through into another room.
‘It’s a little untidy,’ said Rayne apologetically. ‘I live on my own and I dedicate my time to my work. It sort of takes over. One grows used to living in it and not seeing it.’
The curtains were fully drawn and obviously made of a very hefty material designed to keep out all the light. The artificial light was bright enough, mainly provided by an array of lamps. They lit up a room dominated by bookcases crammed full of old leather volumes, modern hardbacks and piles of well-loved paperbacks. There was a desk on which a VDU peered from behind precarious stacks of papers and cardboard files, more paper and box files stacked on the floor against the walls. If this were his living room, thought Stafford, he’d hate to see the office.
‘Reminds me of my desk,’ Stafford said, and then thought better of it. ‘I mean, I accumulate paper, tons of it, even though it’s supposed to be a paperless office.’
Rayne shrugged. ‘I did try and tidy it up a little, knowing I had visitors coming, but it might not be immediately apparent to the untrained eye.’ He swept his hand in the direction of a sofa. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’
The two officers sat down. ‘Styles here says you’re quite the famous historian. A number of books published and all that.’
‘More than just a number of books,’ Styles interjected. ‘I read Shining a Light on the Dark Ages — a seminal volume. Mr Rayne’s work is highly regarded. They gave you honorary degrees from both Oxford and Cambridge isn’t that right?’
‘Rayne waved it away. ‘A little difficult to attend the ceremonies, I admit, and not easy to conduct at night or in the dark. Still, I am flattered you have even heard of me. As you can see, I keep myself to myself.’
‘But technology makes the world more accessible,’ said Styles, looking at the computer.
‘In the same way it makes privacy less accessible,’ he returned. ‘You know, holding this book makes me feel closer to my dear grandfather.’ He sat down, opening the volume and fanning through the pages. ‘So this is what you came to see me about?’
‘Your relationship with Carl Wood first, Mr Rayne,’ said Stafford.
‘Like I said, we hadn’t seen each other in a long while.’
‘Mrs Wood informs us that Carl Wood, Howard Baxter and you were part of a little group called the Lunar Club.’
He smiled. ‘That’s right. A long time ago, when we were young. We wanted to change the world, as young people so often do. We met up to discuss theories, have a glass or two of spirits and smoke cigars.’
‘Is that all?’
‘What else could there be? In any event, we stopped meeting a long time ago.’
‘Any particular reason?’ said Styles, cutting across Stafford.
Rayne regarded the young man. There was something he didn’t like, behind the eyes; something he felt he had to be wary of. ‘No particular reason. We just went our different ways, trod different paths.’
‘Did you know Howard Baxter has also died?’ said Stafford.
Rayne hesitated. ‘Yes, I did hear that. Tragic. I believe he took his own life. I’m not sure of the details.’
‘Ever heard of something called A Return to Eden, Mr Rayne?’ asked Styles.
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘It was the last thing Mr Baxter was working on before he died. It seems Carl Wood and Baxter had words over its potential publication. As if it might be revealing in some way. Perhaps even dangerous?’
Rayne frowned. ‘Dangerous? I rather think that’s over-egging the pudding, Inspector Styles; history is rarely dangerous.’
Style’s eyes narrowed. ‘That depends upon what is being revealed.’
‘True, I suppose,’ said Rayne. ‘But all the same, I have never heard of A Return to Eden.’
‘It appears you are the last of the three, Mr Rayne,’ noted Stafford.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know whether I ought to feel glad or sad,’ he replied.
Stafford reached forward, touched the book in Rayne’s hands. ‘Mr Wood sent me this. When I spoke to him on the phone he told me that Doradus was getting closer and that time was running out. What can you tell us about Doradus?’
The old man looked from Stafford to Styles. ‘Isn’t it some kind of star? I seem to remember that’s what it is. A bright one.’
‘And that’s all you know?’
He nodded.
‘We got the impression from Mr Wood that Doradus was a person,’ said Styles. ‘Think again, Mr Rayne. Did your little Lunar Club ever discuss Doradus?’
‘That’s all I know, I’m afraid, Inspector. We never discussed Doradus. We were historians, not astronomers.’
Stafford ran a finger over his lips. ‘Mr Wood appeared to be frightened, afraid for his life, you might say. He died soon afterwards, on the very day we had arranged to meet with him.’
‘He died of a heart attack, I understand,’ said Rayne quickly. Too quickly, he thought, and regretted it.
‘Are you aware of anyone that would have wished Mr Wood harm?’
‘Not in the time I knew him. As for the last ten years I cannot say, but I doubt it; he was a gentle, kind-hearted man.’
‘I find it strange,’ said Stafford, his face falling serious, ‘that Mr Wood sends me this book and points out the very chapter detailing the case your grandfather worked on. You know which chapter I mean?’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Rayne. ‘The Body in the Barn. It haunted my grandfather his entire life. He never solved it, you see. And people never let him forget it, which added salt to the wound.’ He closed the book and handed it back to Stafford. ‘Carl was a historian, no doubt possessing many books — I too have books on murder; it is a human condition that will be forever with us, no matter how far back we go or how far forward we reach.’