'Then I think I'll go to sleep, David, because nothing nicer can possibly happen to me now . . . and I couldn't possibly be safer anywhere than here, could I?'
She snuggled against him.
'You don't think those old priests would mind, do you? Mind our dummy4
doing this–here?' she said drowsily after a while.
Audley considered the possibility. They had been men of the world, although they had renounced all the good things for the dangers. They must have understood human fears and needs better than those who had no need of such refuges. This sin, of all sins, they could absolve and forgive: the sin of love.
'They'd understand,' he said soothingly. 'Go to sleep.'
VIII
In the end he had drifted off into an exhausted sleep, no longer cold but wedged uncomfortably with one shoulder against the wall to ensure her comfort. And when he came slowly back to wakefulness he found that he was neither able to reach the torch–
the candle had guttered out–nor see his watch, which was on the wrist of the arm she was using as a pillow.
There were nagging aches in his shoulder, back and legs, and a larger uneasiness in his mind about the day ahead. But with this girl in his arms he could not feel unhappy any more, and he delayed moving until he was sure of the faint reflected glimmer in the pigeon hole in the outer wall–that was as close as the room ever came to daylight.
Even then, when he had woken her, he managed to get her dressing gown over her shoulders and into his own before switching on the torch: no harm in salvaging a little dignity on such a morning after.
dummy4
When he was sure she was fully awake he explained his plan of action.
She nodded. 'What you're saying is that it comes down to burglary, booby-traps or–what do you call them -bugs?'
'Most probably bugs. At least on the phones. They've invented some extraordinary little devices–and I wouldn't know where to look for them. We shall have to get the experts in to search the place. As soon as I've dressed I'll walk down the road to the phone box and get some help.'
He felt his way gingerly down the narrow stairway and carefully drew back the long iron bolt. The door-wall swung open easily, with only that same subdued rumble.
The house was perfectly silent, with the morning sunlight streaming in through the windows to dispel the memory of the night's events like a dream. Nothing was disturbed, nothing out of place. He had to tell himself that the three shadows on the lawn had not been imagination. And then the distant raucous screams of the geese reminded him: now he felt an absurd gratitude to those ridiculous, bad-tempered creatures.
There was a reassuring matter-of-factness about the department's duty man, to whom he explained matters ten minutes later. It might have been an everyday occurrence–perhaps it was, for all he knew!
He didn't question Audley's going to earth in his own house, either.
Which was just as welclass="underline" that was one secret he intended to keep, now it had proved its value.
'Forty minutes – we'll have a team with you then, Dr Audley. Er–
dummy4
yours is an old house, isn't it?'
He said it was, wondering how they knew and why it was important.
'No cover story's going to be very convincing on a Sunday morning, but we'll do the best we can. We'll send you a team of woodworm, dry rot and damp-proofing specialists,' said the duty man, answering his unasked questions. 'At least they'll make a nice change from electricians and gas men. They'll be with you on the dot!'
He found Faith hunched over the kitchen table, still in her much-crumpled dressing gown, nursing a mug of tea. She looked somewhat battered, with dark rings under her eyes and hair unbrushed, a far cry from yesterday's cool, self-confident self.
She gave him a bleary version of the now familiar shortsighted-haughty stare, which forced him to smile inwardly.
'I took a risk and plugged the kettle in,' she said hoarsely. 'Without a cup of tea I'd have died anyway, so it was a necessary risk.'
Unaccountably Audley felt on top of the world now, better than he had felt for days. But it would be too cruel of him to admit it at that moment.
'I don't feel very spritely myself, to tell the truth,' he lied.
She raised her eyes from the mug.
'To tell the truth, I feel thoroughly—'
She stopped in mid-sentence, realising too late the implication of dummy4
what she was saying, but making things much worse by leaving the sentence in the air.
He couldn't stop himself from laughing as the colour spread across her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands, and for a cold moment he thought she was weeping. Then he realised her shoulders were shaking with laughter, not tears.
Evidently laughter was the therapy she needed, and it was reassuring to discover that she could laugh against herself. It seemed perfectly natural to take her in his arms, without passion or urgency. She melted against him momentarily, and then held him away from her, shaking her head.
'I'm not grumbling!' she said. 'It was a unique experience! But next time I'd prefer a more conventional setting, I think . . .'
She put her hand to her mouth suddenly and glanced about the kitchen. Audley realised he had forgotten the possibility of bugs himself, and beckoned her out into the garden.
'They'll be here in half an hour, then!' she said in panic when he told her his news. 'God–and I must look a sight!'
And it was, indeed, exactly thirty minutes later that a smart red Bedford van squealed to a halt on the cobbles. KILL-AND-CURE
it promised in bold letters emblazoned on a board fastened to its side panel–'Instant death to wood-borers–relief from rising damp.'
A plump, ginger-haired man in an ill-fitting suit climbed out of the van, accompanied by a younger assistant with trailing hair and a Ringo Starr moustache. They surveyed the house with professional disinterest.
dummy4
The ginger man rapped sharply on the kitchen door.
'Kill-and-Cure, sir,' he announced loudly. 'About your request for estimates for our woodworm treatment and electro-osmotic damp-courses. I have your letter here, sir–Dr Audley, it is, isn't it–and my authorisation to make a Sunday call. "Sunday stipulated" it says here.'
He held open a red folder for Audley to see. It did certainly contain an authorisation, complete with identification. But no mention was made in it of Sunday or woodworm or electro-osmosis, whatever that was.
The ginger man inclined his head slightly towards the van, and Audley followed him outside.
'I'm Maitland, Dr Audley. That's Jenkins with all the hair. Three men, you said. And they had plenty of time in the house.'
Audley nodded.
'But you think it possible they may not know that you observed them.'
'It's possible. I can't be sure.'
'Well, we won't spoil their fun, just in case. Mr Roskill's coming to take you to London, but we'll check the cars first just in case you want to use them. And the cars'll tell us just how good they are.'
He nodded to Jenkins and gestured towards the cars in the barn.
The hairy young man pulled a bag of tools out of the van and trotted off obediently, whistling tunelessly.
'The cars?'
dummy4
'No one can resist cars these days, Dr Audley. If they really don't like you they'll have done a little surgery on the steering or the brakes. But that's not very likely–much too chancy. A "Bo Peep", though–so they can follow you at a safe distance–that's as near a certainty as dammit is to swearing.'
Jenkins had disappeared into Faith's Mini.
'He won't be long,' said Maitland happily. 'There aren't many places in a Mini. Not many clever places, anyway.'
They made their way back into the house.
'Now, sir,' said Maitland loudly again, 'if you don't mind giving us the run of the house while you're out we'll measure up for the damp-course, internal walls included, and let you have our estimate within three days. But if you could spare time to show me round once before you go—'