‘Yes, but I don’t think he knew much at the time. You see, the engine was transferred to the yacht in July. Two weeks later the old engine in his workshop was stolen. A month later he decided it was no longer safe to keep the Sea Spray in Swansea and Evan Llewellin and I ran her round to Porthgwarra. The lease of the studio there had already been taken. I took up residence and have not seen my father since. I am afraid that at the time I went to Porthgwarra he knew very little about the business. The night he mentioned Burston was just before I left. He knew that Calboyds were after his engine, but I don’t think he knew anything about the control of Calboyds. In fact, his remarks about Burston being the weak link suggest that he and Evan were just becoming interested in the control.’
We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Mrs Lawrence to tell me I was wanted on the phone. When I got downstairs, it was to find that it was Forbes-Pallister himself ringing me. He was very apologetic. ‘I would like to have helped you in the matter, Kilmartin,’ he said. ‘But it’s out of my reach. The order emanated from the First Lord and I can, of course, do nothing.’
I thanked him and rang off. That was that. Calboyd himself had probably arranged for the order. As I climbed the dark stairs from the basement, a feeling of depression crept over me. I was out of my depth, and I knew it. I could make no headway against an organisation that could call, not only upon the forces of law, but also upon political heads of the country.
‘Bide a moment, Mr Kilmartin.’ It was Mrs Lawrence, speaking from the front door, and I paused on the stairs leading up from the hall. ‘There’s a telegram for you.’ She brought it to me and I opened it. It was from David to say that he was having an interesting time and had decided to stay the night. ‘There’s no reply,’ I said, and thanked her and went back to Freya’s room. She received my information about the boat with dark, troubled eyes. ‘What do we do now?’ she asked. ‘I’m tired of sitting cooped up in this room.’
‘Then we’ll go and have dinner somewhere and then go to a show,’ I said. I felt rather guilty at the suggestion, but as far as I could see there was nothing more to be done, and she agreed. ‘Tomorrow we will go to Eastbourne,’ I added.
CHAPTER SIX
That evening remains vividly in my memory as a pleasant oasis. It had something of the quality of the lull before the storm. I think I was conscious of this at the time. With the exception of the brief chase by the Cones of Runnel, we had not crossed swords with the other side. So far it had been a game of hide-and-seek. But I was not fool enough to imagine that it would remain just a game. And I think it was that thought that added an almost unreal beauty to the evening. I felt an unnatural, almost hysterical gaiety. And there was Freya. For some reason that was essentially feminine she had brought an evening frock with her. Until then I had only seen her as a rather boyish creature, striking enough with her slim figure encased in slacks and her lovely sleek head. But when she came out of her room on to the dimly-lit landing in her dark-blue frock, I caught my breath. The boyishness was gone. Where I had taken her for a girl, I found a woman. The beauty of her made me wish that I was younger. I took her hand. ‘You look lovely,’ I said.
That was one of the happiest evenings of my life. Freya was in great spirits. I wished David could have been with us to see her. But at the same time I was glad he was not. We had both agreed upon the Palladium and it suited our mood. And when we came back, she insisted on my paying the taxi off at the top of Shaftesbury Avenue and walking home the rest of the way. It was a glorious moonlit night. ‘This is the first time I have seen London in a black-out,’ she said. Her voice was low and almost husky. I looked down at her. She was wearing the heavy gabardine cloak she had worn with her slacks, but it looked different now. It gave her height and poise. And from it rose the perfect oval of her face, pale in the moonlight. She was gazing upwards. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ she said. ‘See the way the moon picks out the steeple of that church. You scarcely even notice the moon in peace-time when all the street lights are on.’
I laughed. ‘Wait until you see the black-out on a dark night,’ I said. ‘It’s not the same at all when you walk down streets that seem like dark clefts. It gives you an unpleasant sense of desolation.’
At that she laughed and said, ‘But I’m seeing it in the moonlight so I can be happy. See how it shows up the Senate House.’ And we paused to look across the lifeless trees of Russell Square to the tall white block of the University building. As we did so I noticed out of the tail of my eye a car stop by the kerb a little way down Southampton Row. I don’t know why I suddenly had the feeling that it was following us. But I noticed that no one got out, and as we turned the corner into Guildford Street I saw it on the move again. I drew Freya into the dark doorway of a chemist’s shop and waited. The car crawled round the corner. There were two men in front and they were peering through the windscreen. Then the car accelerated and disappeared down the length of Guildford Street. I don’t think it was following us, but it had a dampening effect upon our gaiety and it was a sober, rather nervous pair that let themselves into their rooms.
The next morning I was up early and got my car out of its garage in Fetter Lane. Shortly after nine we were on the road. It was a blue-skied, friendly day, warm, with a hint of spring in the air. The drive would have been fun, if we had not both been weighed down with a sense of trouble ahead. When we arrived at Eastbourne I went straight to the office of one of the local newspapers. We were lucky, for the boy who had covered the Burston story was in. I handed him my card. ‘You may have heard of me,’ I said.
‘Why, yes, of course, sir. You’re interested in this business?’ he asked.
I told him that I was and that my own view was that it might not be an accident.
At that he said, ‘Well I’m glad there’s somebody thinks the same way as I do. I had a word with the local inspector, but he pooh-poohed the idea and told me that I was just out for copy. Do you know the Belle Toute?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘Then you’ll remember the road bends sharp to the right there. Now the mist was pretty thick, I admit that. But this fellow Burston, who has lived in the neighbourhood for over four years, goes and turns sharp left. It doesn’t make sense to me. He may have been drunk, but I don’t see why he should be as drunk as all that. The air was cold and raw. It was enough to sober anyone up. And why was he on the Birling Gap road anyway? He came down from Willingdon and he lived at Alfriston. The direct way would have been to go through Old Town and straight up to the hills. Or, if he must go round by the Beachy Head road, he would have turned to the right when he got to the top of the downs and on to the East Dean road. Sedel said he had mentioned something about going over to see a friend at Birling Gap. But it was past midnight, and that’s a damned funny time to start making calls, especially on a filthy night like that.’
‘Sedel?’ I said. ‘Who is Sedel?’
‘The fellow at whose house he got drunk. Mind you, I’m not saying he wasn’t drunk. From all accounts the fellow has been drinking fairly heavily in recent months.’
But I had remembered what Henderson had said about a lovely place just outside Eastbourne. ‘Is this fellow’s name Max Sedel?’ I asked.
‘Yes, that’s right. Freelance journalist in the City.
He was very helpful to the police, I understand. But I didn’t get much out of him. I told him I thought it was extraordinary that a man should drive over the cliff like that on a road he must have known like the palm of his hand. But all he said was that a cub reporter trying to make a suicide out of it for the sake of copy wouldn’t help a poor fellow much.’