I climbed his steps and rang the bell. The milk and newspapers were still on the top step. I rang the bell again, this time holding my finger on the button so that the bell rang insistently.
I took my finger off when I heard the rattle of bolts and chains. A thin, balding man in black trousers and waistcoat opened the door.
He was evidently offended by my behaviour, but I gave him no time to protest. “Is Mr Bannister at home?” I demanded.
He looked me up and down before answering. I did not look very impressive; I was dressed in old jeans, torn deck-shoes and a frayed shooting jacket. “Mr Bannister is not yet up, sir.” He spoke with the haughty reserve of a trained servant and, though he called me ‘sir’, I saw his hand go towards the alarm system’s hidden panic button that would alert the police station that an intruder had bluffed his way past the front door.
“My name is Captain Nicholas Sandman, VC.” I used the full rigmarole and my crispest accent to reassure him, and it must have worked for he took his finger away from the button. “I really came to see Fanny Mulder.”
“Mr Mulder has a private entrance by the garage, sir.”
“I’ve arrived by this one now,” I said, “so send him up to me. Is there somewhere I can wait?”
“Indeed, sir.” He showed me into a lovely high-ceilinged room where he drew back the curtains and unfolded the shutters to let the morning sun stream on to an expensive pale carpet. “I believe Mr Mulder is also still sleeping, sir. Would you like some coffee while you wait?”
“A large pot of it, please. Milk, no sugar.”
“I shall inform Mr Mulder that you’re here, sir.” He gave a hint of a bow, and left.
I waited. The room was beautifully furnished, with a fine Impres-sionist painting over the mantelpiece and a profusion of watercolour landscapes on the opposite wall. A lovely photograph of Nadeznha Bannister stood on a side table. Behind it, and echoing the array in Bannister’s Devon house, was a bank of electronic equipment. In front of the fireplace was an expensive glass-topped coffee table at least twelve feet square. Its smoked glass had prettily bevelled edges.
The previous day’s paper lay there and I idly read it while I waited for the coffee. The miners’ strike was a month old and police and pitmen were fighting pitched battles outside coke depots and coalmines.
“Coffee, sir.” The manservant put a large silver Thermos jug on to the table. “I’ve informed Mr Mulder of your arrival, sir, and he will join you as soon as he can. Would you like today’s paper, sir?”
“No. Is there a back gate to the house?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. Which meant that if Mulder wanted to escape me then he would have to leave by the front gate and I would see him run for it. If he did, I planned to phone the police.
But Mulder did not run for it. He kept me waiting ten minutes, but finally appeared in jeans and a sweatshirt that carried the name Wildtrack in big letters. He stood sullen and huge. He had winch-grinder’s hands, a face battered by sun and sea, and the confidence of his giant size. “What is it?” he asked curtly.
“You heard that I withdrew my charges against you, Fanny?”
“I heard.” He was suspicious.
“But you still owe me an apology, Fanny.”
A look of hurt pride flicked over the big face, then he shrugged.
“I didn’t know you were a crip, man.”
I suppose that passed for a Boer apology, meaning that if he’d known I was crippled he’d have only broken one rib. I smiled. “And you’ve got something that I want, Fanny.”
He said nothing, but just glowered in the doorway.
“I said you’ve got something I want, Fanny. Or did you find a buyer for the medal?”
He tried to brazen it out. “What medal?”
I crossed to the glass table, picked up the silver Thermos jug, and smashed it hard down. The smoked glass was toughened, and all I managed to do was crack it. I lifted the dented jug higher, slammed it down again, and this time the precious glass splintered into crazed fragments. Magazines, dried flowers and ashtrays collapsed among the broken glass. I smiled pleasantly at Fanny again. “You’ve got two minutes to find my medal, you bastard, or I break up this house.” Fanny was staring aghast at the table’s wreckage. “You’re mad!”
“One minute and fifty seconds.”
“Jesus bloody wept!” For a second I thought he was going to attack me, but he stayed rigid at the door.
I unscrewed the jug’s lid and upturned it. A mixture of hot coffee and broken vacuum lining spilt on to the fine carpet. “One minute forty seconds, Fanny. The picture over the mantel will be next.”
“I’ll get it, man! I’ll get it!” He held his hands wardingly towards me. “Don’t do any more! I’ll get it!”
The medal arrived within one minute. Just seconds after Fanny had thrust the slim case towards me, Bannister himself appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a bathrobe of flamboyant silk. He stared appalled at the horrid mess where his table had stood, then looked at me in newly-woken astonishment. “Captain Sandman?”
“Good morning,” I said politely. “I came here to retrieve my medal. Mr Mulder was reluctant to admit that he still possessed it.” I opened the lid of the case and looked down at the dull cross of bronze with its claret ribbon. “I’m sorry I had to use unfair methods to persuade him, but clearly you were making no effort at all.”
“Ah.” Bannister appeared to be naked under his silk robe. He also seemed incapable of collecting his wits.
“You told me you didn’t know where Fanny was,” I accused him.
“I…” He stopped, trapped by his lie, helpless to know what to say.
“But, as you can see, I found him.” I put the medal into my pocket.
“I can explain everything, Nick.” Bannister had found his charm now, and deployed it hurriedly. “Fanny only arrived last night. I was going to talk to you about him, of course—”
“I’m in a hurry,” I cut him off. “But I also want to tell you that I’ve no intention of making your film, none. I’ll ask my lawyer to send you a bill for Sycorax’s restoration. Unless you’d prefer to write me a cheque now?”
“Nick!” Bannister’s hurt tone suggested he had been grievously wronged. “It’s going to be a very good film, very good!”
“I’d rather have a cheque,” I said.
“You’ve signed a contract.” Angela Westmacott stepped into the room. Until now I’d been in charge of the confrontation, but her sudden appearance flabbergasted and silenced me. “You’ve signed a contract,” she said again, “and I expect you to fulfil it.” Like Bannister she was in a silk robe and, like him, she seemed to be naked under the bright garment. Her hair was loose, cascading in a golden flood down her back. She had no make-up, yet she looked very beautiful. I understood now why she always behaved with such imperiousness; she had Anthony Bannister as a lover, and she had assumed his power along with his bed. She looked with disgust at the mess I’d made. “Are you telling us that you plan to withdraw from your contract, Mister Sandman?”
“I shall talk to my lawyer about it on Monday.”
“Do that. And once you’ve wasted his time and your money I shall still expect to see you at mid-day on Tuesday.” Her scorn was biting and her voice like a whip. “Get out, Fanny,” she snapped at Mulder, who fled.
“I need Fanny, Nick,” Bannister offered the feeble explanation.
“If I’m going to win the St Pierre, I shall need him.”
“Do you plan to vandalize anything else in the room?” Angela did not believe in explanation, only attack. “Or did I understand you to say that you were in a hurry, Mister Sandman?” She made me feel clumsy and boorish. “I’m in a hurry.”