Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton, reflecting that things were bound to get a whole lot more horrible, felt pity for the woman. ‘I understand why you’re upset,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry about it, but, as you said, we have our job to do.’
‘Yes, well …’ Now that her distress had been acknowledged, Miss Banting, who had turned her attention back to her bracelet, seemed unnerved by her outburst. ‘It’s just that people are getting a bit upset about it. And of course,’ here, she looked at Stratton again, this time with a placatory expression, ‘I know that Mr McCardle must have made a mistake. I mean, you don’t know anything about it, so why you would say …’ She shook her head lightly, as if apologising for a child who’d made an embarrassing error.
Stratton had thought that he’d kept his expression entirely neutral throughout this speech, but he must have given something away because suddenly she was goggling at him. ‘You
did
say it, didn’t you?’ She leapt away from the chair as if it had burst into flames, upsetting it so that it crashed sideways to the floor. ‘You really did say it!’
Stratton stood up with the half-formed intention of going to calm her, but she gave a high-pitched scream and backed away from him in horror, hands out as if to ward off a demon. ‘What right have you, you ignorant – you, you …’ Gasping, she put her hands to her mouth and emitted a series of low moaning sounds, as though she were about to be sick, and then, giving Ballard a violent shove away from the door, fled from the room.
‘Christ!’ Ballard, who looked as shaken as Stratton felt, righted the upset chair and sat down on it, hard. ‘Should I have gone after her?’
‘No. You’d have made it worse.’
Ballard nodded, then fished out his cigarettes and handed one to Stratton. ‘The business about Michael … They take it literally, don’t they – I mean, they think he really is …’
‘Those two certainly do,’ said Stratton grimly.
‘That chap – McCard or whatever his name was – I thought he was going to … And as for
her
…’
‘The hysterics were real enough, all right.’
‘Do you think – her reacting like that – was just because she realised that you
had
said it, or because she’s afraid you might be right?’
‘I honestly don’t know. I don’t suppose she does, either. Do you know,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the …
force
, I suppose, of a belief, quite so clearly.’
‘I know what you mean. I suppose people must have carried on like this all the time in the Middle Ages.’
‘Good job we weren’t there then. We’d probably have been burnt at the stake or something.’
‘You don’t think,’ Ballard glanced towards the door, ‘that they’re going to form themselves into a lynch mob, do you?’
‘This lot?’ Stratton shook his head. ‘Far too polite – at least, after the initial … you know. I’m betting most of them will just rearrange their ideas a bit, like Miss Kirkland.’
‘All the same, it makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘About what they might do to preserve all this? It does that, all right.’
‘Where the bloody hell’s Parsons got to, anyway? I thought he was—’
Here, a discreet knock on the door heralded not the officer, but Miss Kirkland. If she’d encountered the hysterical Miss Banting, she gave no sign of it. ‘Mr Roth sent me to fetch you,’ she said coolly. ‘He’s ready to see you now.’
‘Oh, is he indeed?’ Stratton had intended that Roth descend from the heights and talk to them in the same place as his students had done, but clearly the leader was having none of it. ‘Where’s PC Parsons?’
‘Mr Roth sent him off to the kitchen for a cup of tea. I understand that the policewoman you sent for is with him.’
‘Oh, really?’ Stratton and Ballard exchanged glances. ‘Well, we can probably spare them for twenty minutes or so. What about PC Briggs?’
‘In the classroom. Michael is having his lessons.’
‘Well,’ murmured Ballard, as they followed the neat figure up the stairs. ‘That’s something to be grateful for, anyway.’
Miss Kirkland ushered Stratton and Ballard into Roth’s room and, after a muttered exchange with him, withdrew. At Roth’s invitation, they seated themselves, but instead of joining them he went to stand with his back to the fireplace in a manner that made Stratton think of the headmaster of a public school who’d summoned a pair of pupils to account for some misdemeanour.
Deciding that it would be childish to prolong any sort of standoff, Stratton said, ‘As I’m sure Mr Tynan has told you, the dead woman found on the edge of his land has been identified as Rosemary Aylett, and we have very good reason to believe that she is the mother of the boy Michael.’
Roth produced his cigarette case and went into the theatrical smoking routine that Stratton remembered from last time. After what he felt was a particularly over-egged production of drawing in and slow exhalation, Roth said, ‘So I gather. But where he came from is of no importance.’
‘It is if it was the cause of Mrs Aylett’s death.’
‘I meant,’ said Roth, ‘that it is not important in the larger scheme of things. Mrs Aylett’s death is certainly …’ he brushed some ash off the knee of his trousers, ‘unfortunate.’
‘Or convenient, depending on how you look at it.’
‘How is it convenient?’
‘Mrs Aylett can’t try to claim her son back. Which would have been pretty awkward for you, wouldn’t it?’
‘Awkward?’ Roth pronounced the word distinctly, as though it were new to him.
‘Yes, awkward. Given that you’ve put it about that the boy was the next great spiritual leader and immaculately conceived and all the rest of it.’
‘I have never made such a claim—’
‘Perhaps not in so many words, but you’ve certainly encouraged others to think so. We’ve just had a pretty graphic demonstration of that.’
Roth blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head with an air of amused tolerance, much as you would at a mischievous toddler. ‘Michael is very special. You cannot alter that. There was a purpose,’ he continued, his voice becoming declamatory and authoritative, ‘in his coming to us. The performance of any action is the work of the appropriate instrument – in this case, Ananda
– but no action is possible in the physical world. That is merely the effect, and it is the effect of an action which was complete before the effect began, and may have been completed long ago.’
‘So you are saying,’ said Stratton, ‘that the end justifies the means, no matter who is hurt in the—’
‘That woman,’ Roth raised his voice, so that it became a thunderous rumble, ‘abandoned her child. She gave him up to Ananda. That is the fact of the matter. Whether or not that child is Michael, is …’ he made an open-ended gesture with his hands.
Sod this, thought Stratton. Staring straight back at Roth, he said, ‘Mrs Aylett did not abandon her child. She gave him up because she had no choice in the matter.’ Ignoring Roth’s scornful look, he continued, ‘Mrs Milburn, however,
did
abandon a child. She left her son – her own son – with some neighbours, and never went back to collect him. The family haven’t heard from her since. I take it Mr Tynan informed you of that as well.’
Roth had turned his head and was staring out of the window. ‘Yes,’ he said, quietly now. ‘He did.’
‘And you knew nothing of it – of either of these things – before?’
Roth paused to inhale more smoke and blow it in the direction of the window before shaking his head.
‘So,’ said Stratton, ‘Mrs Milburn pulled the wool over your eyes good and proper, didn’t she?’
Roth turned his head. The amused tolerance gone, he now looked wooden and irritated, reminding Stratton of his brother-in-law Don when he was teased into taking part in charades at Christmas. It struck him that Roth was not a man used to engaging in dialogue with an equal. Roth’s default position when challenged, Stratton felt sure, was either to laugh it off, or, when he was unable to do that, to bully and hector. Apparently realising that neither course would be appropriate now, he seemed at a loss. His eyes flicked momentarily away from Stratton towards the door, and he attempted some more theatrical smoking, but
Stratton could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. When he spoke, it was with an obvious effort at moderation. ‘The truth is there to be discovered, Inspector Stratton. It’s often shrouded in mystery. Once we remove the shrouds, it’s quite simple, even though it doesn’t always seem so on the surface. I’m sure you are aware of this. After all, you are, in your own way, a seeker after truth, and – also in your own way’ – his tone suggested that, as ways went, Stratton’s left a lot to be desired – ‘you have taught me something.’
‘So you’re saying you were misled?’
‘That is one way of putting it, yes.’
‘And you had absolutely no idea, prior to Mr Tynan’s telephone call, of the existence of Mrs Aylett?’
‘None.’
‘Somebody had, Mr Roth. Somebody found Michael’s original birth certificate in Mrs Milburn’s room, took it, and contacted Mrs Aylett to tell her her son was here. Do you have any idea who that could be?’
Roth hesitated, and Stratton thought he saw the ghost of a word appear on his lips, but he did not speak. ‘I am sorry, gentlemen,’ he said, formally. ‘I am unable to assist you.’
‘Unable, or just unwilling?’ snapped Stratton.
‘Unable.’ He ducked his head in self-deprecation – though whether real or feigned, Stratton found it impossible to tell. ‘On this occasion, I am entirely at a loss. But then …’ He smiled, sadly. ‘We all must work to free ourselves from our illusions, Mr Stratton, and you have done me a great service in freeing me from one of mine. Who knows? Perhaps I shall be able to return the service.’
Stratton found that he had no idea what Roth was talking about, and at this point, he didn’t much care. ‘Make no mistake about it, Mr Roth, two dead bodies are not an illusion. I intend to get to the bottom of this, and I shall. Now, however, I need to have a word with Michael. He needs to be told the truth about his mother – but by us, not by you.’
Roth inclined his head. ‘Very well. But I should like to be present.’
‘Fine,’ said Stratton, giving Roth some of his own eagle-eye treatment. ‘But only on condition that you keep quiet.’
‘I agree. You will find Miss Kirkland waiting outside. She can bring Michael to us.’
‘We have a policewoman here, and I’d like her to be present.’
‘Very well. Miss Kirkland will see to it.’
Ballard went to the door, and, after a few minutes, during which Roth stared silently at the garden, and Stratton tried to quell not only his anger but a mounting anxiety about what the next ten minutes might hold, Michael appeared with Miss Kirkland behind him. They were closely followed by the policewoman, who was accompanied, to Stratton’s surprise, by a subdued and rabbity-eyed Miss Banting. Miss Kirkland and Miss
Banting made to leave immediately, but Roth stopped them with a gesture, indicating that they should sit down. To Michael, he said, ‘I’ve asked you to come here because Inspector Stratton’ – he indicated Stratton with his hand – ‘wants to talk to you, and I want you to listen carefully to what he has to say.’
Stratton noticed that, as on the previous occasion, Miss Kirkland, head slightly to one side, mimicked the posture of the painted Virgin on the wall, and that Miss Banting, next to her, did likewise. The effect, judging by Ballard’s face, was as eerie to him as it was to Stratton, and it was added to by Michael, seated next to them, handsome and collected, remaining bolt upright with a stillness that he was sure most twelve-year-old boys couldn’t have managed for even ten seconds. Apart from the crackle and hiss of the fire, the only sound and movement in the room came from Roth who, seated in the armchair beside the fire, produced a cigarette from his case, tapped it, lit it, and began going through his smoking act.
Michael’s expression, though polite, was blank and incurious. Stratton began explaining, in his gentlest voice, about the death of Rosemary Aylett. Afterwards, he could remember none of the words he’d used; they’d slipped out of his head at the first opportunity, leaving his part in the proceedings a merciful blur, his clearest impression being that Michael, although he listened with calm, even kindly, courtesy, wasn’t really taking any of it in. Only when he got to the bit about Ballard’s visit to Mrs Curtin, and was giving a (considerably bowdlerised) version of what she’d told them about how her sister had come to give him away, as a baby, to a stranger, did Michael’s expression change. The boy narrowed his eyes as if weighing up the facts and, for a horrible moment, Stratton suspected that Michael thought he’d been summoned to Roth’s presence in order to pronounce judgement, like a modern-day infant Solomon.
Stratton halted his narrative. ‘Do you understand what I’ve been telling you, Michael?’
‘I understand.’ Michael’s judicious expression didn’t alter.
‘Mrs Aylett gave away her baby son – you – to a lady who Mrs Curtin identified as your mother, Ananda.’ Here, a flicker of apprehension passed over the boy’s face, but he did not speak. ‘This happened in the summer of 1945, when you were six months old. Ananda wanted you very, very much, and she promised Mrs Aylett that she would look after you.’
Michael looked uncertainly at Roth, as if, at his instigation, Stratton was setting him some sort of test. Roth gave him an encouraging nod and then turned his head back to gaze at the burning logs in the fireplace.
‘Mrs Aylett called you Billy,’ Stratton continued. ‘She was very sad to part with you, but she felt – and you will understand this better when you’re grown up – that she didn’t have any choice.’
As Michael continued to stare at him, Stratton searched his face for signs of distress, but found none. Miss Banting had begun sobbing quietly, and Miss Kirkland had her eyes half-closed, as if in a trance. The boy, however, looked as if what was being talked about had nothing to do with him.
‘Are you quite sure you understand what I’ve been saying?’ asked Stratton.
‘It isn’t real,’ the boy said flatly.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Stratton, ‘that it is. Of course,’ he added hurriedly, ‘it doesn’t mean that your mother – Mrs Aylett, I mean – didn’t love you. She always loved you – she was coming here, to the Foundation, because she was trying to find you. She’d been trying for many years.’