Arcadia (58 page)

Rosalind stopped there, quite breathless, to see what effect she had had. As she spoke, the creeping feeling had come over her that this was no way to win friends. How would she feel if someone told her something like that?

To her astonishment, Henary went down onto his knees, covered his face with his thick, heavy hands and began weeping so hard that his body shook.

‘I am so sorry!’ she exclaimed. ‘That was terribly rude of me.’

Henary dried his eyes and slowly recovered himself. Once he trusted himself to speak once more, he swallowed hard and recited, ‘“When the Herald reveals the Story, the Story is near its end.”’

‘Eh?’

‘It comes from the Tales of Perplexity, parts of the narrative
which no one has ever been able to understand and so are excluded from the canon of truth. Mystical, prophetic or simple lunacy, no one knows, though there are many opinions.’

Henary was talking like a man who had just had the worst shock of his life. ‘The trouble is, I never believed any of it, you see; all my life I have set myself against the idea of prophecy. But I found this manuscript which describes a boy seeing a fairy. The one I got you to look at. I thought it merely curious until I came across Jay and realised his account fitted it exactly. Then it talked of you appearing again, and you did.

‘I was excited, of course I was. I thought you would help me unlock the most ancient secrets. I now fear I may have set in motion the end of the world. The prophecies are coming true.’

‘Oooh,’ Rosalind reassured him. ‘I doubt that. Why would you think such a thing?’

‘Silly, meaningless stuff, which no man of sense or education pays any attention to.’ He paused. ‘Should that be “to which no man pays any attention”?’

‘I believe so. But it is a bit off the point.’

‘“The end time is presaged by the arrival of the Herald.” A tale collected by Etheran.’

‘Herald of what?’

‘Of the god who created then abandoned us. He returns and judges his creation. If we are found wanting, then the world is brought to an end. All stories must end eventually. He returns and closes the book. That is why Willdon is so important. This is where the end will begin.’

‘It all sounds very unlikely to me. I mean, it’s just the Professor trying to add a bit of mystery to things. It’s not real, you know.’

‘The Herald has now revealed the Story,’ Henary continued.

‘Who?’

‘You, dear lady.’

‘Fiddlesticks and stuff.’

‘There is more. A prophecy by a hermit. The world ends on the fifth day of the fifth year. Catherine is in the fifth year of her
rule. The fifth day is tomorrow. The day when we now have to be in the Shrine of Esilio, and call his spirit forth to judge …’

‘Well then,’ said Rosalind matter-of-factly, ‘I must say I don’t hold with prophecies and fairies. Having been one myself, I know what I am talking about, as well. Nor does it make any difference.
Que sera, sera
. Bet you don’t know that one.’

‘No.’

She sang a bit of it. ‘It means, whatever happens, happens. It doesn’t matter. You have to go on as if the sun will rise and the world won’t end. As far as I can see, you have a day to sort everything out.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You’re the wisest, remember. So forget all of this for the time being. It’s not as if you can do anything about it. There’s a lot to do. You have a speech to prepare as well. Pamarchon only agreed to this on condition that he had the best advocate available. That’s obviously you.’

Henary shook his head. ‘I cannot do that.’

‘You are just going to have to. Too late now. It would be breaking the agreement, he won’t come and they’ll start killing each other.’

‘But who will defend Catherine?’

‘She said she’d take care of it. You just have to put up with her decision. So, as Julius Caesar so eloquently put it in my last Latin lesson,
alea iacta est
.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Too late now. Get on with it.’

51

For once books failed to distract him. Every time Lytten’s concentration slipped, his mind drifted back to the doubts sown by Sam Wind. Could he have overlooked something? Could Angela have deceived him for so long, so completely? Could Wind’s sudden suspicions have any substance to them?

Of course they could. Think of old Sowerby, the classics don. Married for forty years and discovers that his wife had not one but three lovers all at the same time, and had slept with most of Oxford over a period of decades. Did the poor fellow ever suspect? Not a thing. Sowerby had spent more time with his wife than Lytten had ever spent with Angela. How she had had the energy, mind you … Such a quiet woman.

It is easy to deceive others. Telling them the truth is harder. He thought of Angela, all those queer things about her that, for some reason, he had never thought about. The strangeness when he had first met her. The way she had questioned him incessantly about England and life in general, as though she knew nothing of it. The frequent faux pas when she clearly could not see simple signals – like saying hello to people properly, not noticing when someone was being kind or dismissive or interested. Constantly getting it wrong. The bizarre opinions that sometimes had come out of her mouth. The extraordinary ignorance – like the time when it became clear she genuinely did not realise that most people stayed married until they died, or left their possessions to their children.

She always seemed out of place, wherever she was. Never at home, always disappearing for long periods. He had paid little attention, and thought only that she was wonderfully strange. He
was fascinated by her. He was carefree, without responsibilities. Even if she had said she was a communist spy, he wouldn’t have minded. It would have been an additional attraction, back then. Everyone with any sense or humanity sympathised. There was a choice. Russia or Germany. But could she possibly be such a person still? Prepared to have a man shot to preserve her secret? Could she really have kept up a pretence for near thirty years, quietly, persistently, anonymously serving her country, betraying all around her?

Balderdash, he repeated. Angela was perhaps the most ill-disciplined, badly organised person he had ever met. Her inability to control her emotions was almost total. Her knowledge of, and interest in, technology was non-existent. She didn’t even really understand how to use a telephone, and she was supposed to be masterminding the theft of our greatest secrets? Besides, one thing he was certain of: Angela couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.

He only had to voice the idea in his head to know that it was nonsense. He had taken on the job of finding the spy in their midst, and here was Sam Wind pointing the finger at Angela, sowing confusion by constructing impossibly arcane theories.

Sam Wind was the last candidate on Portmore’s list. Someone had known about Volkov; someone had arranged for him to be followed to Paris. Someone had been watching his house. Someone had shot the poor fellow.

Add it together. The conclusion, whatever it was to be, was coming ever closer.

*

To get it out of his mind, Lytten hid himself in Anterwold, or rather, in his notebooks, concerning himself with matters of imperfection. As he had said to Persimmon, human nature is immutable. Would Anterwold be strong enough to deal with laziness, deceit, violence, selfishness and all the other little oddities
that make up mankind? As far as he could see, Persimmon dealt with the problem by simply killing everyone who made a nuisance of themselves. Those he put in charge of his ideal world could simply say they were acting in the best interests of humanity and eliminate anyone who disagreed. Lytten wanted something a little bit better than that.

Years ago he had sketched out a legal code and a system of criminal justice which would work as well as it had in eighteenth-century England, before the anonymity of large cities required a professional police force. No Maltbys for him. Speakers would specialise as advocates, and the laws would be embedded in the storyline, in the way precedents lay hidden in old English court cases.

Would the poor always be among them? Probably so, but as the rich would not be so very rich, they would be less noticeable. Still, there would always be the criminally minded, the mad and the lazy; so would there be liars and cheats. Should he deal with such people harshly, or with generosity? Could Anterwold afford the latter? After all, most societies execute criminals because keeping them locked up is so expensive. Although he supposed that their own lands could be appropriated to provide for their incarceration.

But how should traitors be treated? Should they be understood, forgiven or punished severely? What was the price of betrayal, in this world or in Anterwold? Of course Sam was the most likely candidate. It was why Lytten had left him to last, not wanting to find the answer. What traitor would so obviously advertise his distaste for his country, his job and his colleagues? Or would say loudly how much he admired enemies and detested friends? At the same time, what traitor would work so selflessly for his country, putting his life at risk so often? A very good one, perhaps.

Yet Lytten sat at his desk, working on social arrangements for something which did not exist and never would. It was filling in the time, a confession of his inadequacy and helplessness. He had to wait now, to see how it all played out. Sooner or later,
Sam would have to make the move that would take this miserable business to its natural end.

*

He read until dawn, and only then fell properly unconscious for a few hours before incessant, confused thoughts brought him round again.

So he got up, put on his dressing gown – a long, red flannel one which Angela, for reasons best known to herself, had bought him for Christmas – and ran a bath. Then, as the water was never hot enough, he went to boil the kettle so he could shave properly.

He made himself some coffee and carried it back to the bathroom, then slid luxuriously into the water. He stayed there peacefully until he heard a noise from downstairs. Someone was in the house. Sam must be back, he thought glumly. Ah well. He can wait until I’m ready.

He stayed for another fifteen minutes, reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort for something that was likely to be very much less pleasant, until the doorbell rang. He ignored it and it rang again, and again. So he dried himself, put the dressing gown back on and walked downstairs to find out who it was. Again.

*

The street outside was different since the last time he’d looked. Six police cars were parked along it, for one thing. About a dozen uniformed policemen were standing there in positions which would make it very difficult for anyone to run up or down it and get away. Two large vans of the sort Sam Wind used to transport his ogres, those troglodyte characters who for some reason he allowed to carry guns, were stopped right across the road, blocking cars, bicycles and even pedestrians from walking past.

On the doorstep stood Sam Wind, Sergeant Maltby and the young one from counter-intelligence.

Henry gazed around, then bent down and picked up the milk bottle left on the step.

‘Morning, Sam. What can I do for you?’

‘We have come for Angela Meerson.’

‘She’s not here.’

‘Yes she is. She came in about twenty minutes ago. With a girl.’

‘Really? I was in the bath. Bit rude of them not to knock.’

‘Henry, you will just have to stand aside and let us do this, you know. We need to talk to her.’

Lytten scratched his still damp scalp. ‘Oh, very well, Sam. Do your worst.’

He opened the door wide and watched as the three filed through. ‘Is that all? You don’t think you need the Parachute Regiment in here as well, just to be on the safe side? Do wipe your feet. They’re muddy, and the cleaning lady won’t be here until tomorrow.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Angela? I have no idea.’

He walked to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, ‘Angela? Are you down there? Would you come up here, please?’

There was a sound of bumping from below, then a muffled voice came drifting up from the cellar.

‘Just a sec. I’ll be right with you.’

Henry smiled grimly. ‘You see? All you have to do is ask.’

52

‘Quickly! Bring me something to write with!’

Jay burst out of the tent where the forester lay, a look of panic and distress on his face. He had spent much of his time there, keeping his old friend company. In between Catherine went in and sat next to him, saw to the changing of his dressings and bathed his head. The old man was weakening though, despite their attention, and the fever they had all feared had gripped him.

‘That bad?’ It was Catherine who understood first what he was saying.

‘He has asked me to take his story.’

‘Go back inside and stay with him. I will see that everything is brought to you. Do you know how to do this?’

‘No. Not really. I mean, I know I have to take down his words, then write them properly later. Apart from that …’

‘You let him decide. I have had to witness it many times. You listen. You don’t interrogate or demand answers to anything. You must not be shocked or upset by anything he says.’

‘What if his words aren’t clear?’

‘You can ask questions, but you cannot press him. This will be how he wants to be remembered. You are just the agent of his wishes.’

‘Anything else?’

‘If he stops, you stop. If he keeps on going, so do you, for as long as he speaks. It is your judgement about what goes into the final version. I think that many leave out embarrassing or shameful details spoken in delirium but that is for you to decide.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Have a drink of water. You’re not allowed to eat or drink
while taking the story. It could go on for a long time, and you have to sit until he’s finished. When you’re sure he’s done, then call me. I’ll sit with him if his end is near.’

‘I’d like to do that.’

‘No. That’s not your job. What you have to do is far more important. Oh – and, Jay …’

‘Yes?’

‘It will be hard for you, but you must not show it. If there is a chance, please ask him to forgive me.’