Pantheon (40 page)

Dorothy turned back to him, her eyes afire. ‘You must go now. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be there. Now’s your chance!’

‘Dorothy—’

‘You said that all you wanted was to see them again.’ Her eyes were both pleading and baffled. On the other platform, the guard was raising his whistle to his lips. ‘Or were you just lying?’

‘I want to see them more than anything in the world. But there’s more at stake here than me and my family.’

The guard bellowed, ‘Last call! All aboard!’

Dorothy’s eyes were now two wells of tears. ‘I wanted to help you.’

He gripped her by her shoulders. ‘I know you did. And I will never forget what you’ve done.’ A piercing sound cut through the air: the guard’s whistle. ‘I love my wife and I love my child. Very much. But I also love my country.’

They were suddenly engulfed in a fresh cloud of white steam, their voices swallowed up in a loud hiss as the pistons of the locomotive cranked back into motion.

‘There’s still time,’ Dorothy cried as the train inched slowly forwards. ‘You could jump on. Florence and Harry are less than an hour away.’

James did not answer. Instead he watched the train gather speed and move away, its tail-lamps becoming smaller and smaller until they were a mere pinprick of light, no bigger than a distant star. He did not know what to say to this young woman but at last, when the train had disappeared from view, he turned to her.

‘Dorothy, I know what this looks like. And I know what you’re thinking: that men like me, maybe all men, are snakes and that we can’t be trusted. But it’s not true. There are some bad ones, I can’t deny it. But the rest of us try to do our best, we really do. Even when it doesn’t look like it, we try to do what’s decent and what’s right.’ He wasn’t making any sense.

Now she looked at him. ‘What is it my uncle is doing in Washington that would make you sacrifice your own family?’

‘I don’t know yet and I don’t want to say until I’m certain.’ He gazed at her damp, flushed face, her distraught expression. ‘And it’s nothing you’re responsible for.’

‘I could telephone him and tell him you’re coming after him.’

‘You could, Dorothy. But I’m taking the chance that you won’t. Because you’re a good person and you have your whole life ahead of you. And look what you were prepared to do to save just one family.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘No, nor do I. Not completely. But we will. And you will have done the right thing.’ They stood in silence for a moment until he spoke again. ‘Besides. You don’t know where in Washington he is.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because if you did you would have told me.’

The stationmaster was back, checking his pocket watch. He called over to them, the only passengers on the platform. ‘The Federal to Washington, DC, this track. Federal to Washington, arriving this track.’

James looked at Dorothy Lake, and as he did so her face crumpled, the sophisticated veneer completely gone now. Impulsively, he hugged her for just a moment. ‘Thank you, for what you’ve done.’ He pulled away from her to give her an exhausted smile. ‘Wish me luck.’

James spent the first minutes of the train journey staring into the dark, thinking of Harry and Florence. He could see nothing outside as the train headed into what he imagined to be vast acres of American farmland, empty and endless. Instead he saw Harry’s face, his wide eyes looking into his father’s, asking him where he had been, and why he had not come for him when he had the chance.

Alone in that rattling carriage, James tried to formulate an answer. He imagined himself perching his son on his knee, explaining how there were moments in life when you had to do things you did not want to do. How sometimes your own needs, your own desperate hunger to see the two people you love most in the world, had to come second because of an even greater need. He heard himself saying these words to his son; and then he heard his son’s husky voice answer him back with a single word, repeated over and over again: why?

James closed his eyes and pictured Hope Farm. As the train clattered over the tracks at a pedestrian nocturnal speed, he saw it in bright summer sunlight, a place of white fences and orchards teeming with shiny apples, of yellows and ambers and the golden colours of American plenty. And the next moment in sharp contrast he imagined Harry and Florence huddled together on two bare wooden chairs in a tiny freezing kitchen, the whole scene bathed in blue-grey light. He knew it made no sense; that if they were just an hour away, as Dorothy had said, then their weather was no different from his. But he pictured it that way all the same.

What was Hope Farm? Why were they there? Dorothy had insisted she would not tell him how she knew – but he had not even asked, pressing her for no details. He had not wanted to hear anything specific, anything too real, because he knew that would make it harder to resist. His choice was hard enough already.

At intervals, as the night-time minutes turned to hours, he would be gripped by panic, becoming convinced he had made a grotesque mistake. What, after all, did he have to go on? The text of a lecture and a few casual remarks by McAndrew to his impressionable young niece. It was quite possible that the Dean had been thinking aloud in that Darwin anniversary lecture; that he was heading to Washington merely to boost his career.
The most important meeting of my entire life.
Perhaps the President had summoned him to serve in his cabinet, the way British politicians were always wooing Bernard Grey.

But James’s gut said otherwise. He knew what he had read; McAndrew could not have made his intentions much clearer. And surely only Lund’s discovery of a plan this ambitious could explain the poor man’s agitation – and indeed his murder by the Dean.

He thought back to those final moments at the station with Dorothy. The train had taken time to leave, as they shunted on new rolling stock. The delay had been awkward; neither knowing what to say to the other. To fill the silence, James had asked a question that had popped unannounced into his head. It came in the voice of William Curtis, the lecturer at the American Eugenics Society.
The subjects in such a study will, of course, have to be photographed without clothing …

‘This will sound strange and rude, but tell me something. Have you ever heard anything about students at Yale being photographed without—’ He hesitated. How to put this delicately?

‘Without what, James?’

‘Without their clothes.’

‘Oh, you mean the posture photos?’ She said it matter-of-factly, as if it were something perfectly normal.

‘The what?’

‘The posture photos. We had them done in our first week.’

‘“Posture photos”? Why “posture”?’

‘Because they were taken to help us with posture. You stripped off, they put steel pins on your back and then
snap
. Took your picture.’

‘Pins?’

‘Yes, about four inches long.’

Suddenly James was seeing those pictures stashed in Lund’s bag. ‘They put pins in your back?’

‘No! Not
into
our backs. They taped them on. Afterwards they looked at the shape of the curve made by the pins. Any of the girls, or boys I suppose, whose “postural curve” was not good enough were sent to posture improvement classes.’

As the train now rattled through the darkness, James heard the voice of Curtis echoing in his head.
Discretion may demand that this work be done in combination, as it were, with another more conventional activity.
Now it was confirmed: this was what Lund had first discovered. That Yale was taking nude photographs of its new students under the spurious cover of a posture-improvement drive.

James’s memory instantly threw up a sight he had not registered at the time but which he had stored all the same. He was in the Dean’s outer office, rifling through the filing cabinets. He had gone past the M’s – Memorial, Monroe, Montana – and landed in the P’s – Political Science, Posture Study, Professional Training. His eye had glided past, as if it were just another, regular field of university activity:
posture study.

Now he knew better. This was a secret research programme aimed at proving the link between physical strength, intellectual prowess and ‘moral worth’. The men behind it were trying to answer the question Leonard Darwin had asked in that damned book of his:
If our object is to try to improve the breed of man, should we not first decide on the kind of man most to be desired?
Those photographs, which doubtless included not only Dorothy, the boy behind the counter at the Owl Shop and every other young person entrusted to Yale’s care, were the attempt to provide an answer. It must have been Lund’s discovery of the bogus posture study that first alerted him to the Dean’s unflinching brand of eugenics, that led him ultimately to realize the ‘bigger and more dangerous’ scheme his superior was embarked upon. Had he kept those photos in his briefcase as his only hard evidence?

James was disturbed by a sound so muffled, he first wondered if it was inside his own head. He looked up and over his shoulder; the carriage was still empty. It must have been a loose bit of gravel, thrown against the window. He went back to looking into the void outside, searching for the glimmer of even a solitary farmhouse. But he could see nothing.

A minute passed and there was another sound, louder and more metallic. James looked up again. All was quiet behind him and, apparently, at the far end of the carriage. There was a click.

He looked closer now, rising from his seat. Unlikely to be an inspector on this ghost train, doubtless loaded with sacks of mail and churns of milk rather than paying passengers, but not impossible. There was definitely movement on the other side of that door.

‘Who’s there?’ James called out, without thinking.

Now he saw the handle of the far connecting door, linking this carriage and the next, begin to twist.

The train hit some kind of rut and jumped, sending James stumbling towards the windows on the other side, his left shoulder slamming into the wooden seat post. He let out a cry of pain. At the same instant, the carriage door flung open.

All he could see was height, a tall man made taller by a hat that appeared to rise to a sharp peak, covering his face in shadow. He was walking this way, in brisk, deliberate steps. Only when he was about two yards away did he speak.

‘Hands in the air, Dr Zennor.’

Reflex sent James’s hands towards the ceiling, even before he had noticed the small, dull metal ring hovering in the air, parallel with the man’s waist. It took another second for him to understand what he was looking at: a revolver, its barrel covered by a silencer.

Time seemed to slow down; he felt detached from the scene, as if he were an observer rather than a participant. Something similar had happened during gun battles in Spain. It meant that, at this very moment, instead of fear or alarm, he felt irritation at his own foolishness. He had shouted ‘Who’s there?’ in his telltale English accent. He had betrayed himself.

‘Walk backwards. And keep your hands in the air.’ The voice was rougher than any he had heard in New Haven. Instantly James decided that this man knew nothing about him, that killing him was a job.

James did as he was told, reversing down the aisle between the benches, counting two, three, four paces. He stopped when he felt the blast of wind coming through the gap between the carriages. He was now in the standing area at the end of the car, a door on each side. The cold air seemed to slap him back to reality. Now his heart surged, a flood of adrenalin as he desperately tried to think of what he might do to save his life.

‘OK, that’s good,’ the man said. In the light, James could see he was thick-necked and square-faced, maybe a former boxer. His mouth carried the suggestion of a smile, like a man who enjoys his work. The gun was still hovering; his finger was on the trigger.
What’s he waiting for?

The second-long delay provided the answer. In that instant in which he had not squeezed the trigger, James understood how this man wanted him to die. It was like Lund:
he wants it to look like a suicide.
He was going to try to shove James from the train, so that the police would conclude he had jumped.

The gunman stepped forward, confident that James would step back in terrified retreat, leaving him just inches from the door. James did as he was expected, trying to win himself another second or two in which he could think. He could not take his eye off the revolver. He could be shot right here before he had drawn his next breath, his body then kicked off the train, where it might not be discovered for days, unless the animals got to it first …

As the man took another step, instinct took over. Instead of walking backwards, James leapt forward, deliberately colliding with his attacker, his right hand reaching first for the gun, pushing it away.

The advantage of surprise paid off; the gunman fell back, slamming against the far door. Still gripping the man’s gun-holding hand, James rammed it into the doorframe, hoping to shake the weapon loose. But now the attacker had recovered his strength and his fingers refused to let go.

The train swerved around a bend and, in time with the movement, the gunman pushed back at James, sending him careering into the opposite door. To his horror, James felt it open – the rush of cold air against him, the carriage filling with noise. Only his fingertips, clinging to the wooden surround above the door kept him inside.

He was filled with rage. He would not die like this, not here, not now – not without seeing Harry and Florence one more time. This bastard would not stop him. All the fury and agony he had endured over the last weeks – and years – now flowed through him. Still gripping the doorframe, feeling his jacket billowing in the wind, he swung forward, kicking out with both his legs so that his feet landed directly in the attacker’s face.

The man stumbled backwards and James dived onto him, searching for the gun. The attacker reacted fast, firing a shot, but not fast enough: the bullet went straight into the ceiling. James gripped the man’s wrist and the pair of them wrestled on the floor, the gunman supine, James on top of him and with the advantage. He forced the man’s gun hand to the ground, where it would be useless. It was nearly there …