Behind our garden, in the apex of the W, was a small patch of trees and
scrub which would have been very popular with courting couples but for
the fact that they couldn't get into it. The river curved round it, and
on the land side the only entry was through our garden. And we had high,
thick hedges.
It was a piece of wasteland which was of no use to anybody. The local
landowner had tried to sell it to us, but we didn't want it. Anyway,
as Dina had said with childish shrewdness: "Why buy it when it's ours
anyway?"
At the fence at the bottom of the garden I stopped.
Was it imagination, or was there a faint glow in the copse?
It wasn't a fire, there was no moon, and it could hardly be fairies --
though I now understood Dina's story. To her, what else could a glow in
the copse at night mean but fairies?
I climbed the fence and advanced slowly.
The glow was very faint and would never have been noticed on a night
which was not completely dark. The odd thing about it was, it didn't
seem to have a source. There was nothing but the glow. I walked through
it, stood in the middle of it, looked in all directions, and there was
nothing but a faint blue radiance.
I ran back to the fence, climbed it and hurried back to the house.
Sheila was in the bedroom, in a shortie nightdress (in this extraordinary
summer, most people wore less than that at night), about to go to bed. We
had left a very important discussion hanging in the air. But this was
something I had to share with somebody, and Sheila was my wife.
"Sheila," I said breathlessly, "I want you to come and look at something
outside."
"Where? Not in the garden, for heaven's sake?"
"In the copse."
She laughed in protest. "Like this?"
"It'll cool you down. And no one can see."
On the point of protesting further, she saw I was deadly serious and
realized it would probably be quicker in the end to humor me than to
argue with me. She put on shoes and we went down the garden.
I was afraid it was going to be like those frustrating incidents in
detective stories where the hero takes the cops to the murder apartment,
only to find the body's gone, the signs of a struggle have been removed,
and even the bloodstains have vanished.
However, as I helped Sheila over the fence she saw the glow and suddenly
became reluctant to go further because she thought there was something
instead of because she thought there wasn't.
"What is it?" she whispered, making no move forward.
"I don't know. YoU do see it?"
"Of course I see it. But what is it?"
After a moment or two she came further into the copse with me, and
together we tried all the things I had already tried alone -- looking
among the branches for the source of the light, at the sky through the
leaves, at the still river beyond, under the bushes.
Sheila's reaction was exactly the opposite of mine. The less I understood
the glow, the more I wanted to find out about it. More practically,
perhaps, Sheila satisfied herself that it was a mystery and was then
quite prepared to give up.
"Well, we've looked," she said reasonably. "There's nothing else to
see. Whatever it is, it's staying put. Let's go to bed and look in
the morning."
And that's what we did. I wasn't sorry, though, that I'd made Sheila
come and look. I wasn't imagining things. There was a radiance in the
wood with no source.
Later, Sheila wanted to talk about something, but it wasn't the radiance.
"I did hurt her, Val," she said, watching me. "I'm bigger than she is
and a lot stronger. I thought, well, after all, she's a naughty kid and
she needs a lesson. I meant to beat her up and I thought it was going
to be fun, like that time when . . . "
She stopped, and although I had followed her thought I said nothing. She
was thinking of that other time when I had thrown Jota all over the
place, fighting mad, hardly knowing what I was doing, and Sheila had
watched and been quite happy about it, because it was me who was doing
the throwing and Jota who was being thrown, and because of what had
happened before that.
But Dina wasn't quite the same.
"It didn't work?" I said.
"No."
"I didn't think it would."
"Well . . . don't you mind? Was I terribly wrong to . . . to do what
I did?"
"I don't know. I don't suppose so. When any kid's on the wrong track you
talk to him, try to persuade him; and I guess if you don't try giving
him a good hiding you're missing a bet . . . But you can't beat sense
into Dina."
"But you don't mind?" Sheita insisted.
"I don't see that it's anything to do with me," I said.
When we got to bed, more friendly toward each other than for a long
time, I thought it would be a good idea to do something about it. But
nothing happened, and Sheila made no move, merely saying "Good night"
in a tone which seemed to contain finality. So a chance was lost, like
a thousand others.
Chapter Three
Before breakfast next morning I was back in the wood. Sheila didn't
come with me. She said that if I found anything I could tell her and
she'd take my word for it.
I found absolutely nothing. The copse was exactly as it had always been,
and in daylight no radiance could be detected. By the time it occurred
to me to look for footprints or other signs that people might have been
there recently, I'd done so much stamping around that the search was
futile. Besides, hardly anything grew under the trees, and the thick,
springy leaf-mold did not retain tracks well.
When I got back, Sheila merely said: "It must have been some kind of
natural phosphorescence. One egg or two?"
"Phosphorescence has a source, like any other light," I insisted.
"Well, look again tonight. I wonder if Dina will be down in the next
ten minutes? It's no use calling her, of course."
Nobody at the office mentioned any unusual incidents the day before. Being
the boss, I didn't hear the gossip. If Sally Henrey, my secretary, hadn't
been on holiday I could have asked her about the morning's topics. Wilma
Shelly, who was standing in for her, was too junior for me to confide
in her.
I wasn't a confident boss. I was efficient, of course, or I'd never have
reached my present position. But I didn't possess the sheer self-assurance
that every good boss has to have, the feeling that he's a boss by right,
the unquestioning, unquestioned conviction that things will always be
done his way, the right way, the only way.
After an hour's correspondence there was a lull, and I considered phoning
Gil Carswell. But Gil, far less self-confident than me, had not become
the boss, and I didn't like to call him at the bank unless the matter
was really urgent. That was why I'd sent the message the day before
by a girl who had to go to the bank anyway. Gil was terrified of the
bank manager, who had always seemed singularly inoffensive. But then,
Gil was terrified of everybody and everything.
While I was still thinking about Gil, the phone rang. Aloud I muttered:
"Oh, God, not Dina again."
It was Jota. "I'm at London Airport," he said. "Be with you this afternoon
sometime. Have you seen Gil since I phoned yesterday?"
"No, but I sent him a message."
Jota chuckled. "Of course. Mustn't disturb him at the bank. The manager
would chew his ears off . . . at any rate, such desperate liberties must
never be taken. By the way, is anything happening in Shuteley?"
"What would happen in ShuteleyT' I said cautiously, wondering if by any
chance he'd heard anything.
He hadn't. "As you say. Silly question."
"As a matter of fact," I said, "there is something going on. Maybe just
a small thing, but something . . . No, don't ask questions. Wait till
you get here."
"You intrigue me . . . Something happening in Shuteley seems like a
contradiction in terms. But I can wait. Oh . . . how did Sheila take
the great news that I was coming back?"
"Unenthusiastically," I said.
He chuckled again. "Don't worry. I promised. If you remember, I never
promised before."
He rang off.
That was technically true, that he had never promised not to make a pass
at Sheila. I wondered, however, if anyone but Jota would have considered
such a thing worth saying. You weren't morally entitled to stab a man
in the back because you'd never promised not to.
As I hung up, Wilma came in. She was breathless and rather indignant.
"Mr. Mathers, there's a young man insisting on seeing you, and nobody
but you. He looks like a camper, and he's . . . well, the things he's
been saying to the girls -- "
"Send him in," I said. "Right away."
She looked surprised; but said nothing and went out.
The door opened again and a young Goliath entered. He wore a white T-shirt
and shorts and was obviously one of the giants, probably the biggest of
them all. I judged him to be six feet seven.
He had not been one of the giants with Snow White at The Copper Beech.
"Val Mathers?" he said, advancing with outstretched hand. "I'm John Smith."
"Really?" I said politely.
"No, not really, if you insist, but it's as fair a name as any, isn't it?"
"You wouldn't by any chance be Greg, would you?"
He dropped his hand. He was not pleased.
"How in fisk do you know that?" he snarled.
Not pressing my luck, I said: "Where's your camp, Greg?"
For a moment he simmered, and then decided to be friends again.
"In a bend on the river about a mile upstream."
I knew the place. It was three-quarters of a mile beyond my house,
on the other side of the river, the north side.
He sat down without invitation, looked at me expectantly and said nothing.
He was blond, very goodlooking, perhaps nineteen or twenty. His accent
puzzled me a little. It was not foreign, his speech was very clear,
and yet I had never heard anyone speak quite like him. I had not missed
those two words "fair" and "fisk." The natural thing to say would have
been "as good a name as any," and "fisk" seemed to be a cuss word.
There was nothing strange about his shirt and shorts and shoes except
that they fitted better than clothes generally do and looked as if they
had just that moment been put on, brand new. But for the giants that
was nothing strange.
He was completely at ease, and I was therefore puzzled by his easy manner
and sudden silence -- as if he expected me to tell him why he'd come.
"Well, Mr. Smith?" I prompted. "Or Greg, as you like?"
"I want to insure against catastrophe in Shuteley during the next
twenty-four hours," he said coolly.
"Catastrophe?" I said.
"Catastrophe."
"In the next ~twenty-four hours?"
"In the next twenty-four hours. You're remarkably up on the quicktake,
Val."
There were lots of openings. I chose one. "You can't do business under
a false or incomplete name. John Smith won't do. Greg won't do."
For a moment, for the second time, his eyes gleamed with a feral light,
and I knew that this man was dangerous. He didn't like to be balked.
Despite his easy manner, he was liable at any moment to become an
animal. A huge, dangerous animal.
I tried another opening. "We can always supply better rates for particular
contingencies. If you wanted to insure against flood, say -- "
He grinned, all easiness and friendliness again. "Flood's unlikely,
isn't it? They tell me the river's never been lower."
"Catastrophe in twenty-four hours in Shuteley," I said, "is unlikely.
Another thing, Greg -- you're over twenty-one?"
"What about it?"
"If you're not, there are difficulties."
"Do you sell insurance or not?"
"I don't sell insurance, Greg. I arrange it, if it seems to be to the
mutual advantage of both parties. Now, let's see --
you
want to insure,
Greg? But you don't live in Shuteley."
"No."
"And -- in the next twenty-four hours?"
"We're only going to be here twenty-four hours," he said simply, "give
or take an hour or two."
"What sort of sum have you in mind?"
"Nothing most. A million pounds, maybe. Perhaps two million."
It was time, I thought, to restore sanity to the conversation. "I'm afraid
such a transaction would hardly be practicable," I said. "Although in
theory insurance against any contingency is possible, such as rain on a
certain day, failure of a crop, or delay in a certain delivery, there are
always difficulties in definition, and it takes time to work out policy
conditions. It would be quite impossible to draw up a policy within the
time specified, to operate . . . "
Greg was laughing, a great roaring bellow of amusement that rattled the
windows. "Val, you sound like an old man," he said.
"You're not really serious about this at all, are you?" I said thoughtfully.
He stopped laughing at once. "No. It was just an idea. Quite a most idea,
really . . . but as you say, hardly practicable. I just wondered what
you'd say."
"Who is the girl," I said abruptly, "whose dress disappears?"
Unsurprised, he answered: "All of them, when they wear Luxon."
"Luxon?"
"Well, you see, the idea is . . . it's one of those feminine paradoxes,
arising out of the curious way women think . . . If you're wearing a
dress, a perfectly decent dress, and bits of it disappear at times,
that's all right. Nothing indecent about it, became it only seems to
disappear. It's really there all the time."
"Why does nobody drink beer?"
"We don't like the taste. And it's grossing." ' รบ
"Grossing?"
"Fattening."
"Greg, where do you come from?"
"Here."
"Here? Maybe. But here isn't Shuteley."
"Here," he repeated blandly.
"What's this about a duel?"
Again I had disconcerted and angered him. The red animal light flashed
in his eyes.
"Nothing about a duel," he said shortly. "And what do you know about it,
anyway? No, never mind."
He stood up and moved to the door. "Sorry you won't do a deal, Val,"
he said over his shoulder, his composure restored. "But as you guessed,
I didn't really think you would. By the way, you know Gil Carswell,
don't you?"
"Yes, but how -- "
"And Clarence Mulliner?"
"Yes. In fact -- "
"In fact, he'll arrive here at 3:10."
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Gil called me from the bank, for the first time ever, and said: "Val,
I want to see you fight away. Come out for a drink."
"All right," I said. "See you in The Copper Beech."
"That chrome-plated morgue?"