fullest possible confidence between all the members of the NICE is one of the most valuable characteristics it can have, and, indeed, a sine qua non of that really concrete and organic life which we expect it to develop. But there are necessarily certain spheres–not sharply defined, of course, but inevitably revealing themselves in response to the environment and obedience to the indwelling ethos or dialectic of the whole–in which a confidence that involved the verbal interchange of facts would–er–would defeat its own end.’
‘You don’t suppose,’ said Mark, ‘that anyone could take that letter to be meant seriously?’
‘Ever tried to make a policeman understand anything?’ said the Fairy. ‘I mean what you call a real policeman.’
Mark said nothing.
‘And I don’t think the alibi is specially good,’ said the Fairy. ‘You were seen talking to Bill at dinner. You were seen going out of the front door with him when he left. You were not seen coming back. Nothing is known of your movements till breakfast time next morning. If you had gone with him by car to the scene of the murder you would have had ample time to walk back and go to bed by about two fifteen. Frosty night, you know. No reason why your shoes should have been specially muddy or anything of that sort.’
‘If I might pick up a point made by Miss Hardcastle,’ said Wither, ‘this is a very good illustration of the immense importance of the Institutional Police. There are so many fine shades involved which it would be unreasonable to expect the ordinary authorities to understand but which, so long as they remain, so to speak, in our own family circle (I look upon the NICE, Mr Studdock, as one great family) need develop no tendency to lead to any miscarriage of justice.’
Owing to some mental confusion, which had before now assailed him in dentists’ operating rooms and in the studies of Headmasters, Mark began almost to identify the situation which seemed to be imprisoning him with his literal imprisonment by the four walls of that hot room. If only he could once get out of it, on any terms, out into the free air and sunlight, away over the countryside, away from the recurrent creak of the Deputy Director’s collar and the red stains on the end of Miss Hardcastle’s cheroot and the picture of the King which hung above the fireplace!
‘You really advise me, Sir,’ he said, ‘not to go to the police?’
‘To the police?’ said Wither as if this idea were completely new. ‘I don’t think, Mr Studdock, that any one had quite contemplated your taking any irrevocable action of that sort. It might even be argued that by such an action you would be guilty–unintentionally guilty, I hasten to add–of some degree of disloyalty to your colleagues and specially to Miss Hardcastle. You would, of course be placing yourself outside our protection…’
‘That’s the point, Studdock,’ said the Fairy. ‘Once you are in the hands of the police you are in the hands of the police.’
The moment of Mark’s decision had passed by him without his noticing it.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you propose to do?’
‘Me?’ said the Fairy. ‘Sit tight. It’s lucky for you that it was we and not some outsider who found the wallet.’
‘Not only fortunate for–er–Mr Studdock,’ added Wither gently, ‘but for the whole NICE. We could not have been indifferent …’
‘There’s only one snag,’ said the Fairy, ‘and that is that we haven’t got your letter to Pelham. Only a copy. But with any luck, nothing will come of that.’
‘Then there’s nothing to be done at present?’ said Mark.
‘No,’ said Wither. ‘No. No immediate action of any official character. It is, of course, very advisable that you should act, as I am sure you will, with the greatest prudence and–er–er–caution for the next few months. As long as you are with us, Scotland Yard would, I feel, see the inconvenience of trying to act unless they had a very clear case indeed. It is no doubt probable that some–er–some trial of strength between the ordinary executive and our own organisation will take place within the next six months; but I think it very unlikely they would choose to make this a test case.’
Wither’s attitude was paternal.
‘But do you mean they suspect me already?’ said Mark.
‘We’ll hope not,’ said the Fairy. ‘Of course, they want a prisoner–that’s only natural. But they’d a damn sight rather have one who doesn’t involve them in searching the premises of the NICE.’
‘But look here, damn it!’ said Mark. ‘Aren’t you hoping to catch the thief in a day or two? Aren’t you going to do anything?’
‘The thief?’ said Wither. ‘There has been no suggestion so far that the body was rifled.’
‘I mean the thief who stole my wallet.’
‘Oh–ah–your wallet,’ said the other very gently stroking his refined, handsome face. ‘I see. I understand, do I, that you are advancing a charge of theft against some person or persons unknown–’
‘But good God!’ shouted Mark. ‘Were you not assuming that someone stole it? Do you think I was there myself? Do you both think I am a murderer?’
‘Please!’ said the Deputy Director. ‘Please, Mr Studdock, you really must not shout. Quite apart from the indiscretion of it, I must remind you that you are in the presence of a lady. As far as I can remember, nothing has been said on our side about murder, and no charge of any sort has been made. My only anxiety is to make perfectly clear what we are all doing. There are, of course, certain lines of conduct and a certain mode of procedure which it would be theoretically possible for you to adopt and which would make it very difficult for us to continue the discussion. I am sure Miss Hardcastle agrees with me.’
‘It’s all one to me,’ said the Fairy. ‘Why Studdock should start bellowing at us because we are trying to keep him out of the dock, I don’t know. But that’s for him to decide. I’ve got a busy day and don’t want to hang about here all morning.’
‘Really,’ said Mark, ‘I should have thought it was excusable to…’
‘Pray compose yourself, Mr Studdock,’ said Wither. ‘As I said before, we look upon ourselves as one family and nothing like a formal apology is required. We all understand one another and all dislike–er–scenes. I might perhaps be allowed to mention, in the friendliest possible manner, that any instability of temperament would be viewed by the Committee as–well, as not very favourable to the confirmation of your appointment. We are all speaking, of course, in the strictest confidence.’
Mark was far past bothering about the job for its own sake; but he realised that the threat of dismissal was now a threat of hanging.
‘I’m sorry if I was rude,’ he said at last. ‘What do you advise me to do?’
‘Don’t put your nose outside Belbury, Studdock,’ said the Fairy.
‘I do not think Miss Hardcastle could have given you better advice,’ said Wither. ‘And now that Mrs Studdock is going to join you here, this temporary captivity–I am using that word, you will understand, in a metaphorical sense–will not be a serious hardship. You must look upon this as your home, Mr Studdock.’
‘Oh…that reminds me, Sir,’ said Mark. ‘I’m not really quite sure about having my wife here. As a matter of fact, she’s not in very good health–’
‘But surely, in that case, you must be all the more anxious to have her here?’
‘I don’t believe it would suit her, Sir.’
The DD’s eyes wandered and his voice became lower.
‘I had almost forgotten, Mr Studdock,’ he said, ‘to congratulate you on your introduction to our Head. It marks an important transition in your career. We all now feel that you are really one of us in a deeper sense. I am sure nothing is further from your intention than to repel the friendly–the almost fatherly–concern he feels about you. He is very anxious to welcome Mrs Studdock among us at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Why?’ said Mark suddenly.
Wither looked at Mark with an indescribable smile.
‘My dear boy,’ he said. ‘Unity, you know. The family circle. She’d–s
he’d be company for Miss Hardcastle!’ Before Mark had recovered from this staggeringly new conception, Wither rose and shuffled towards the door. He paused with one hand on the handle and laid the other on Mark’s shoulder.
‘You must be hungry for your breakfast,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me delay you. Behave with the greatest caution. And–and–’ here his face suddenly changed. The widely opened mouth looked all at once like the mouth of some enraged animal: what had been the senile vagueness of the eyes became an absence of all specifically human expression. ‘And bring the girl. Do you understand? Get your wife,’ he added. ‘The Head…he’s not patient.’
As Mark closed the door behind him he immediately thought ‘Now! They’re both in there together. Safe for a minute at least.’ Without even waiting to get his hat, he walked briskly to the front door and down the drive. Nothing but physical impossibility would stop him from going to Edgestow and warning Jane. After that he had no plans. Even the vague idea of escaping to America which, in a simpler age, comforted so many a fugitive, was denied him. He had already read in the papers the warm approval of the NICE and all its works which came from the United States and from Russia. Some poor tool just like himself had written them. Its claws were embedded in every country: on the liner, if he should ever succeed in sailing; on the tender, if he should ever make some foreign port; its ministers would be waiting for him.
Now he was past the road; he was in the belt of trees. Scarcely a minute had passed since he had left the DD’s office and no one had overtaken him. But yesterday’s adventure was happening over again. A tall, stooped, shuffling, creaking figure, humming a tune, barred his way. Mark had never fought. Ancestral impulses lodged in his body–that body which was in so many ways wiser than his mind–directed the blow which he aimed at the head of his senile obstructor. But there was no impact. The shape had suddenly vanished.
Those who know best were never fully agreed as to the explanation of this episode. It may have been that Mark, both then and on the previous day, being over-wrought, saw a hallucination of Wither where Wither was not. It may be that the continual appearance of Wither which at almost all hours haunted so many rooms and corridors of Belbury was (in one well-verified sense of the word) a ghost–one of those sensory impressions which a strong personality in its last decay can imprint, most commonly after death but sometimes before it, on the very structure of a building, and which are removed not by exorcism but by architectural alterations. Or it may, after all, be that souls who have lost the intellectual good do indeed receive in return, and for a short period, the vain privilege of thus reproducing themselves in many places as wraiths. At any rate the thing, whatever it was, vanished.
The path ran diagonally across a field in grass, now powdered with frost, and the sky was hazy blue. Then came a stile; after that the path ran for three fields along the edge of a spinney. Then a little to the left, past the back parts of a farm, then along a ride through a wood. After that the spire of Courthampton was in sight; Mark’s feet had now got warm and he was beginning to feel hungry. Then he went across a road, through a herd of cattle that put down their heads and snorted at him, across a stream by a foot bridge, and so into the frozen ruts of the lane that led him into Courthampton.
The first thing he saw as he came into the village street was a farm cart. A woman and three children sat beside the man who was driving it and in the cart were piled chests of drawers, bedsteads, mattresses, boxes, and a canary in a cage. Immediately after it came a man and woman and child on foot wheeling a perambulator; it also was piled with small household property. After that came a family pushing a handcart, and then a heavily loaded trap, and then an old car, blowing its horn incessantly but unable to get out of its place in the procession. A steady stream of such traffic was passing through the village. Mark had never seen war: if he had he would have recognised at once the signs of flight. In all those plodding horses and men and in all those loaded vehicles he would have read clearly the message, ‘Enemy behind.’
The traffic was so continuous that it took him a long time to get to the crossroads by the pub where he could find a glazed and framed table of busses. There would not be one to Edgestow till twelve fifteen. He hung about, understanding nothing of what he saw, but wondering; Courthampton was normally a very quiet village. By a happy, and not uncommon illusion he felt less endangered now that Belbury was out of sight, and thought surprisingly little about his future. He thought sometimes about Jane, and sometimes about bacon and eggs, and fried fish, and dark, fragrant streams of coffee pouring into large cups. At eleven thirty the pub opened. He went in and ordered a pint and some bread and cheese.
The bar was at first empty. During the next half hour men dropped in one by one till about four were present. They did not at first talk about the unhappy procession which continued all this time to pass the windows. For some time indeed they did not talk at all. Then a very little man with a face like an old potato observed to no one in particular, ‘I seen old Rumbold the other night.’ No one replied for five minutes and then a very young man in leggings said, ‘I reckon he’s sorry he ever tried it.’ In this way conversation about Rumbold trickled on for some time. It was only when the subject of Rumbold was thoroughly exhausted that the talk, very indirectly and by gradual stages, began to throw some light on the stream of refugees.
‘Still coming out,’ said one man.
‘Ah,’ said another.
‘Can’t be many left there by now.’
‘Don’t know where they’ll all get in, I’m sure.’
Little by little the whole thing came out. These were the refugees from Edgestow. Some had been turned out of their houses, some scared by the riots and still more by the restoration of order. Something like a terror appeared to have been established in the town. ‘They tell me there were two hundred arrests yesterday,’ said the landlord. ‘Ah,’ said the young man. ‘They’re hard cases, those NICE police, every one of them. They put the wind up my old Dad proper, I tell ’ee.’ He ended with a laugh.
‘’Taint the police so much as the workmen by what I hear,’ said another. ‘They never ought to have brought those Welsh and Irish.’ But that was about as far as the criticism went. What struck Mark deeply was the almost complete absence of indignation among the speakers, or even of any distinct sympathy with the refugees. Everyone present knew of at least one outrage in Edgestow; but all agreed that these refugees must be greatly exaggerating. ‘It says in this morning’s paper that things are pretty well settling down,’ said the landlord. ‘That’s right,’ agreed the others. ‘There’ll always be some who get awkward,’ said the potato-faced man. ‘What’s the good of getting awkward?’ asked another, ‘it’s got to go on. You can’t stop it.’ ‘That’s what I say,’ said the landlord. Fragments of articles which Mark himself had written drifted to and fro. Apparently he and his kind had done their work well; Miss Hardcastle had rated too high the resistance of the working classes to propaganda.
When the time came he had no difficulty in getting onto the bus: it was indeed empty for all the traffic was going in the opposite direction. It put him down at the top of Market Street and he set out at once to walk up to the flat. The whole town wore a new expression. One house out of three was empty. About half the shops had their windows boarded up. As he gained height and came into the region of large villas with gardens, he noticed that many of these had been requisitioned and bore white placards with the NICE symbol–a muscular male nude grasping a thunderbolt. At every corner, and often in between, lounged or sauntered the NICE police, helmeted, swinging their clubs, with revolvers in holsters on their black shiny belts. Their round, white faces with open mouths slowly revolving as they chewed gum remained long in his memory. There were also notices everywhere which he did not stop to read: they were headed Emergency Regulations and bore the signature, Feverstone.
Would Jane be in? He felt he could not bear it if Jane should not be in. He was fingering his latchkey in his pocket long before he
reached the house. The front door was locked. This meant that the Hutchinsons who occupied the ground floor were away. He opened it and went in. It seemed cold and damp on the staircase: cold and damp and dark on the landing. ‘Ja-ane,’ he shouted as he unlocked the door of the flat; but he had already lost hope. As soon as he was inside the door he knew the place was uninhabited. A pile of unopened letters lay on the inside door mat. There was no sound, not a tick of a clock. Everything was in order: Jane must have left some morning immediately after ‘doing’ all the rooms. The tea cloths hanging in the kitchen were bone dry: they clearly had not been used for at least twenty-four hours. The bread in the cupboard was stale. There was a jug half full of milk, but the milk had thickened and would not pour. He continued stumping from room to room long after he was quite certain of the truth, staring at the staleness and pathos which pervades deserted homes. But obviously it was no good hanging about here. A splutter of unreasonable anger arose. Why the hell hadn’t Jane told him she was going away? Or had someone taken her away? Perhaps there was a note for him. He took a pile of letters off the mantlepiece, but they were only letters he had put there himself to be answered. Then on the table he noticed an envelope addressed to Mrs Dimble at her own house over beyond the Wynd. So that damned woman had been here! Those Dimbles had always, he felt, disliked him. They’d probably asked Jane to stay with them. Been interfering somehow, no doubt. He must go down to Northumberland and see Dimble.
The idea of being annoyed with the Dimbles occurred to Mark almost as an inspiration. To bluster a little as an injured husband in search of his wife would be a pleasant change for the attitudes he had recently been compelled to adopt. On the way down town he stopped to have a drink. As he came to the Bristol and saw the NICE placard on it, he had almost said, ‘Oh, damn,’ and turned away, before he suddenly remembered that he was himself a high official in the NICE and by no means a member of that general Public whom the Bristol now excluded. They asked him who he was at the door and became obsequious when he told them. There was a pleasant fire burning. After the gruelling day he had had, he felt justified in ordering a large whisky, and after it he had a second. It completed the change in his mental weather which had begun at the moment when he first conceived the idea of having a grievance against the Dimbles. The whole state of Edgestow had something to do with it. There was an element in him to which all these exhibitions of power suggested chiefly how much nicer and how much more appropriate it was, all said and done, to be part of the NICE than to be an outsider. Even now…had he been taking all this démarche about a murder trial too seriously? Of course, that was the way Wither managed things: he liked to have something hanging over everyone. It was only a way to keep him at Belbury and to make him send for Jane. And when one came to think of it, why not? She couldn’t go on indefinitely living alone. And the wife of a man who meant to have a career and live at the centre of things would have to learn to be a woman of the world. Anyway, the first thing was to see that fellow Dimble.
He left the Bristol feeling, as he would have said, a different man. Indeed he was a different man. From now onwards till the moment of final decision should meet him, the different men in him appeared with startling rapidity and each seemed very complete while it lasted. Thus, skidding violently from one side to the other, his youth approached the moment at which he would begin to be a person.
‘Come in,’ said Dimble in his rooms at Northumberland. He had just finished with his last pupil for the day and was intending to start for St Anne’s in a few minutes. ‘Oh, it’s you, Studdock,’ he added as the door opened. ‘Come in.’ He tried to speak naturally but he was surprised at the visit and shocked by what he saw. Studdock’s face appeared to him to have changed since they last met; it had grown fatter and paler and there was a new vulgarity in the expression.
‘I’ve come to ask about Jane,’ said Mark. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘I can’t give you her address, I’m afraid,’ said Dimble.
‘Do you mean you don’t know it?’
‘I can’t give it,’ said Dimble.
According to Mark’s programme this was the point at which he should have begun to take a strong line. But he did not feel the same now that he was in the room. Dimble had always treated him with scrupulous politeness and Mark had always felt that Dimble disliked him. This had not made him dislike Dimble. It had only made him uneasily talkative in Dimble’s presence and anxious to please. Vindictiveness was by no means one of Mark’s vices. For Mark liked to be liked. A snub sent him away dreaming of not revenge but of brilliant jokes or achievements which would one day conquer the good will of the man who had snubbed him. If he were ever cruel it would be downwards, to inferiors and outsiders who solicited his regard, not upwards to those who rejected it. There was a good deal of the spaniel in him.