‘Now I agree with Mrs Flaken! We do have questions! And we want some answers! First of all!’
He thrust out his right arm, forefinger pointed, and his target was the man in the superbly-tailored mohair suit.
‘Dr Gloze doesn’t know you, but I do! You’re from the factory at Trimborne! Eight-ten years ago I used to see you every day, back when people from Weyharrow worked at your place! You fired them one by one, didn’t you? Our buses don’t go up there any more! You don’t have any more connection with our village!So what the hell are you doing at our parish meeting?’
The man in mohair looked disconcerted; Steven wished the people sitting behind could have seen the expression on his face. It being impossible to conjure up an instant mirror, words would have to suffice.
He shouted above increasing hubbub, ‘And I’d like to know who’s sitting next to Chief Inspector Chade!’
Beside him Nigel Mender buried his face in his hands.
‘Would you permit a stranger to intervene?’ said a mild voice that nonetheless carried to the four corners of the room. ‘As it happens, I can answer both the questions that have just been posed.’
Rising from his seat in the press section, it was Donald Prosher who spoke. At the same time, Wilf Spout began to shoot flash pictures of the assembly. The man next to the Chief Inspector bridled and tried to object … but in the chair immediately behind sat Harry Vikes, who laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, hard. Wilf caught that.
‘Well done, Harry!’ called a voice from the other side of the hall – it was Ken Pecklow’s. For a moment the audience was distracted by the improbability of those two becoming allies; then everybody realized, as one, that in this situation it was not just logical but necessary.
‘Mr Chairman!’ It was Vic Draycock on his feet at the back of the room; no doubt he had chosen to sit near the entrance to keep up his pose of befriending the ‘pilgrims’. ‘Some of us don’t know who just spoke up, but if he does have any answers we’d all like to hear them!’
There was a rattle of applause.
Nigel Mender was looking around as though for guidance. Steven supplied it in a whisper.
‘This isn’t going to be a walk-over after all. Those people are scared, and I didn’t persuade them out of it. I did try. You heard me. But they’re right and I was wrong. Call on Don!’
‘Who?’ Nigel said foggily as the archdeacon plucked his arm and drew his attention the other way.
Not much future in that …!
Steven jumped to his feet. He shouted, ‘Could we have a bit of hush for Mr Donald Prosher of the Globe?’
He glanced down at the press row again. Wallace Jantrey was pounding his forehead repeatedly with the heel of his hand, as though trying to punish himself for some sort of oversight. Like Wilf, Lisa Jopp was snapping pictures, flash-flash-flash, but she was scowling.
And where the hell was Jenny? Her chair was empty!
Uproar subsided as Don’s identity sank in. Attempting to preserve the conventions, Steven turned to Nigel.
‘Does the chair recognize Mr Prosher …?’
The only answer was a wave. Steven concluded it was up to him to get this particular bit of the show back on the road. He caught Don’s eye and spread his hands and sat down. That was enough.
In a didactic tone Don said, Traditionally it’s no part of a reporter’s job to influence the news, but only to report it. During my brief visit to Weyharrow I’ve been driven to the conclusion that unless I do more there won’t be any news. And there must be. There needs to be. You see …’
He drew a notebook from his pocket and flipped its pages. He had left his tape-recorder on his chair, its cassette turning on battery power.
‘You see, Mr – Mr Fidger, isn’t it? We spoke yesterday morning when I stopped to fill up the car. The person you asked about is Dr Walter Frass of Helvambrit Pharmaceuticals. I met him yesterday afternoon.’
Steven’s fingers clenched into his palms as he recalled Jenny saying that it would be worth finding out where Don had passed the time between his visit to the Court and his return to Weyharrow.
Where was she? Why the hell had she ducked out on this tremendous scoop? His own mind was running ahead of Don’s words, and so should hers be!
Don was continuing. He composed himself to listen.
‘The reason I went to Helvambrit was to ask about the leak that occurred late on Wednesday night … Don’t let him run away!’ – with sudden force.
Of a sudden there were grins all round the hall. Stick jumped up and took station between Dr Frass and the exit. As two or three other husky young men copied him, he called out, ‘Not to worry, man! Keep rolling!’
Joe Book looked uneasy, but made no move.
‘Thank you … Naturally, Dr Frass claimed there had been no such leak. The evidence is against him.’
‘Can’t hear you!’ shouted someone from the back. Don glanced around. Nigel had his head buried in his hands again, and the archdeacon was scowling and signalling to his aide. That left Steven, who shrugged and beckoned. Don climbed up on the dais.
‘Better? Okay, I’ll carry on. There was a leak from Helvam-brit on Wednesday night. A compound escaped in significant quantity – “significant” in this case means just a few grams, very finely dispersed – and it may not have been the first time. However, you see …’ He drew himself up.
‘On that particular night there was an inversion above the valley of the Chap: that’s to say, warm air was trapped under a colder overlying layer so that mist was formed. Anybody here –? Wait! Let me test my theory!’
Steven saw the man next to Chade starting to his feet. He signalled to Stick with a tilt of his head. At once the stranger was scowled back into his seat.
‘If I’m right,’ Don went on, ‘everybody who was affected must have been in the open air, and near the river. Let’s start with one person who definitely was. Mrs Kailet?’
The tour guide’s eyes were closed and she was breathing hard. Some of the nearby hippies were growing alarmed and offering assistance. Brushing their attentions aside, she glanced up in response to Don’s mention of her name.
‘Yes! Yes! I stood in the mist for nearly two hours, and afterwards I slept at a hotel with the tourists and in the morning I did this stupid thing!’
‘What about the passengers on your coach?’ Don stabbed.
‘They stayed inside. The driver too.’
‘But Mr Fidger was with you?’
They looked at one another, and both nodded.
‘That fits,’ said Don with satisfaction. ‘Being inside the coach was enough to protect the tourists. But others were less lucky. Like the Jeggses. I happen to know they were up late. And haven’t they been acting oddly?’
‘So what happened?’ shouted someone from the back. It was Cedric, impatient as ever.
‘Hold your horses,’ Don advised, turning another page of his notebook. ‘I still haven’t quite figured out all the implications … but let’s start with the people up here on the platform. Doctor!’
Steven started. ‘Yes?’
‘Were you out and about around midnight?’
‘Why – why, yes, I was! And so was Mr Phibson!’ A sudden wave of relief overcame him. ‘We went to see Mrs Lapsey because she thought she was dying …’
I shouldn’t have said that!
But the response from the audience was a laugh! Someone said, quite loudly, ‘Oh, no! Not again!’
He leaned back in his chair, ignoring Nigel, ignoring the archdeacon. Don was in charge now. Let him get on with it. He obviously knew far better how to manipulate an audience than anybody else in the hall –
Including Wallace, who was scribbling frantic notes.
But where was Jenny?
‘What about the other people who were affected?’ Don continued. ‘Were you all out at Wednesday midnight?’
‘I wasn’t!’ Stick objected at once. ‘Nor were Sheila’s kids! We had the effect you’re talking ab
out, but – No, I was indoors, and the kids were both in bed.’
‘Ah!’ Don raised his hand. ‘But I know where you live. Doesn’t your flat overlook the river?’
‘Well, the living-room and the kids’ room do. But … Oh!’
‘Go on!’
‘It could be right,’ Stick admitted. ‘I dozed off in the living-room, and the windows were open.’
‘And –?’ Don stepped to the front of the dais.
‘And Sheila’s room is the other side of the flat, next to the kitchen and bathroom.’ Stick drew a deep breath. ‘Man, do I ever see what you are driving at! I got the whole load of it and thought Sheila’s kids were boys when in fact they’re girls. The kids sleep in the next room, on the river side, and they –’
There was a wordless cry from Hilary.
Stick said, ‘Sorry, kids. You’ve got to learn this is a cruel world. But I’ll just say they both did silly things at school on Thursday morning. Though not half as silly as a pair of boys that I could name, much older …’
The Ellerfords flinched and stared around for a way of escape, but there was none. Without words, it had been decided that nobody should leave this hall before the mystery was solved.
Paul hunched forward as though wanting to vanish into thin air. Harold, though, braced himself for the worst.
He said in a clear voice, ‘Paul and I were out late on Wednesday. But what did the mist have to do with it?’
‘The inversion over the valley that brought it on,’ Don said, nodding encouragement, ‘was also what prevented the vapour from dispersing as quickly as usual … I can think of at least one other person who most likely got caught in it. If my explanation is correct, there must have been several more.’
There was a numb silence. But Don seemed to be prepared for that. He fixed the Ellerford boys with a chill gaze.
‘What about your mother, for example? What was she up to on Wednesday night?’
Silence again.
‘What time did you get home? Where had you been?’
‘You haven’t any bloody right to ask!’ Paul shouted, leaping to his feet. ‘You’re starting to sound like her, you are! And we don’t even bloody know you! I never saw you before today!’
‘No. That’s true. But your brother did, though he won’t remember the fact. He was still a baby when I met your parents in Hong Kong.’
The audience drew in collective breath.
‘And I remember how Ursula used to fret about him. One of the reasons I liked her was that she didn’t leave her son all day in the care of a local nanny, the way most Europeans did out there. Even the loss of your father can’t have changed her so much that she wasn’t worried about where you were and what you were doing!’
It was a master-stroke. All of a sudden he had the whole audience on his side against the boys, and there were cries of confirmation.
‘That’s right! Every time they stay out late she paces up and down – in the garden, on the road – watching for them to come home! And when they do they shout at her for interfering! We’ve seen it! We’ve heard it!’
Those who had called out exchanged nods and glances, their expressions grim, and sat back in their chairs. All bar one. Moira O’Pheale remained on her feet, very pale, hands clenched tight on a black leather purse.
She said, ‘Phyllis was up late on Wednesday, too. I could hear her from my room, calling Rufus. That’s the cat. I don’t know what time she actually turned in – I was asleep by then – but … Oh my God!’
Her face crumpled like tissue paper and she dropped back into her chair, bowing her head.
In Weyharrow people were unaccustomed to displays of naked emotion. They were still shifting and stirring when Judy Jacksett exclaimed, ‘Roy! Wasn’t it on Wednesday that Boyo didn’t come home? That’s our dog,’ she added. ‘He’s still not back and the kids are getting frantic.’
Starting, Roy said, ‘Why! So it was!’
‘So you were out late looking for him. And next day all those orders were filled wrong … That explains it!’
‘And something else as well!’ called another voice. ‘My father was up late on Wednesday night, too! My grandfather heard him walking up and down on the terrace at midnight! The terrace overlooks the river! And – well, I don’t have to remind you what happened to him next morning, do I?’
The speaker was Cedric, hair tousled, clutching the back of the chair in front of him. Furious, Basil turned to glower at him, shaping a retort, but before he could find the right words Joyce Vikes shouted, ‘My Harry was up late that night too! With a sick calf! I knew he weren’t truly out of his head!’
Someone – a man – said maliciously, ‘No, just full of devils, warn’t he?’
Was that Ken Pecklow? Steven started and glanced in the direction the words had come from, but realized instantly it couldn’t be. Ken was in the wrong part of the room, and what was more he was rising to his feet.
‘I agree with Joyce! Harry and me – well, we’ve been at odds a good long time, but I never thought he were crazy, and I never thought he got the Devil in him, either. What I did think …’ He paused meaningly, glancing from side to side to make sure everyone was paying proper attention.
‘What I did think, and maybe I still do, was this. Did it have to do with one of they chemical sprays he talked about all spring and summer – the very latest, the very newest? Is that what they brew at Trimborne now? Is that what got loose and did the harm?’
Dr Frass jumped up.
‘No, sir! We do not manufacture industrial or agricultural chemicals! We make pharmaceuticals – medicines! And I am bound to warn Mr Prosher that if he continues with his unfounded accusations he will be hearing from our lawyers!’
‘And from me,’ rumbled the man beside Chief Inspector Chade. ‘You said you knew who I am, didn’t you, Prosher? Then I take it you know why I’m here, as well.’
Don was very pale, but stood his ground. He said, ‘Of course I do. To threaten me with the Official Secrets Act, because the stuff that got loose from Helvambrit is being manufactured and tested under government contract –’
‘Stop! Stop at once!’ the man bellowed.
‘I will not!’ Abruptly Don was furious. ‘There’s no way that you can shut me up – not now I’ve seen what you’ve done to my friend Ursula!’
There was an astonished pause. Then, moving in front of the platform, Stick said loud and clear, ‘Damn right, man!’
And collared the stranger with help from Chris, while Ken and Harry stood over Chade, and Bill Blocket and Phil Flaken closed on Dr Frass, making it wordlessly clear to Joe Book what would happen if he tried to intervene.
Also the villagers sitting nearest to Basil Goodsir invited him, politely, to hold his peace.
‘This is a scandal!’ Helen fumed. This is an outrage!’
‘No it isn’t,’ a voice called behind her, intending to be heard. ‘It’s an inquiry!’
It sounded like her son, but when she glanced back she found no clue to who had spoken.
‘It’s too late anyway, Mr Pipton,’ Don said quietly. ‘This gentleman, friends, is from Military Intelligence. The substance that escaped from Helvambrit’s factory –’
Pipton was struggling madly. Two of Chris’s friends came to add their strength to Stick’s, ignoring his threats about obstructing him in the execution of his duty.
‘The substance,’ Don went on, ‘is probably the one known as Oneirin, from the Greek word for dreams. We’ve been hearing rumours for some while, but this is the first time we ever had solid evidence of its effects. What it seems to do is affect the faculty in the brain that distinguishes between what you’ve dreamed and what you actually remember. In other words, it makes the memory of your dreams more vivid than your memory of the real world.’
He paused, very tense, with sweat pearling on his forehead. At once there was a susurrus of comment, in which Steven wished he could have joined. All those affected were saying, ‘Yes! That’s exactly
what it felt like!’
‘Oneirin was originally intended as a battlefield gas,’ Don resumed. ‘Hence its presentation in vapour form. When it proved unsuitable for disorienting enemy soldiers, a new contract was entered into for its development as a means of interrogating spies and prisoners of war. On the basis of what’s happened here, it seems obvious that Helvambrit has again failed to come up with what was promised. What on earth would be the good of trying to extract information from someone who had lost the ability to distinguish dreams from reality? But Helvambrit doesn’t want to admit defeat – for the good and sufficient reason that the contract is worth more than half a million pounds a year of the taxpayer’s money. Your money!’
Basil Goodsir emitted a strangled cry. Helen turned on her chair and slapped his face, her own a mask of rage.
‘Right, now you know,’ Don said, his tenseness fading. ‘And so, tomorrow, will the public. Mr Pipton, I said you were already too late.’ He glanced at the clock on the far wall. ‘I don’t imagine you were able to close clown every public phone in the county, much as you would probably have liked to. By now Miss Severance must have been able to get through to at least some of the numbers I gave her, along with the information I’ve just imparted. Wallace, why don’t you grab your chance of getting out of here, too? My paper has a clear beat on the story, but it’s too damned important to be kept to ourselves, and I shan’t mind in the least if the Banner gets it into its late editions. You spell Oneirin O-N-E-I-R-I-N.’
‘You bastard,’ Wallace said under his breath. ‘You son of a bitch!’
But in response to Lisa’s frantic urging, he left the hall, people making wary way for him. Silence attended his departure, near complete … until abruptly it was broken by the sound of weeping.
It was Moira who began it, fighting to say amid her tears, ‘Poor Phyllis! And it wasn’t my fault after all!’
‘Oh-Mum!’
That was from Paul Ellerford, barely audible. He buried his face against his brother’s shoulder, racked with sobs. Within seconds Harold was crying too.
But from some there was a more violent outburst. It broke all at once from half a dozen places in the hall, as people rounded on Dr Frass, Mr Pipton, and Chief Inspector Chade, the handiest targets. Clearest to be heard was Joyce.