Days Without Number (27 page)

'Same as you, minus the paper.' Nick bought himself a large Americano from the sleepy-eyed assistant, declining the autopilot offer of a Danish. 'Mind if I join you?'

'Not at all.'

T'm up here visiting my nephew.'

'Ah, young Thomas. Yes. I've seen him in here a couple of times.'

'Not surprising. He lives nearby.'

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'So I gather.'

'But you don't.'

'I too am visiting. An old friend. He has a house just outside Edinburgh.'

'Vernon Drysdale.'

The very same.'

'Odd you should decide to look him up so soon after meeting Tom at his grandfather's funeral.'

'Not unconnected, actually.' Farnsworth smiled his serpentine smile. 'Michael's death reminded me that time is running short. Who knows at my age when a meeting with a friend may prove to be a last meeting? Every greeting may also be a farewell.'

'How true.'

'They told me you were unwell, Nicholas. Distressed following your brother's tragic accident. I'm glad to find you . . . much as I recall.'

'I'm getting there.'

'Splendid. Please do accept my condolences. Andrew's death . . .' Farnsworth shook his head. 'A sad waste.'

'It was, yes.'

'You should not blame yourself.'

'I don't.'

'No-one is to blame for such . . . vagaries of fate.'

'Are you sure about that?'

'Of course. Fate is not manipulable by man. And God is above blame.'

'Professor Drysdale a late riser, is he?'

'Quite the reverse, since you ask. And why do you ask, might I enquire in return?'

'I simply wondered why you come into Edinburgh every morning to patronize this unremarkable establishment.'

'Oh, it's not unremarkable. The espresso is really rather good. And my sojourns in Italy have left me with an abiding love of espresso. Vernon is a man of the mind. The only coffee he keeps is instant - and powdered at that.'

'You visit Italy often?'

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'Not as often as I should like.'

'What's your favourite part?'

Farnsworth pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully. 'Venice,' he eventually announced.

'I thought you might say that.'

'How astute of you. Is it perhaps your favourite also?'

'I've never been there.'

'You should. It has many connections with your family. The Byzantine diaspora after the fall of Constantinople took numerous bearers of the Paleologus name to Venice. You probably have cousins there aplenty.'

'I don't think so.'

'Distant and/or unknown.' Farnsworth smiled insistently. 'I think you must.'

'How long are you staying with Professor Drysdale?'

.'I'm not sure. Until he tires of my company, I suppose. Before he does, you should pay us a visit. Let me give you the address and telephone number.' Farnsworth plucked a card from his pocket and jotted the details on the back with his fountain pen. 'There.' Nick took the card and glanced down at it. Roseburn Lodge, Manse Road, Roslin, near Edinburgh, (0131) 440 7749, was inscribed in Farnsworth's copperplate hand in brown ink. 'Do call. I know Vernon would be delighted to meet you.'

'Really?'

'Why, yes. He's a medieval historian. I happen to have drawn his attention to your family's lineal descent from the last Emperor of Byzantium. He'd naturally be interested to meet any scion of the imperial dynasty.'

'You could have invited Tom.'

'What makes you think I haven't?'

'He didn't mention it.'

There may be much he has not mentioned.'

A moment's silence intruded while Nick sipped his coffee. 'Besides,' he resumed, 'our lineal descent, as you call it, is unproven.'

'I understand differently.'

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'If you don't mind my asking, Doctor Farnsworth--'

'Julian, please.'

'How would you know, then . . . Julian?'

'One picks things up, if one knows where to look.'

'Does one?'

'Oh yes, I do assure you.'

'As regards my family, would Terry Mawson be someone you've . . . picked things up from?'

'Who?'

'Terry Mawson. Tom's stepfather.'

T'm unacquainted with the gentleman.'

'I understand differently.'

'Touch�.' Farnsworth seemed genuinely impressed to have the phrase turned against him. 'I fear trust is the issue, is it not? You don't trust me, do you, Nicholas?'

Nick took another sip of coffee, delaying his reply. But they both knew what it had to be. 'No. I don't.'

'I quite understand. Blood is thicker than water. What has young Thomas told you? That I am harassing him - following him, perhaps? That I am in cahoots with his evil stepfather? Some such m�lange, no doubt. Desperation tactics, I fear. Ask yourself: is he entirely credible? Be honest now. Is he?'

T'd be prepared to stand by him.'

'Naturally. But if he's lied to you, what then? If he's set out to deceive you and in the process done untold harm . . .' Farnsworth spread his palms. 'There's something I need to show you.'

'What?'

'I don't have it with me. Perhaps I could arrange for it to be delivered to you later. Are you staying with your nephew?'

'No. I'm in a hotel.'

'Excellent. I'll have it sent to you there. Which one?'

Nick hesitated, but could see no reason to conceal his whereabouts. 'The Thistle. In Leith Street.'

'Very well. Before the day is out, the proof will be in your hands.'

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'Proof of what?'

'You'll see.' Farnsworth smiled. 'I promise.'

Farnsworth invited Nick to join him in a saunter round the National Gallery of Scotland, where he claimed to adjourn most mornings for a refreshing dose of fine art. 'I find ten minutes spent in the Impressionist room quite sets me up for the day.' Nick declined and was happy to let Farnsworth turn left outside Robusta while he turned right.

He headed north to Circus Gardens, having promised Tom an immediate report on the encounter. Tom answered the door unshaven and dressed only in a thin towelling bathrobe. He looked as if skipping his normal early visit to Robusta had been no hardship. He looked, in fact, as if Nick's departure the night before had not necessarily been his cue for lights out.

'It's well gone ten,' Tom said huskily, dragging back the sitting-room curtains to let in a flood of grey light. 'I guess you must have found our friend.'

'He was there.'

'Said he would be.' Tom slumped down in a chair and yawned. 'How'd he explain that?'

'Implausibly.'

'But slickly?'

'Very.'

'He didn't admit to dogging my footsteps, then?'

'No.'

'But you can see he is.'

'I'm sure of it.'

'Then they must know I'm on to them.'

'Guess so.'

'Yeah.' Tom rubbed his face. 'I could use a coffee. Want one?'

'No thanks. I just--'

'Had a decent cup at Robusta. 'Course you did. Well, see me to the kitchen. I might keel over on the way.'

Tom stood up, stretched and padded off to the kitchen, with

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Nick tagging along. Once there, he filled the kettle, switched it on and spooned some coffee granules into a mug, then propped himself against the worktop and yawned again.

'What am I going to do, Nick?'

'About Farnsworth? I'm not sure. You can't stop the man hanging around Edinburgh. And you can't prove he and Terry are up to no good.'

'Them knowing each other proves that to me.'

'Setting up the Tantris fraud involved a lot of money. Half a million pounds in ready cash. Would Terry have that amount on tap?'

'Easily.' There was a spark of alertness in the glance Tom shot at Nick before the kettle boiled. He turned away to fill his mug. 'You think he bankrolled the operation?'

'Maybe.'

'It would fit, I suppose.' Tom topped up his coffee from the cold tap and took a wincing sip. T'd wondered myself, to be honest. If the money was his contribution, I mean. I also wondered if Farnsworth might have told Dad that when they met up at Tintagel.'

Tn front of Davey? It seems unlikely.'

'We've only Farnsworth's word for it that they didn't continue their chat somewhere else.'

'Andrew said nothing about it to me.'

'He wouldn't, would he? The whole Terry, Mum and me situation would have been mixed up in his mind. He'd have worried that no-one would believe him, that they'd write it off as a pathetic attempt to get Mum back.'

'I suppose . . .' The layers of pretended knowledge and ignorance were becoming too much for Nick. He decided to cut through them. 'Farnsworth's sending me something later.'

'What?'

'Proof, he called it.'

'Proof 'I

'Of why he's to be trusted, I think he meant.'

'But he isn't to be trusted.'

'No. So, it can't amount to much, can it?'

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The guy talks in fucking riddles.'

Tom thumped his mug down on the worktop and padded out into the hall, leaving Nick to contemplate a black crescent of spilt coffee at the base of the mug. From the hall came the sound of a lighter being flicked. A few seconds later Tom reappeared in the doorway, dragging on a cigarette.

'Can you remember the last thing Dad said to you, Nick?'

'Very clearly.'

'What was it?'

' "Let go of me." '

' "Let go of me." ' Tom repeated the words so softly and swiftly they almost sounded like an echo. 'And you did. We all did.'

'He didn't know they were going to be his last words, Tom. They don't signify anything.'

'I disagree. The fact that he didn't know makes them all the more significant.'

'You've lost me.'

'Yeah.' Tom gazed at Nick through a slowly spreading haze of cigarette smoke. 'Maybe I have.'

Nick left Tom to shower and breakfast and walked back into the city centre. He had no idea what to do next, except wait on Farnsworth's promise. The man was not to be trusted. Tom was right about that. But who was to be trusted? The only name that came to mind was Basil's.

And Basil, bless him, had telephoned at last. When Nick switched his mobile back on, he found a message waiting for him.

'I've tried your hotel twice to no avail. It's Saturday morning here, as I hope it still is there when you hear this. I have, as a matter of simple fact, nothing to report. Hardly surprising, since you've forbidden me to do anything until we've spoken, which I trust we'll soon be able to do. I'll try again later. ArrivederciV

Basil's impatience was understandable. But what was Nick to tell him? That he was being played for a sucker by someone

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but he did not know which of several candidates that someone was? It was true. But it was no help to either of them.

The rain was harder now and the wind was strengthening. His box of a room at the Thistle holding no appeal, Nick decided to take Farnsworth up on his recommendation of the National Gallery. It was busy but not unduly crowded. There was no sign of Farnsworth, even in the Impressionist room. Nick wandered round, gazing up at one picture after another, some of them beautiful, some brilliant, some neither, unable in his distracted state to appreciate the differences. After an aimless hour or so, he left.

A gale was raging by now. He struggled through it to the Caf� Royal and saw off his hangover with rather more than the hair of the dog. It was mid-afternoon when he returned to the Thistle. By then he had drunk enough to have stopped caring about the uncertainties gnawing away at him. He lay down on the bed in his room and fell instantly into deep, dreamless sleep.

It was dark when he woke. Night had fallen. He could hear the rain still beating against the window. He peered at the luminous dial of his alarm clock: it was nearly half past eight. He switched on the bedside lamp, waited until his eyes had adjusted to the glare, then sat up.

He saw it at once: a square white envelope, lying on the floor near the door. It had been slipped beneath the door while he was sleeping. There came a sudden, fluttering rush of palpitations. He took several long, slow breaths, waiting for the attack to pass. Then he rose, crossed the room and picked up the envelope.

It was blank, the flap unsealed. Nick carried it back to the bed and sat down again. He lifted the flap of the envelope, reached inside and pulled out an A5-sized black-and-white photograph.

The photograph had been taken through a caf� window. There were reflections of passers-by in the glass and, beyond the window, a couple of tables in, a man and a woman were 234

sitting opposite each other. The woman appeared to be talking and was gesturing with her hand, while the man was listening impassively, staring at her apparently in rapt attention. They were in Robusta, Nick realized. The photographer was some distance away, judging by assorted blurs in the foreground. The pair were clearly unaware that they were being filmed. And no wonder, since the man was Tom Paleologus and he was sharing a table with Elspeth Hartley.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The ground-floor flat at 8 Circus Gardens was in darkness, the curtains open. As far as Nick could tell as he craned over the basement railings, there was no-one at home. He rang Tom's bell several times, more in hope than expectation. There was no response.

It was close to nine thirty on a cold, wet night. But it was Saturday, so Tom's absence was hardly suspicious. Nick was suspicious, though. Tom was the conspirator, not Terry. The photograph proved that. The rendezvous between Terry and Julian Farnsworth on Plymouth Hoe could well have been an invention. But Tom's rendezvous with Elspeth Hartley was real and undeniable.

Nick retreated to the Caf� Royal and sipped a pint till closing time. He was tempted to phone Farnsworth, but something held him back. The photographic evidence suggested he owed Tom nothing, but still he felt he owed him a chance to explain.

How could he explain, though? Tom had known of Farnsworth's promise to supply Nick with what he had called proof. And he must have realized Nick would want to discuss it with him, whatever it turned out to be. Was that why he had gone missing? If so, it was a futile evasion. He would have to return eventually. And Nick would be waiting when he did.