The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (35 page)

William realised he could not reveal that it was Tilly Curtain. He had promised her he would not say anything about their meeting,
and yet he had to say something. He thought of the terms espionage figures used in novels and one came to him. “A mole,” he said.

The word caused an immediate reaction in Sebastian Duck. “A mole?” he asked sharply. “A mole by the name of Tilly Curtain?”

William was no actor, and his face must have given away the secret. “Well …,” he began.

Sebastian Duck leaned forward. “Let me tell you something, Mr. French. We know about her. Do you know that? We know.”

“Know what?”

Sebastian Duck lowered his voice even further. “We know that she’s not quite what she seems to be.”

William hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t.”

“Well, let me tell you then. Your friend Miss Curtain is paid by HMG but is also in the pay of …” Sebastian Duck reached for a tiny packet of sugar, tore it open neatly, and poured it into his half-empty coffee cup. “Of the Belgians.”

William sat quite still. “The Belgians? Why?”

Sebastian Duck shrugged. “What interest do you think the Belgians have in the growth of the influence of Brussels?” He did not wait for an answer. “Exactly.”

“That is ridiculous,” said William. “Utterly absurd.”

“In that case, I’ll take my leave,” said Sebastian Duck, rising from the table. “Goodbye.”

William remained where he was. After a minute or two, he took his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled Tilly Curtain’s number.

“Thank heavens you called,” she said. “I’ve found out.”

“Found out what?”

“Where Freddie de la Hay is.”

E
VERYTHING WAS NOW IN PLACE
for the second stage of Berthea’s plan. Once inside the house, Terence, still pale from the shock of seeing the Green Man in the rhododendrons, sat himself down in the kitchen. “I swear I saw him, Berthy,” he said breathlessly. “You know me—I don’t make things up.”

Berthea knew him as well as any sister might be expected to know a brother, and she knew there were no discernible limits to Terence’s gullibility and imaginative capability. “Of course not,” she said. “The eye tricks us very easily. I quite understand how one might imagine that one has seen the Green Man when there are all those leaves moving about.”

Terence shook his head vigorously, becoming quite agitated. “It’s not a trick of the eye,” he said. “The Green Man was right there—in the flesh. I promise you, Berthy—cross my heart—he was standing right there, as real as anything. I promise you.”

Berthea spoke calmingly: “Well, we’ll see, won’t we? If the Green Man is frequenting your garden, then I’m sure we’ll see him again some time.”

Terence appeared mollified. “I hope so. I really enjoyed our conversation. He gave me a warning, you know.”

Berthea, pouring boiling water into the teapot, affected nonchalance. “Oh, did he? About what?”

Terence looked at her sideways. “About somebody in the house who was a danger to me. A traitor, I assume.”

Berthea glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and saw that he was staring at her. His manner, it seemed, was suspicious.
He thinks it’s me
, she thought with horror.
He’s got the wrong end of things again
.

She quickly served her brother his tea and left the room. In the
drawing room she telephoned Lennie Marchbanks and told him to come round again, immediately. “Remember,” she said. “Crop circles.”

About ten minutes later, while Terence was still drinking his tea in the kitchen—pondering the Green Man, Berthea imagined—Lennie Marchbanks drove up to the house in his ancient silver Volvo. Terence noticed his arrival. “I must tell Lennie about the Green Man,” he said, rising to his feet. “He’s very interested in these things.”

Lennie came to the door and was admitted to the kitchen. “Great news, Mr. Moongrove,” he said. “More crop circles!”

In the excitement of this news, the Green Man was quite forgotten. Terence listened entranced as Lennie explained that two new crop circles had been spotted in a field about five miles away. “I wanted to take you to see them,” he said. “Sometimes the crops spring up before you have the chance to appreciate them.”

Terence required no persuasion. “You’re very kind, Mr. Marchbanks.”

Lennie glanced at Berthea. “We’ll go in my Volvo,” he said. “I know the way.”

Berthea watched them drive away before going up to the room occupied by Roger and Claire. They had installed desks in the room and she supposed that they would be sitting there reading or working on Roger’s magnum opus, which proved to be the case.

“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you,” she said. “But Terence has had to go off with a friend. He asked me to ask you, though, whether you could possibly meet him for lunch at the Cotswold House Hotel in Chipping Campden.”

Roger looked at her suspiciously. “Chipping Campden? Why?”

“He mentioned something about wanting to sign some papers,” said Berthea vaguely. “He hoped that you could all do it over lunch.”

Roger turned and looked at Claire. The mention of signing
papers had animated him. “Of course,” he said. “We’ll be very happy to do that, won’t we, Claire?” He turned back to Berthea. “But how will we get out there?”

“He said that you should take his car,” Berthea answered. “His Porsche. The keys are in the kitchen. He said go out there and wait for him. He hasn’t booked a table but he thinks it will be all right.”

Roger and Claire got up from their seats and began to prepare for their departure, ignoring Berthea’s presence. Berthea went downstairs and looked at her watch. She had asked Lennie Marchbanks to make sure that he was away a good half hour. That would give Roger and Claire time to get ready and then drive off in the Porsche.

They left twenty minutes later, and precisely ten minutes after that Lennie Marchbanks’s silver Volvo drew up outside the house.

“We were too late,” said Terence as he came into the kitchen with the
garagiste
. “The stalks of the oats or whatever had all sprung up again. So disappointing.”

“The spacecraft must have nipped in and out,” said Lennie.

Berthea noticed that his voice was slurred, and she suddenly remembered that his teeth were still in the pocket of her coat, which was hanging on the back of the kitchen door. She signalled to the mechanic, who frowned as he tried to make out what she meant. Then he realised. “My teeth!” he exclaimed. “You’ve still got them, haven’t you?”

Terence looked astonished. “Why have you got Mr. Marchbanks’s teeth, Berthy?” he asked. “Did he drop them?”

“Yes,” said Berthea. And Lennie Marchbanks at the same time answered, “No.”

Terence looked at Mr. Marchbanks. “What happened to your teeth, Mr. Marchbanks?”

“Your sister cleaned them for me.”

“He dropped them and I cleaned them,” said Berthea.

Terence seemed satisfied with this explanation and returned to
the topic of crop circles. “I wonder what shape they were,” he said. “Roger and Claire have a book which has some of the main patterns.”

Berthea took her cue. “I wonder where they are …?” She paused. “I’ve just remembered something, Terence. I heard the sound of your car about fifteen minutes ago. I thought nothing of it because I’d forgotten that you had gone out with Mr. Marchbanks.”

“My Porsche?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell them they could take it?” asked Lennie Marchbanks.

“Certainly not,” said Terence.

“Then they must have stolen it,” said Lennie. “Just think.”

Terence was silent. “The Green Man said …,” he began.

“Green Man?” asked Lennie Marchbanks.

“It’s rather complicated,” Terence explained. “I was given a warning, you see, and …”

Berthea stopped him. “Where would they have gone, do you think, Mr. Marchbanks?” she asked.

Lennie Marchbanks, who had fitted the false teeth now returned to him by Berthea, answered quickly, “Chipping Campden, I expect. There’s a well-known car fence near there. That’s where all the stolen cars end up.”

“Then we should go there,” said Berthea. “We might still catch up with them.”

“It’s really bad of them to steal my Porsche,” said Terence. “And if we catch up with them, I’m jolly well going to tell them that.”

“Steal your Porsche?” muttered Berthea. “Not only that. They want to steal your house. The Green Man was right, you know.”

She spoke quietly, but Terence heard.

T
ERENCE
M
OONGROVE
was largely silent on the trip to Chipping Campden. Sitting in the back of Lennie Marchbanks’s silver Volvo, he looked out of the window in a thoughtful, slightly injured way. From the front passenger seat, Berthea half turned to check up on her brother. Poor Terence, she thought. The shattering of an illusion is never easy, even if one’s life is filled with illusions.

Lennie Marchbanks, sensitive to the atmosphere, tried to make conversation. “I drove along here the other day with Alfie Bismarck,” he remarked. “We were going to see a horse that Alfie’s got up there. Nice horse that he bought from Christopher Catherwood last year. Christopher had some success with him on the flat races over in Newmarket, but wanted to concentrate on something else.”

“Oh yes?” said Berthea. “That’s interesting, isn’t it, Terence?”

“Jolly interesting,” he mumbled.

“Alfie’s got the touch all right,” continued Lennie. “He turned round a really useless horse that had done the rounds. Ireland. France. Back to Ireland. Then Alfie started working on him and he began to romp home. I said, ‘Alfie, you’re giving that horse something in his oats,’ and Alfie got all shirty and said I shouldn’t talk like that. I said it was only a joke, but he said there are some things you shouldn’t joke about.

“Alfie’s honest, though. I’d trust him with my shirt, more or less, as long as I had a spare one, ha! And that boy of his, Monty, I’ve heard what people say about him but it isn’t true, you know. He’s a chip off the old block, that boy. He won two grand last week at some small meeting up north. Came home with his pockets full. I said, ‘Monty, you should invest that, you know. Buy some shares in something solid, like futures in helium.’ He looked at me like I’d suggested that he should fly to the moon. So I said, ‘How do you think
your old man made his money?’ I was referring to Alfie’s eye for a good investment, but young Monty says, ‘Gambling, Mr. Marchbanks. That’s how he did it.’ ”

The conversation continued in this vein until just outside Chipping Campden, when Lennie told them all to start looking out for Terence’s Porsche. “We’ll just cruise through,” he said. “Then if we don’t find it, we can start looking along some side roads I know. Good places for stolen vehicles, those side roads.”

They drove slowly. There was a Porsche parked outside a newsagent’s premises, but it was the wrong colour. Then, as they made their way into the main square, Lennie gave a low whistle. “See over there?” he said. “See?”

“My car,” said Terence. “What a nerve.”

“They’re in that hotel,” said Lennie. “Probably having lunch. Stuffing their faces.”

“Shall we call the police?” asked Terence.

Berthea shook her head. “The police will complicate matters. All those forms. The police have bad karma, Terence.”

Terence nodded. “I just want to give Rog and Claire a piece of my mind. That’ll be worse for them than being arrested. I can get jolly cross, you know.”

“You’re right,” said Berthea. “That’ll teach them.”

Lennie Marchbanks parked his car and they went into the hotel. Roger and Claire were seated in the dining room, perusing the menu. They looked up, and were surprised when they saw that Terence was accompanied.

“We thought it was just us,” said Roger, rising to his feet.

“Well, you thought wrong!” snapped Terence. “You Sam!”

Roger frowned. “What?”

“You Sam!” repeated Terence. “You great Sam!”

Roger looked angry. “You’re calling me a Sam? What have I done to deserve that?”

“You stole my Porsche,” spluttered Terence. “We saw it outside.”

“Yes,” crowed Lennie Marchbanks. “Fine pair of car thieves, parking the car in broad daylight.”

Roger looked at Lennie in astonishment and then turned to Berthea. “But you told me to take it,” he said. “You said that Terence had said …”

“Delusions,” said Berthea.

Roger let out a cry. “Delusions? You told us! Claire heard, didn’t you? You told us that Terence wanted to meet us here.”

“A likely story,” interjected Lennie Marchbanks.

Roger spun round and glared irately at Lennie. “You shut your face! You Sam!” he shouted.

“You calling me a Sam?”
Click
. Lennie’s voice was filled with anger, and his teeth, dropping forward, made the familiar clicking sound.
Click
.

“It’s jolly rude to tell somebody to shut his face,” said Terence. “You shouldn’t say things like that in public. You shouldn’t.” He turned to Berthea. “Did you tell them that, Berthy? Did you tell them to take my car?”

Berthea swallowed. “Of course not, Terence. Have I ever lied to you? Ever? Once? And have I ever let you down? Ever? Even when Uncle Edgar accused you of eating those sponge finger biscuits of his when you were eight. Remember? And I said that you hadn’t, although I knew you had because I’d seen you.” She paused, adding under her breath, “And what did the Green Man say?”

“I didn’t eat all of them,” said Terence. “The dog had four.”

“For heaven’s sake,” snapped Claire. “This has got nothing to do with biscuits.”

“Indeed it hasn’t,” said Berthea coldly. “But it has everything to do with the theft of a Porsche. Give me the keys, please.”

“No,” said Roger.

“Then I shall call the police.”

Roger hesitated, and then handed over the keys to the Porsche.

“Now we can go home,” said Lennie Marchbanks. “And these two can make use of public transport to get back to Cheltenham.”

Berthea looked at the dejected fraudsters. “You’ll find your cases with all your possessions at the front gate,” she said. “You may remove them without entering the property.”