The Shift Key (18 page)

Shrugging, Steven turned to go inside and ask about that umbrella. Catching him by the arm, the Sierra’s passenger said, ‘Are you Dr Gloze, by any chance?’

Reporters!

But the
Globe
was a cut above the
Banner,
after all. With a sigh Steven admitted his identity.

‘I’m Wilf Spout. Don and I have been looking for you too. Don, I found the doctor!’

‘Great! Look, let’s all go inside, shall we?’

Jenny was prompt to jump out. But Steven shook his head.

‘Sorry. I’ve had enough of the press for one day. Besides, I’m late for dinner.’

Darting to join the others in the shelter of the porch, Jenny said, ‘You can’t be looking forward that much to Mrs Weaper’s cooking – not after what you said about it yesterday.’

Steven was obliged to give ground. He said, ‘Anyway, I’ve just been talking to some people in there, and I said I wanted to go away and think things over. It’s going to look pretty odd if I go straight back in. And what with one thing and another I’ve had a hell of a day.’

‘I have an idea,’ Don murmured. ‘Doctor, are you on call?’

‘Ah … No, not tonight.’

‘When we came through Chapminster this morning I noticed a Chinese restaurant. Suppose both of you let my paper take you out to dinner.’

‘Oh, you mean the Silver Moon!’ Jenny exclaimed. ‘Yes, it’s very good! Steve, come on! If you’ve really had such a bad day … And you can ring up Mrs Weaper when we get there.’

Abruptly it seemed like a very good idea. Steven gave a wan smile of agreement, and two minutes later the Sierra was swinging around the green and heading back towards the bridge with him and Jenny in the back seat.

He could not resist a mild gibe, though.

‘You gave up pretty quick on your search for Wallace,’ hemurmured.

‘Well …’ Jenny bit her lip. ‘He could be anywhere, couldn’t he? And Mr Prosher –’

He’d been listening. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Don.’ ‘– Don … He’s not even from one of the papers that I got in touch with.’

She leaned forward, grasping the back of the driver’s seat, as the car traversed the ‘new estate’ with its wipers slapping.

‘So what did bring you to Weyharrow – uh – Don? Did you hear about it from someone I did ring up last night?’

To Steven it seemed that Don suppressed a faint sigh as he braked at the edge of the village before switching his headlamps to full beam against the rain and gathering dark and making the left turn towards Chapminster.

‘At the risk of disappointing you,’ he murmured, ‘I have to admit that we were on to the story rather earlier.’

‘How?’ Jenny demanded in dismay.

Steven snapped his fingers. ‘Let me guess!’ he exclaimed. That tour guide! The one who started talking about flying saucers at Stonehenge!’

‘Precisely.’

‘But –’ Jenny began, then broke off. ‘Oh. Her coach broke down near here, didn’t it?’

‘We passed the very spot a moment ago,’ Don said. ‘And the first person I talked to this morning was the mechanic who turned out to fix it.’

‘Mr Fidger,’ Wilf supplied.

‘That’s right.’

Jenny looked, in the occasional glow of oncoming headlights, as though she could have kicked herself. She said, ‘What did Tom have to say? Or is it private?’

‘Not at all,’ Don said, slowing as they approached Powte and its thirty-mile limit. ‘He confirmed what the coachdriver had already told us. Mrs Kailet was acting quite normally – apart from being a bit agitated, as you might expect. After all, her tour was hours behind schedule, and the people were getting somewhat stroppy.’

They passed Powte School and the end-of-limit sign, and he accelerated back to fifty.

‘So what did you make of all that?’ Steven ventured at length.

Don shrugged. ‘That I was on to a non-story, of course. Matter of fact, I began to wonder why my editor had sent us here, because it looked as though the poor woman had simply broken down under overload. But that was before I heard about the parson. Then I changed my mind completely.’

‘Quite a guy, is our editor,’ Wilf grunted. ‘Got
the
sharpest nose for news I ever ran across.’

‘Right,’ Don agreed. The lights of Chapminster loomed ahead, and he slowed abruptly. ‘Jenny, do I go left or right at the next fork?’

‘The restaurant is on the right but there’s a no-entry further on. Take the left and I’ll show you where to park, near an alley we can cut through without getting wet.’

‘Fine.’

And none of them said any more of consequence until they
were seated and studying the restaurant’s menu.

It was not, Steven feared, going to be a very jolly dinner. He himself was preoccupied; Jenny was downcast – whether she was in awe of Don because he worked for the prestigious
Globe,
or whether she was simply annoyed with herself for not insisting on being allowed to follow up the Weyharrow mystery instead of tamely agreeing to cover a funeral, or whatever – while Wilf was clearly taciturn by nature, and confined himself to brief utterances at extended intervals.

That left Don. And he transformed the atmosphere in two minutes flat, by handing his menu back to the waiter and addressing him in Chinese.

Astonished, the latter beamed, nodded, beamed again, and collected all their menus.

‘Was that really Chinese you were talking?’ Jenny breathed. ‘Where did you learn it?’

‘Hong Kong … I hope you don’t think I’m being highhanded, but in this kind of restaurant there are usually a few goodies not on the list. Even in a place like this they keep them for their special customers. I just told him to see what the chef can do for us, all right?’

It was indeed all right. Tiny cups of a fiery aperitif were succeeded by plates of something crispy and dark green – deep-fried seaweed, Don explained. After that came crabs with ginger, and after that chicken cooked four different ways, and after that two kinds of pork plus vegetables and straw mushrooms and, only at the very end, a dish of rice. Lastly, when Steven would have expected a dessert, there was a boiling-hot clear soup, so aromatic that it scented half the room before the waiter even poured it out.

Customers at other tables looked round enviously, wondering who these people were to merit special treatment.

‘Would anybody care for a sweet?’ Don suggested.

Steven leaned back and failed to repress a burp. He shook his head. A meal like that was capable of transforming the
world, and for him it had done so; that was enough. The others declined as well.

‘Tea?’

To that they all said yes. Waiting for it to arrive, Steven realized with a start that they had scarcely spoken as they ate.

Warmly he said, ‘Don, thanks a million! I’ve only been at Weyharrow a week – no, less, because I arrived last Sunday – and I’d already forgotten what real food is like!’

Don gave a modest smile. For the first time Steven realized he was rather handsome: fifty, perhaps, but lean, with a craggy face and tightly-curling hair poised between light brown and grey. Reaching in his pocket, he said, ‘Does anybody mind if I have a cigar? I’ll try and blow the fumes well clear of you … Thanks. Anyone else care for one? No?’

When the cigar was lit – the waiter rushed up with a box of matches – he leaned back and breathed the first smoke at the ceiling. Still gazing upward, he said, ‘Steven, what are you going to say at this meeting tomorrow?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Steven admitted after a pause. ‘I was going to spend this evening thinking about it.’

‘I’d have thought something could be worked out along the lines of lies and damned lies. And …’

‘Statistics,’ Steven supplied automatically, sampling his tea and finding it still too hot to drink. ‘I’m not quite sure I follow that.’

‘Well, let’s consider what we have.’ Don set his elbows on the table. ‘Suppose we start with our unfortunate tour guide. After all, that was what brought me and Wilf here.’

‘You said,’ Jenny butted in, ‘she more than likely broke down under stress. And she’d been in contact with someone from Weyharrow who then did something silly himself: Tom.’

‘I suspect you’re thinking the way I was at one stage,’ Don said in a warm tone that made her blush with pleasure. ‘Some sort of contagious hysteria, right? How does a doctor feel
about that idea?’

Steven frowned. ‘You mean the sort of thing they sometimes get in convents and girls’ schools?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Wouldn’t wash.’ A vigorous headshake. ‘I mean, if we’re still talking about what I can say at tomorrow’s meeting.’

‘I entirely agree.’ The waiter brought an ashtray and Don tipped his cigar into it. The last thing people in Weyharrow want to hear is that some collective disorder is afflicting them. On the other hand, if it turned out that through some statistical freak an unusually large concentration of
individuals
experienced, in one small area, the kind of trouble that’s going on all over the country all the time, but doesn’t get widely reported because a single nervous breakdown, say, isn’t material for headlines … Are you with me?’

‘I am indeed,’ Steven said, nodding repeatedly.

‘I’m not sure I am,’ Jenny said obstinately. There is something collective about what’s happening. It started with Mr Phibson, but it spread.’

‘You mean the fact that even a hard-headed publican and his wife – let alone the religious fanatic wife of a hard-up farmer – fell for this yarn about the Devil taking over? Oh, I think that’s about the easiest part of it to deal with, don’t you, Steven?’

All of a sudden Steven’s mind seemed to be working in top gear. He said, ‘I can think of half a dozen ways to explain that away. I could start by poking a bit of fun at people who’ve watched too many horror films on telly.’

‘That’s the kind of line I had in mind,’ Don concurred. ‘Go on.’

‘And when you consider every case in turn, forgetting for the moment about the others … Yes, I like it. Don, I’m much obliged.’

‘Spell it out!’ Jenny insisted. ‘I keep feeling like I’m left behind!’

‘All right.’ Steven tasted his tea again, found it cooler, and took a healthy swig. ‘If you examine each separate case, you can find the causative factors perfectly easily. Start with Mr Phibson. If I have to do this in public, of course, it’ll be rather cruel, but –’

‘But better that than let the notion of a diabolic incursion fester,’ Don suggested.

‘Yes, exactly. Now I don’t know all that much about the people who have been affected, but I did have quite a long talk with Mr Phibson, and I’ve also had a word with his housekeeper, Mrs Judger – whom he tried to turn out of the parsonage, by the way; did you know …? Ah, you did, Don. I could have guessed. You really are a newshound, aren’t you?’

That provoked Don to a modest smile. Another sip of tea, and Steven resumed, ticking names off on his fingers.

‘Mr Phibson is an elderly widower and drinks too much sherry. The strain of coping even with an undemanding parish like Weyharrow has proved too much for him, just as her job proved too much for the tour guide we already mentioned. Ah – Miss Knabbe was a maiden lady probably going through the menopause, though I’m not sure how I can put that into words that won’t drive half the audience away.’ He hesitated.

‘You, Jenny … No, you won’t want your lapse talked about any more than I do.’

Cheeks like fire, she stared at the tablecloth. She said, ‘I wouldn’t like it noised around, no. But if you absolutely have to … I don’t think people would care much about me, though. I’ve only been in Weyharrow six months. It’s the local people and the long-settled residents that count. Mary Flaken giving way to jealousy, for instance.’

‘Yes, exactly.’ Steven counted off another name. ‘And Tom Fidger is another such, isn’t he?’

‘Right. He’s forever going on about how hard the times
are. You know they used to have a proper bus company, with three buses. All they have now is the one they use to take the kids to school. When that’s off the road, they have to hire a replacement, and that means they’re losing money.’

‘And that’s public knowledge,’ Steven said. ‘I mean, even I knew about that, after less than a week. So that leaves … Hmm! I haven’t accounted for Basil Goodsir!’

‘Broke,’ said Don succinctly.

‘What?’ Steven blinked. ‘But his family owns the Court, and half the land around here as well!’

Don breathed smoke gently towards the ceiling. ‘I spent the best part of an hour at the Court today,’ he said. ‘I can recognize the signs when people are striving to keep up appearances. My bet is – and I’ve got friends in London checking this out for me – that your chum Basil is overdue for a trip to Queer Street. Does that take care of it?’

‘Can I safely say that in public?’ Steven whispered. ‘He’s bound to be there tomorrow night.’

‘Tell him privately that you will unless he holds his tongue. He’s a dreadful egoist. He’ll do anything you want – support anything you say – if you just let him understand you know his secret.’

Steven nodded thoughtfully, his mind elsewhere. At length he said, ‘Well, that provides a rational explanation for all the important cases, doesn’t it?’

‘You’ve missed out Ursula Ellerford,’ said Jenny. ‘But I can see how to deal with her. Widowed, husband didn’t leave enough to send her sons to his old school, they’re at Powte and thoroughly disliked because the other children call them snooty … Don, is something wrong?’

‘This seems to be somebody I don’t know about,’ said the reporter slowly. ‘Did you say Ursula Ellerford?’

Jenny nodded.

‘Was she ever in Hong Kong?’

‘I believe she was. Why? Did you know her there?’

‘Was her husband’s name Ted, by any chance?’

‘That’s right!’

‘Well, I’ll be damned … And what’s become of her?’

‘You’d better ask Steven.’

Who recounted the woman’s plight.

‘She has two sons, you say. How old are they now?’

Jenny pondered. ‘Fourteen and sixteen, I suppose.’

‘And who’s taking care of them?’

Steven started. ‘Christ! I’ve no idea. Does she have any relatives in the area, Jenny? Any special friends?’

‘She’s the secretary of the Weyharrow Society,’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any need to worry.’