An unlikely agent, p.16
An Unlikely Agent, page 16
I stared at him for a moment, scarcely able to believe my ears. Then I exclaimed breathlessly, “Oh, yes, please! That is, of course I should be very happy . . .”
The Chief got to his feet and held out his hand, grinning broadly.
“Congratulations, Miss Trant!” he declared. “Unofficially at least, you are now not only Bureau 8’s first secretary, but our first female agent!”
I stood up and shook the Chief’s hand, dizzied by the realisation that the hopeless daydreams I had cherished for so long had, incredibly, come to pass: all at once I had been snatched up out of my pedestrian existence and thrust into the heart of a sensational adventure story!
“Now, to the details of the investigation,” the Chief continued, gesturing for me to sit down. “The main purpose of your visit is to ascertain that Miss Bartholomew is safe, but we would also like you to establish whether she knows anything at all about Hunter’s real line of work. She ought not to, of course, and you will have to exercise the utmost care and discretion in trying to find out.” The Chief chewed his upper lip for a few moments before continuing, “MacIntyre’s most recent enquiries have thrown up one or two questions with regard to Miss Bartholomew. Ten to one there’s nothing to be concerned about, but, naturally, it’s important that we make sure that she is all that we believe her to be. Do you understand me, Miss Trant?” The Chief fixed his shrewd brown eyes upon mine and I was reminded that beneath his jovial exterior lay unknowable depths.
“Do you mean that Miss Bartholomew is not to be trusted? That she might have been deceiving Hunter in some way?”
“As I say, it’s very unlikely, but I cannot deny that MacIntyre’s coming upon her photograph in the professor’s house has made us all uneasy. Let us hope that your visit to Little Garton will set our minds at rest.” The Chief looked away and moved decisively over to the door of the meeting room, as if he did not wish to discuss the matter any further. “I’ll fetch Liebowitz so that he can give you more detailed instructions,” he said, and went out.
I glanced around at the hundreds of architectural plans, diagrams, scrawled notes, formulae, newspaper clippings and maps that were pinned up on the walls of the meeting room in a disorderly fashion, one on top of the other, reflecting that there must be layers upon layers of them and that if they were unpeeled one would discover the history of the Bureau’s previous investigations beneath, like archaeological remains. After a minute or so, Liebowitz came in, looking rather put out, and without any preamble sat down and began to read aloud from a page of notes.
“One: tomorrow morning, you will travel by train to the village of Little Garton, near Ely. There you will present yourself at the rectory, where Miss Bartholomew lives with her parents.
“Two: you will carry out this mission in the persona of a distant maternal cousin of Mrs Bartholomew, Miss Abigail Wenlock. Miss Wenlock is twenty-seven years of age and has recently become engaged to a Mr Henry Johnson, the son of a prosperous clothing manufacturer. She is a resident of Bradford in the West Riding of Yorkshire and she and Mrs Bartholomew have never met. Though Miss Wenlock is relatively genteel, it would be advisable for you to shorten your vowels a little in order to play the part with greater conviction.
“Three: if Miss Bartholomew is not at home you are to make every effort to find out her whereabouts. You must do your best to divine whether any explanations that you are given in this regard are true or false.
“Four: if Miss Bartholomew is at home, as we hope and expect, then you must attempt to gain her trust by speaking to her about your engagement. You might invent a few confidences about your betrothed; I’m sure you know the kind of thing better than I. Try to provide every encouragement for her to reciprocate, and we must hope that she will let slip some clue as to where she believes Hunter is at present. It’s even possible that he might have written to her, in which case you must do your utmost to get a look at the letters. You must take care, however; under no circumstances should you arouse her suspicion by questioning her too eagerly, though you might attempt to lead the conversation in the right direction. And of course you must make no reference whatsoever to the real nature of Hunter’s work. You should also be aware that the rector disapproves of his daughter’s intimacy with Tom Hunter and may very well be ignorant of the fact that the two of them are engaged.
“Five: try to find out whether Miss Bartholomew is conscious of having been watched or followed. You might share the story of your eccentric fellow boarder – suitably adapted, of course.” He paused, raising one eyebrow, and I felt myself blush.
Having concluded without once meeting my eye, Liebowitz handed me the list of instructions, bidding me to commit it to memory and then to burn it. I followed him into the office and sat down at my desk to read it over. Naturally, I was delighted to be working “in the field”, but I must acknowledge that I was also terribly excited by the prospect of satisfying my curiosity about the beautiful Miss Bartholomew. The one thing that cast a dark shadow over the whole enterprise was the thought of informing Mother that I would be absent on business overnight, or possibly even for a few days; she had been so unpredictable lately that I had no idea how she would react.
I did not arrive home that evening until six and so was obliged to put off breaking the news until after dinner. Mother excused herself from the table as soon as the main course had been cleared away, and pretended not to notice when I followed her upstairs. She would have gone straight to her room had I not caught her by the arm and asked her to sit down for a moment. I proceeded to tell her the cover story with which I had been furnished by Liebowitz: that I was obliged to stay for a day or two at the house of an unmarried aunt of Mr Flowers on a business errand, about which I was deliberately vague. If she had been more herself she would undoubtedly have plied me with questions; as it was she merely sighed and remarked, “I’m going to bed. No, you needn’t trouble about coming in to help me – I shall be quite all right.”
I watched her limp towards her room, wondering whether I ought to go after her despite her insistence to the contrary. In the end, however, I went to get Father’s old leather travelling bag out of the cupboard and began to pack my things.
When I went in to say goodbye the next morning, Mother groaned and pulled the eiderdown up under her chin. It was almost ten o’clock, for my train did not depart until after eleven, and I tiptoed towards the bed, seized by an anxious foreboding that she might be ill after all. Without opening her eyes she snapped, “For heaven’s sake, Margaret, off you go! I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself – in fact it will be a relief to be alone for a few days without your fussing!”
“Goodbye, Mother,” I said, turning away. I closed the bedroom door gently behind me, then picked up my bag and left the apartment without a backward glance.
Eighteen
MacIntyre’s Story
MacIntyre had told me that he was the only one of Tom Hunter’s colleagues to have met Miss Bartholomew and he had done so but once, just a few days after Hunter had joined their ranks. Hunter seemed pleasant and good-humoured, but he was guarded about his private life and MacIntyre knew almost nothing about him. He had resolved that he would watch and wait until he had gathered sufficient information about this latest recruit to lay any uncertainties to rest.
Then, one crisp spring twilight when he was returning home after a stroll in Hyde Park, he had happened to walk past a little restaurant in a cobbled backstreet close to Lancaster Gate. He glanced inside and immediately noticed Hunter, deep in conversation with a very pretty young lady. He entered the restaurant at once, spoke quietly to the waiter in attendance and approached the table.
“Good evening, Hunter,” he said, giving the young woman his most dazzling smile.
Hunter looked up at him with an expression of horror, which was instantly transformed into one of polite welcome.
“Good gracious! Well, what a surprise!” he exclaimed, standing up and shaking MacIntyre’s hand.
“I’m terribly sorry to intrude upon you like this, old chap,” said MacIntyre ruefully. “I feel now I oughtn’t to have done it, only I happened to see you with this delightful young lady as I went past and I simply couldn’t resist.”
“Mr MacIntyre is one of my colleagues – at the office,” Hunter told his companion, looking exceedingly ill at ease.
“Tom dear, where are your manners?” she asked with a reproachful glance. “Mr MacIntyre, I must apologise on behalf of my fiancé. My name is Hetty Bartholomew.” She looked up at him with a charming smile and held out her hand. MacIntyre bent over and kissed it.
“Enchanted to meet you,” he said, before turning to address Hunter with a wink. “So this is the famous Miss Bartholomew, about whom we have heard so much. Do you know, my dear, he can scarcely stop talking about you.”
“Really?” remarked Miss Bartholomew, regarding her fiancé with an expression of fond amusement. “How very extraordinary of him!”
“Do you live in this part of London, Miss Bartholomew? It’s a very pleasant district.”
The couple exchanged glances. “No, as a matter of fact I live with my parents in Little Garton – a village near Ely. My father is rector of a country parish and things are terribly quiet there, but I am fortunate enough to be able to stay with friends in London whenever I wish.”
At this moment the waiter had approached, bearing a tray on which were set two dishes with silver covers, and MacIntyre had bade them good evening and left.
He had passed a few yards down the street and then ducked into the shadow of a gateway to wait, smoking one cigarette after another to stave off his hunger pangs. He thought about leaving several times, but it was a pleasant evening to be out, he had nothing else to do except to go home to his supper and then to bed, and anyway his curiosity was not yet fully satisfied. At last, after nearly an hour, Miss Bartholomew and Hunter had appeared, walking arm in arm, their heads bent close together in conversation. He proceeded to follow them, keeping at a cautious distance. After about five minutes, they turned into a broad, well-lit street. MacIntyre hung back as they ascended the steps of an elegant villa and were admitted by a tall man who, so far as he could tell from such a distant vantage point, was a butler. Hunter had not re-emerged, so MacIntyre had made his way home.
The following day, Hunter had placed a photograph in a silver frame on his desk. “My fiancée, Miss Bartholomew,” he had told his colleagues, but divulged nothing else. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, however, he took MacIntyre to one side.
“I’m dreadfully sorry about last night, old man,” he said in a low voice. “I hope you didn’t think I was being rude, but it was such a dashed awkward position to be in. You see, I’ve told Hetty that I work for the civil service and I was in agonies in case you might let something slip that would give me away. I hate having to lie to her as it is.”
“You needn’t have worried, but I’m sorry too – it might have been wiser if I had restrained my curiosity and left the two of you alone.”
“Well, it’s a blessing in disguise really,” said Hunter, lowering his eyes with a self-conscious smile. “I wasn’t quite sure before how private we were expected to be with one another; you know, about our home lives. But I thought it might be all right, now that you’ve met Hetty, if I brought in a photograph; I did so hate feeling as if I ought to pretend that she didn’t exist. Thank you, by the way, for digging me out of that particular hole – Hetty was pleased to be told that I don’t forget all about her when I’m here.”
“Don’t mention it, old chap; all part of the service,” said MacIntyre. “When’s the wedding?”
“Oh, not yet,” said Hunter, looking uncomfortable. “To tell the truth, there are a few difficulties – with Hetty’s father, chiefly – but I’d rather not talk about that, if you don’t mind.”
So when MacIntyre had found the photograph of Miss Bartholomew in Professor Robinson’s study he had consulted the Chief and Liebowitz, and it was agreed that their first course of action would be to send him to pay a morning call at the Bayswater villa.
In daylight, the house looked even more imposing than it had done at night. A pair of gorgeous decorated urns stood at the top of the flight of polished marble steps that led up to the front door, and the building was surmounted by a curved parapet, edged by an ornate balustrade which, MacIntyre told me later, reminded him of the splendours of the Italian Riviera.
A tall, Slavic-looking butler had opened the door and addressed MacIntyre in a foreign accent that he couldn’t place. “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”
“Good morning. My name is Mr Hearne. I am trying to find a distant relation of mine, who I understand is acquainted with the people who live in this house.” As MacIntyre was speaking, he looked past the butler and saw a grand, red-carpeted staircase. Just at the point where it curved out of sight stood a pair of feet in black Oxfords.
“What is your friend’s name?” demanded the butler, intercepting MacIntyre’s wandering gaze.
“Miss Hetty Bartholomew,” said MacIntyre, glancing up once again at the unmoving feet.
“I’m sorry, sir. I have never heard of anyone of that name.” The feet suddenly disappeared, but the butler’s face remained impassive. “Good day to you, sir,” he had said, and without giving MacIntyre a chance to say anything else he had closed the door.
Nineteen
Ialighted from the omnibus at King’s Cross brimming with nervous excitement. I had not been in a railway station for many years; indeed, the last occasion on which I could remember travelling by train had been just a few weeks before Father’s death, when my parents and I had gone to see Aunt Sophie in Wade. Young and heedless as I was then, I had none the less been aware that the conversation among the adults was strained, that my father was silent and uneasy, and that my mother appeared to be unaccountably angry with my aunt. Though it would have saddened me to know that I would never visit my aunt’s house again, I would not have found it altogether surprising.
I had forgotten what busy places railway stations can be; I had to push my way through the surging crowd to the ticket office, where I took my place in the queue behind a round-shouldered fellow in a tweed suit who had arrived just ahead of me. All around swirled the roar of conversation, the clamour of hurrying feet, the rumble of luggage trolleys and the mingled cries of flower sellers and newspaper vendors. Father was very fond of quoting Blake’s lines about the world that is contained in a grain of sand, and as I looked about me I reflected that one could say much the same thing of an English railway station.
Once I had bought my ticket, I consulted a timetable and hurried along to the platform for the Cambridge train, ignoring various encouragements to “buy my sweet posies”, “read the blood-curdling tale of the Derby butcher” and – this one accompanied by a plucking at my sleeve – “give us a shillin’, miss – I lost my leg in Africa and can’t work.” I got on the train and walked along until I found an empty compartment in a second class carriage, stowed my bag in the luggage rack and settled down with the latest number of the Strand Magazine, which I had been unable to resist purchasing from a stall near the ticket office.
The journey proved to be a slow one. The train kept grinding to a halt between stations, standing still for up to twenty minutes at a time. If I had not had the magazine to distract me, I should probably have been terribly frustrated by these erratic stops and starts, but as it was my thoughts flitted contentedly from Miss Caley’s thrilling exploits to vivid imaginings of the scenes that lay ahead. I pictured myself being ushered into a cosy parlour to discover the Bartholomew family sitting companionably in front of a blazing fire. Mrs Bartholomew would be knitting clothes for the poor, the rector would be nodding over a book of sermons and Hetty herself would be sewing lace onto a petticoat for her trousseau, her pretty cheeks tinged pink from the heat. They would be surprised to see me, no doubt, but very happy to welcome an unknown relation; at least such was my fond supposition. Eventually, towards the end of the journey, the train picked up speed, and I closed the Strand and sat gazing out at the flat countryside sailing past beneath an iron grey sky until, after about ten minutes of swift, uninterrupted progress, we began to slow down again on the approach to Cambridge.
There was a forty-minute interval before the next train departed, for we had arrived at Cambridge very late and I had missed my original connection. I was exceedingly hungry, and I purchased a tongue sandwich and a bottle of lemonade from the refreshment counter before making my way to the ladies’ waiting room to eat my luncheon. By the time I boarded the branch-line train that was to take me to Little Garton it had begun to rain, and the light was growing increasingly dreary.
The train puffed slowly on its way, stopping frequently at deserted-looking stations where no passengers seemed to get on or off. I gazed out at the vast expanses of black soil, broken up only by the occasional line of spindly trees, at the scudding rain-clouds and the dark forms of crows wheeling overhead, feeling suddenly lost and unsure of my ability to carry out the task with which I had been entrusted. I sought to distract myself by thinking about what MacIntyre would say if he were sitting beside me in the carriage, but every remark that came into my head sounded like a line of stilted dialogue from a romantic novel and I soon desisted, overcome with irritation at my own foolishness. Really, in a woman of my age, a woman with significant and pressing responsibilities, this kind of thing was not only ridiculous and undignified; it was a dereliction of duty!
