An unlikely agent, p.39
An Unlikely Agent, page 39
A thick white mist hung in the air and I could see no more than a few feet in front of me. I made my way cautiously to a spot behind a large dripping elm which was out of sight of the hotel, though the precaution was scarcely necessary, for there was no possibility of my being detected through the heavy curtain of fog. I unfolded the telegram first. It was encoded, but the translation, written below in MacIntyre’s sprawling hand, read: Hunter and Arrowsmith are one. Proceed with caution. HS.
I stared at the words in perplexity, scarcely able to take in their meaning. Then the realisation knocked the breath out of me, like a blow to the stomach. Hunter had not been impersonating Tomas Arrowsmith after all; Arrowsmith had disguised himself as a man named Tom Hunter. I had helped to reveal the secret that my father had fought so hard to protect to the son of the very man whose threats had driven him to his death!
Overwhelmed by a sickening sense of shame, I bowed my head and covered my face with my outspread hand. I had admired Hunter’s cleverness in disguising himself as Tomas Arrowsmith, yet how much more cunning it was of Arrowsmith to disguise himself as a man disguised as himself!
I looked up, recalling Arrowsmith’s peculiar hesitation when I had asked whether I should send a message to MacIntyre. Had he written down false co-ordinates that would send MacIntyre on a wild goose chase along the coast? Or, much worse, remembering how instrumental Bureau 8 – and MacIntyre in particular – had been in bringing his father to justice, he might have scented an opportunity for revenge. Even now, he might be lying in wait for him on some deserted beach, concealed from view by the heavy sea mist.
With trembling hands, I tore open the envelope containing MacIntyre’s letter. I was obliged to hold it close to my face in order to read it, for the light was poor, and by the time I had finished the paper was spotted with tears. Struggling to bear up beneath an almost intolerable burden of remorse, I stole inside to fetch my revolver from its hiding place.
Forty-One
My dear Margaret,
I hope that you will not object to my addressing you in these terms – it is how I think of you, which I do very often, and it would seem strange now to call you anything else.
I regret deeply that thus far I have not found an opportunity to communicate fully the great regard and affection – no, dash it all, the love – that I have come to feel for you. Though I am more timid in this than in other things, I am not so much of a coward that I would deliberately have chosen to lay my heart bare in writing rather than face to face, whatever trepidation I might have suffered at the prospect. I am sorry to say, however, that the most recent turn of events has left me with no alternative.
You must not blame yourself for trusting Hunter; we have all been blind to the truth. And perhaps, after all, things have turned out for the best; it will be much easier to apprehend him on a deserted beach than in the midst of his cronies in the hotel.
There is a great deal more that I long to say to you, but alas I dare not linger to write it. You must remain at the hotel, my dear; do not try to follow me. Hampson-Smythe ought to be back within the day and I have left him instructions to escort you safely to London, if that should become necessary.
I have been faced with some impossible decisions during these past weeks, and though I have endeavoured to follow a course of the utmost integrity there are a number of important facts that I have been obliged to keep to myself. If for any reason we do not see one another again, I must beg you to believe that, whatever you may hear to the contrary, I have acted for the best, and to trust in the sincerity of my feelings for you.
Do not forget me, dearest Margaret.
M.
Forty-Two
MacIntyre’s Story
The white fog closed in on all sides, cocooning MacIntyre so that he could hear nothing save for the plashing of the oars and the steady rhythm of his own breathing. The masts of fishing boats at anchor emerged only when he was within a few feet of them and he was obliged to maintain constant vigilance in order to avoid a collision. He laid the oars down at frequent intervals to check the reading on his compass, burnishing it with his sleeve to wipe away the condensation; he would have to take care to land in the right spot or he would waste valuable time. About halfway across the estuary he was gripped by the horrifying fancy that he was not moving at all, but had drowned and been consigned to Purgatory, and would remain suspended in this nothingness for aeons. At last, after what seemed an age, the prow of the boat grated against shingle and, buoyed up by an eager desire to set his feet once again upon dry land, he leapt out to haul it onto the beach.
In the course of weeks of exploration, he had discovered a route from this side of the estuary to the sea, which would be less hazardous than the coastal path and was also at least a mile shorter. He clambered over a stile and started to ascend along a track slick with mud and fallen leaves. Dripping holly branches and the skeletal boughs of oak and beech arched over his head; above them the sky hung white and heavy.
At the top of a rise, the path opened out and once again he found himself swallowed up in a swirling wall of fog. A dark shape ambled past a few feet away; he felt a tremor of alarm and his hand leapt to the handle of his revolver. Then he heard a gentle lowing and relaxed his grip with a wry smile; he must take care that his nerves didn’t get the better of him! He took out his watch, noting that by now the tide would have dropped sufficiently to allow access to the cave on Starehole Head where the ledger had been hidden and reflecting that, most probably, Arrowsmith would already be there. He climbed a gate and squelched across the saturated turf in the direction of the sea and then crossed the narrow road leading to the Ham Stone hotel, which loomed up on his left. For a brief moment he pictured Margaret sleeping inside with her cheek pillowed on her hand, like a girl in a painting that he remembered seeing in a Paris gallery. The thought filled him with renewed determination and he strode past the coastguards’ cottages, past Garo Rock with its thatched lookout hut where he and Margaret had last seen one another, and struck out onto the perilous cliff path.
He knew that the sea was on his right; he could hear the crashing of waves on the shore and pictured the jets of foam shooting up above dark crags of rock, which emerged from the water like the humps of sea monsters. Just a few feet away there was a sheer drop; one false step and he would plunge over the brink. A little way ahead, he could just make out the shadowy forms of some sheep, browsing among the gorse and stones on the cliff side, and as he picked his way along the path he found himself wishing fervently that he were as sure-footed as they. With excruciating slowness, he passed one little bay and then a second and arrived at a third, which was sheltered by a jutting finger of headland. He scrambled down over slippery rocks, beginning to regret the weight of the canvas bag full of digging equipment that he carried slung across his chest.
At last his feet slapped down onto wet sand and he consulted his compass. The mist clung to him, wrapping him in the smell of rotted seaweed and sharp salt; he could feel it working its way into his lungs. He wound his muffler more snugly about his throat and then struck out, moving west. He had scarcely taken a dozen strides, however, when a distant whistle drifted towards him through the still, foggy air. He stopped, turning his head to and fro with the exaggerated deliberation of a pantomime, for he was bent on making it clear to anyone who might be watching that he had heard the signal. Then he waited, motionless, really listening now for something more. But there was nothing, and when a gull called from high above, bringing him back once again to an awareness of the seconds ticking past, he took a careful step, peered for a moment into the vaporous whiteness, and then strode on, singing under his breath, “Oh Lilly, sweet Lilly, Dear Lilly Dale . . .”
As he ducked into the dark entrance at the foot of the cliff, he gave no indication that he was aware of the figure crouching behind a rock a few feet away. He struck a match and lit the small oil lamp that he had extracted from the leather satchel. Its wavering light revealed narrow walls glinting with damp, stretching into the darkness of the hillside. The floor of the cave was rough and uneven and scattered with jagged fragments of flint, its ceiling so low that he was forced to bend almost double in order to progress any further. On and on he went, his feet squelching with every step. The heavy contents of the leather satchel had begun to exert an unpleasant strain across the back of his neck, yet he maintained a steady stride, mouthing the words of the refrain that still haunted him: “Oh Lilly, sweet Lilly, Dear Lilly Dale . . .”
He trudged onwards, into the darkness, haloed by the lamplight that sheened the dripping walls. The wet crunching of his footsteps faded into a gentle splashing and he found himself wading through a shallow ooze of water running from deep within the cave. The passageway began to widen, a draught blew cold on his face and neck and the flame of the lantern wavered precariously. Cursing silently, he reached to shield its open crown with his hand, allowing the final verse of the song to die on his lips.
He saw that he had come to the edge of a cavernous chamber and put down the satchel, then straightened up and shrugged his shoulders to ward off the stiffness that had begun to creep along his spine. He paused for a moment to listen, but could hear nothing save for the sound of his own echoing breaths. At length he spoke with calm deliberation.
“Arrowsmith?”
The syllables resounded about the shadowy space, dying away into a brooding silence. Unperturbed, MacIntyre called out once again, “You won’t find the ledger – it’s already been removed.” There was another pause. “Arrowsmith, old chap, there’s absolutely no point in hiding. I’m afraid that I really have got you cornered. There’s no escaping it – the only way out of this hole is by means of the tunnel, which I presently occupy.”
Arrowsmith, if he was there, did not speak, but there was a loud shiver of stones slipping into water, as if someone had trodden awkwardly and lost his footing.
“It would be far better if you would give yourself up immediately, my dear fellow. Make a peaceful surrender – I shan’t hurt you.” MacIntyre reached into his breast pocket for his cigarettes.
Whether the man lurking in the darkness had misinterpreted the gesture, or whether all along he had been poised to commit an act of violence against his pursuer, was uncertain. Either way, as MacIntyre’s fingers began to close on the battered cigarette case, a gunshot rang out and he crumpled to the floor. A tall silhouette launched itself out of the shadows, leapt across MacIntyre’s prostrate body and disappeared at breakneck speed into the tunnel.
With a clamour of pounding footsteps, Arrowsmith hurtled headlong through the darkness, his lungs burning, the blood thumping through his veins. He burst out of the cave mouth and came crashing into the steely embrace of a pair of gigantic arms. A brawny hand seized him by the collar, his head jerked back and he saw a pair of cold grey eyes staring down at him.
The eyes watched, unblinking, as a blade was pushed into his throat; saw the way that his pupils flared in shock before his eyes filmed over. As the knife was pulled out, rasping unpleasantly against the windpipe, blood gushed into his mouth and he fell forward, choking and gurgling, spattering the sand.
The assassin squatted down, wiped his knife clean on Arrowsmith’s jacket and then rose back up, returning it to his belt. A muffled cry, like a gull’s shriek, reached him through the dense mass of fog and he sighed, stood perfectly still and closed his eyes, waiting.
Forty-Three
I ran through the mist on that Devon beach to find Mr Smith with his arms folded and Hunter lying dead at his feet. To be confronted with this monstrous tableau when my emotions were already in such a turbulent state was too much to bear. I started to scream and Mr Smith cocked his head to one side a little, as though he considered my reaction to be in some way unexpected. At the sight of his implacable countenance I fell silent, feeling somewhat foolish and also humiliated, as if I had succumbed to a fit of schoolgirl hysterics. He lowered his eyes towards Hunter’s blood-drenched body and informed me in a weary, almost reluctant tone that he was a government agent. The terms of his explanation, though brief, left no room for doubt, and when he proposed that we search for MacIntyre I followed him unhesitantingly into a fissure in the cliff face.
The roof of the cave was so low that in some places Mr Smith was forced to shuffle along on his knees. Even in the more spacious stretches he was obliged to double over and lurched along in front of me clutching his hat in one hand, without speaking or looking back. His lantern made a bobbing circle of light which cast faint gleams over the dripping walls, though most of its radiance was shielded from me by his tremendous bulk. I could scarcely see what was directly in front of me and stumbled several times on the stony ground. It grew wetter and wetter underfoot and at length we were squelching ankle deep through ice-cold water. My nerves were screwed up to an unbearable pitch at the prospect of finding MacIntyre lying wounded, or worse, and the time it took for us to reach the point where the narrow passage opened out into an echoing cavern seemed interminable. Mr Smith straightened up, rubbing his neck with his meaty fist, and contracted his jutting forehead into a frown.
“Well, here’s a nice little mystery,” he remarked. “There’s no way out, save for that tunnel – your friend MacIntyre seems to have vanished into thin air.”
We searched high and low, peering into crevices and behind rocks, though in my heart I knew already that we would not find him. At last Smith cried out, “Enough!” Then he turned and began to make his way back down the tunnel, the word echoing behind him. I stood still, gazing into the enshrouding darkness that had swallowed MacIntyre, and called his name. It was taken up and repeated by a host of ghostly voices as I turned and stumbled towards the distant trace of lamplight, tears coursing down my cheeks.
The hours that followed passed in a blur of numbness, exhaustion and disbelief. Mr Smith escorted me back to the hotel and then he disappeared. The place was in a state of upheaval; there were policemen swarming everywhere and white-faced Scorpions were being carted off in prison vans. I saw the servants gathered together in an excited little cluster off to one side and hastened away in the opposite direction, making a loop round the back of the hotel until I came upon the gigantic elm beneath which, in another life, I had read MacIntyre’s letter. I sank down into a cleft among its roots, heedless of the mud and the cold sodden grass, thrust my forehead against its slimy bark and wept as I had never wept before.
It was there that Hampson-Smythe found me – limp, emptied out by tears and shivering. He put his coat round my shoulders, crouched down beside me and coaxed me with tremendous patience until at last I allowed him to help me up. I vaguely recall going upstairs to gather my things; after that followed a jumbled passage of time which ended when I awoke, with my head on Hampson-Smythe’s shoulder, to find that we were just pulling into Paddington station.
*
It was late in the evening by the time we arrived at HQ. Hampson-Smythe had tried to persuade me to go back to the boarding house in a cab, but I had resisted him so stubbornly that at last he had been obliged to give in. The shop was dark and the front door was locked, but there was a light burning in the office, for Hampson-Smythe had telegraphed ahead to inform the Chief of our imminent return. He rang the bell and the familiar jangling echoed back to us, like something once heard in a dream.
It was a cold, clear night and the small patch of sky that was visible above the alleyway was strewn with stars. Looking up at it, I was swept back to the moment when MacIntyre and I had stood side by side in the grounds of the Merrivale Sanatorium, gazing at the night sky. I felt a painful tugging at my heart and my eyes filled with tears. No doubt I should have begun weeping in earnest had there not just then come a rattling of bolts from the other side of the shop door. It edged ajar and then flew wide open to reveal the Chief. He flung his arms around me and shook Hampson-Smythe vigorously by the hand several times, before ushering us both inside.
The conversation took place at the deal table in the meeting room over tea and a slightly stale Madeira cake.
“There’s been no one else here to help me eat it,” the Chief said with an apologetic grimace.
“What about Liebowitz?” asked Hampson-Smythe.
“He hasn’t been in the office for several days and I don’t suppose he’ll be back – but we’ll come to that shortly. First you must tell me everything that has been happening in Seacombe.”
Hampson-Smythe and I exchanged glances. He gave a sympathetic nod, as if he understood that I did not feel like talking, and then embarked on a rather shame-faced account of the deception that he and MacIntyre had concocted in order to be able to work together in secret. He concluded by begging the Chief’s pardon for not having had more faith in him, his fair skin turning puce with embarrassment. The Chief, however, seemed determined not to bear any grudges.
“There there, my boy – let’s say no more about it,” he declared. “You did what you thought was for the best. And to be perfectly truthful I had my doubts about you too – nothing personal, of course, just the ghastly situation we found ourselves in – and if you’re happy to let bygones be bygones, then so am I.”
In the end, Hampson-Smythe was not called upon to say very much about events in Seacombe, for it turned out that the Chief had endured a lengthy telephone conversation with head office on the subject earlier that afternoon. Indeed, he appeared to have a more complete overview of everything that had gone on than we had and eventually ended up explaining some of the details to us.
He asked a few questions about the part that MacIntyre had played in the investigation, most of which we were unable to answer for, as Hampson-Smythe explained, “Dear old MacIntyre likes to keep his cards close to his chest.” I disclosed that MacIntyre had written me a letter just before going out after Arrowsmith – a letter that, unbeknownst to my companions, was still folded up tightly in the top of my chemise, next to my heart – and that in it he had intimated that there was a strong chance that he would not be coming back. At this the two men looked grave.
