SIX

The World Interrupts

‘A cat!’ I cried, leaping to my feet. ‘Just a cat.’ But it had startled me, that scream! It sounded at first like a cry of the damned. A thrill of terror faded along my spine.

I had been listening so intently to my companion’s narrative that only when the cat screamed did I become aware that Sergeant Bundle was knocking on our window. I opened the door.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Bundle. ‘I stepped on the cat’s tail. Poor fellow was sleeping.’ Bundle’s face was piled with smiles as he hunkered into the room and sat down in the chair I offered. ‘Mr Coombes,’ said he, ‘you have put me on track!’

‘Excellent!’ cried Coombes, leaping from his chair and grabbing a spoon from the coffee table. He leant against the mantle and said, ‘Pray give me the details.’ He put the spoon into his mouth as if it were a pipe, and he waited with a languorous look in his eyes. ‘Take your time and omit nothing,’ he added.

Coombes’s whole performance was so dramatic, and so odd, that it struck me as affected and phoney. Yet it certainly had the intended effect of settling the sergeant down to take his details very seriously. ‘I have made an investigation into the question of what bicycles have been sold in the area in the past week. We have checked shops from here to Hereford and Brecon. A number of bicycles have been sold, but only two with tire treads that match the tracks in your photograph, Mr Coombes. One of those two was sold in Hereford to a young lad named Charles Montgomery. His father, also named Charles Montgomery, used a Visa card to pay for the bicycle. The bicycle is presently stored in their garage in Hereford. The other bicycle was sold in the same shop, on Widmarsh Street. I examined the man who sold the bicycle in some detail, Mr Coombes. He said the purchaser had thick sandy hair and bushy eyebrows, and he was dressed in blue jeans, a white shirt, a green suede jacket. He seemed to be about fifty but the sales clerk was strangely uncertain about this, and said he might have been younger. This customer bought the bike, paid cash, gave no indication of where he was from or where he was going. The salesman thought the customer was English and very upper class. No foreign accent at all.’

‘Excellent work, sergeant,’ said Coombes. ‘And what of the victim’s computer?’

‘You were right again. The victim received a number of emails from someone who said she was Lydia Languish and who claimed to live here in Hay-on-Wye. We have not gone through all the emails yet, for there are hundreds, if not thousands. But it appears that the girl lured him here, just as you suggested. Unfortunately, we have not been able to connect the email address of Lydia Languish with the name of a real person. Our experts say that we may never accomplish this, although they are still working on the problem.’

‘You will never find her,’ came the reply, ‘for Lydia Languish is a character in a play by Sheridan, called The Rivals, first performed in 1775.’

‘Is she now?’ said Bundle, nodding wisely. He shrugged with his big face. ‘Also, sir, I found out the meaning of the Pashto words that were impressed into the dust jacket of the book. I passed them on to our mutual contact at Scotland Yard – you know who I mean—’

‘Yes, yes of course . . .’

‘And with the many resources of Scotland Yard, he called me back within the hour with the translation. The words mean, “God is great but we must do our own work”.’

‘We might postulate,’ said Coombes, ‘that our suspect is an actor fluent in English and also in Pashto.’

‘That ought to narrow the field,’ suggested Bundle.

‘Perhaps,’ said Coombes. ‘But there are a great many people in Britain who to some degree or other fit that description. They may be professional actors, amateur actors . . .’ He shrugged. ‘What else have you discovered, sergeant? I can tell by your manner that you are saving the worst news till last.’

‘Well, sir, I’m afraid your theory is refuted. You imagined that revenge might be a motive for this crime, am I right?’ said Bundle. ‘And this was suggested to you by the book about Abu Ghraib.’

‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ said my friend.

‘The trouble is, sir,’ said Bundle, ‘Mr Hawes served in Afghanistan only. He never was anywhere near Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq.’

I could see that this information disappointed Coombes. He nodded slowly, frowning slightly. Silence fell over both men. They were statues.

To fill the void I volunteered, ‘What of Mr Jenkins? Has he been seen recently?’

‘A very good point,’ said Bundle. ‘We cannot be perfectly sure that Mr Jenkins was in Scotland as he said he was.’

‘Naturally,’ I said, ‘if he lured the American and murdered him, he would want to make it seem he was elsewhere.’

‘But if it was Jenkins, how do we explain the book and the phrase in Pashto?’ asked Bundle. He looked first at Coombes, then at me.

Coombes said nothing.

‘Perhaps the book was only a prop,’ I suggested. ‘A deception. Elaborate, yes. But plays are elaborate. You said he was a theatrical manager.’

Bundle and I looked at each other hopefully. Coombes seemed uninterested.

‘And one thing more,’ said Bundle, ‘the Heigh-ho on the mirror. I hardly know what to make of it . . . do you, Mr Coombes?’

Coombes suddenly snapped out of his reverie. He blinked, looked at Bundle. ‘It, yes . . . it comes from the play. Lydia Languish says it repeatedly. You may recall, Bundle, that thirty years ago there was a very famous murder case in which the German word Rache was scrawled on a wall, in blood, by someone who hoped to throw investigators off the track . . . I’m sorry, not thirty . . . no, you wouldn’t . . .’ – he passed his hand over his forehead – ‘. . . more like a hundred and . . .’ He frowned, seemed to drift away into another of his moods. Then he said, ‘A meaningless phrase meant to confuse us.’

Sergeant Bundle took little notice. ‘It sounds like mockery to me, sir – a phrase meant to mock the police.’ He slapped his hand on the chair arm and got up.

Again Coombes was floating into some other realm, staring at the ceiling and drifting into outer space.

Bundle said his goodbyes and departed.

Suddenly the atmosphere in the room had become oppressive. I left my companion to his ruminations and walked to the top of the road and bought a newspaper. When I returned I saw that my moody companion had brought out his antique leather valise, the one with the Hotel Beau-Rivage sticker on the side, a valise of the sort people carried on board steamships in the days of the Titanic and Lusitania. It might have been on display at the Victoria and Albert. ‘So this is your suitcase, is it?’ I said. ‘Your suitcase from 1914?’

‘Exactly so,’ he said. ‘And it contains a positive treasure for dismal times like these.’ He opened the valise and brought out a small morocco case a bit bigger than an eyeglass case. He opened the little case and withdrew a syringe. He gave a sigh as he sat down in his usual chair and rolled up his sleeve. I thought he might be ill, a diabetic perhaps. He seemed about to inject himself. I asked, as nonchalantly as I could, ‘What are you doing?’

‘The case has gone stale, Wilson,’ he said. ‘It is evident that more information is needed before it can be solved. And I have learnt by long and often bitter experience that the needed information may never arrive. A telegram, a telephone call, an unexpected visitor may come at any instant and set me back on a track that I can follow. Meanwhile, I am powerless. I warned you that these moods come upon me at certain periods. Inactivity is death to me. If I have practical problems to tackle, theories to concoct, puzzles to untangle, I can be happy. At those times my mind soars like a hawk, seeking the smallest bit of motion to dive upon and feed my insatiable curiosity in hopes of solving the problem. But when information has been utterly exhausted, when the trail has gone stale, when I have no challenge, no mystery, no paradox, no danger, no dilemma, not even any physical adventure, my brain and all the earth become a desert of boredom and commonplace, and then my oasis – which I need in order to survive – is a seven per cent solution of cocaine.’

‘Come now, come now!’ I said. I laughed heartily, albeit a bit tentatively. ‘I can’t believe what you are saying.’

‘Old habits die hard,’ he said.

‘If it is really cocaine in your syringe,’ I said, feigning indifference, ‘I suppose you should know that nowadays using cocaine is illegal.’

‘Quite legal for me, though,’ he said. ‘I have a special dispensation from Scotland Yard.’

‘Hah!’ I cried. ‘That is difficult to believe, my friend.’

‘It is perfectly true, my dear Wilson. My cocaine supply was prescribed by a doctor and certified by legal hocus-pocus at the highest levels of Scotland Yard. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to a lovely oasis, for it beckons me so enticingly that . . .’

I touched his shoulder. ‘I hate to sound like a child, my friend, but please consider a moment – you have promised me a story. You have teased me by telling only half the story. That is not kind. That is not – if I may say so – honourable.’

He paused, staring at the tip of the needle as a lover stares trembling at the one he desires. I could see how much he craved it, how his promise was struggling with his private desire.

I urged him gently. ‘Why not give both of us a little pleasure, you and me, by telling the rest of the story? You will enjoy it, I will enjoy it. A vicarious adventure for both of us. While you talk we’ll have lunch at the Old Black Lion. I’ll buy. Afterwards you can finish your tale as we take a walk up the long path to Hay Bluff. How does that sound, my friend! Lunch, climbing a bluff, and a tale of your adventures during The Great War – surely that should be nearly as good as a shot of cocaine!’

Slowly he set down the needle. He rolled down his sleeve. ‘You should have been a diplomat,’ he said. His grey-blue eyes were scintillant, lips pressed in half a smile. ‘So you believe my strange tale, Wilson?’

‘Whether I believe it I must yet discover. But you have told it in a most convincing manner. That cannot be denied. The suitcase –’ I nodded towards it. ‘Is it of 1914 vintage?’

‘Much older than that, Wilson. I bought it in the ’80s or ’90s, and it became a good friend in my travels. It is a miracle that this old friend of mine made it through with me to the twenty-first century. By sheer good fortune my hand was gripping it in my last moments of 1914, and I was still clutching it when they found me in 2004. As a result, they had to cut the block of ice in which I was encased so that the block contained not only me but my valise. This slowed them down and made it difficult to transport me to London before I melted. So they told me.’

I laughed out loud. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, my friend,’ I said. ‘My laughter doesn’t mean disbelief . . . not exactly, anyhow.’

‘Shall we go?’ asked Coombes. ‘Let us fortify ourselves at the Black Lion, then head up to Hay Bluff.’

We closed the door of Cambrai Cottage and walked towards the Black Lion. As the clock tower in the village centre struck one, Cedric Coombes resumed his tale.