Day followed day uneventfully in the maisonette tucked away in the Bloomsbury slum. Murchison was sent out daily for the constitutional that health demanded, and always pursued the same route at the same time, so that Astley could find him readily if he wanted him; but nothing happened.
But if nothing were happening in the outer world, there was plenty going on in the subjective realm of the spirit, which is the happy hunting-ground of those who traffic in strange arts. Murchison read as bidden the tales of the childhood of man, when the clouds of glory were still trailing about him and every common bush afire with God; and, as he read, he seemed to drift further and further away into the land of faery, so that it became as real to him as the wake-world, and it was only by an effort he could recall his attention to mundane affairs. Brangwyn had bidden him spend half an hour twice a day in meditation, going over the myths in day-dream and imagining himself in the Egyptian temples or on the slopes of Mount Olympus. But Murchison soon found that the myths formed a continual running background to his daily life, as if he were all the time standing with his back to a kinematograph screen.
Brangwyn took a great interest in these day-dreams, and even more so in the stories that wove themselves into Murchison's dreams at night; time and again he dreamt of the exploits of the heroes, himself sharing in their adventures. Brangwyn, patiently waiting for his pupil to begin to dream of the gods themselves, began to wonder if Murchison's subconscious mind contained any ideas unconnected with war and hunting, and how long it would take his inferiority complex to exhaust its interest in the exploits of heroes. But the interest was so persistent, appearing morning after morning in the dreams related by Murchison as they ate their belated breakfast over the fire in the lounge, safe from the prying ears of Monks, that Brangwyn recognized that something more than doughty deeds must be interesting Murchison. He noticed a curious recurrent emotional tone that appeared in dream after dream in some form or other. Always Murchison seemed to consider himself invulnerable save to attack from the rear; and through all the dreams ran a curious undercurrent of disgruntlement and sulkiness. Brangwyn began to wonder whether there were a smouldering resentment directed against himself, and whether he would in the end be treated by Murchison as he had been treated by Monks, but found it difficult to believe this in face of the attitude of father and son into which they had gradually slipped, almost without realizing it.
He pondered deeply upon the symbolism presented night after night by the dramatizing subconsciousness of his pseudo-secretary. What was this Achilles-heel that he feared? And with the question came the clue. Achilles had a vulnerable heel, and Achilles also suffered from sulks. Deprived of his beloved Briseis, he sulked in his tent and refused to fight until the death of his friend called him to action and revenge, and his supreme heroism led to the restoration of his lost mistress.
Brangwyn looked across the table at the man opposite him, who, blissfully unconscious of what was passing in his employer's mind, was engaged in consuming a large plate of porridge.
(‘So you are sulking in your tent, are you?’ thought Brangwyn to himself, ‘and you will not fight until Briseis is restored to you? In other words, you will not magnetize Ursula because she does not respond to you; and she won't respond to you because you do not magnetize her. How the devil is one to break the vicious circle?’)
Murchison, having disposed of his usual ample breakfast, went out to walk it off. As he approached the gate that lay a third of the way round the circuit of the park, he saw a bulky figure hanging about, and guessed that Astley was getting tired of waiting, and had come to inquire about the fulfilment of his order.
The greeting was affable to brotherliness on both sides, and, without need for word spoken, they headed for the pub.
‘My turn this time,’ said Murchison. ‘Couple of double whiskies, please, miss.’
They repaired to their corner table with the drinks, and by some curious sleight of hand the full and the empty whisky glasses changed places, and when they were replenished, changed places again. In fact, Astley's glass was like the Magic Cauldron, which, however much was taken from it, was never empty. Murchison did some hasty mental arithmetic, computing how much money he had on him, for it would not be a cheap matter to make as seasoned a toper as Astley tight.
‘No luck at all. No flies on Brangwyn.’
‘What can one do with a fellow who neither drinks nor womanises?’ grumbled Astley, who seemed to feel that Brangwyn was taking an unfair advantage in leading a godly, righteous and sober life.
‘What indeed?’ said Murchison, edging Astley's glass away by inches and sliding his own forward with almost unperceptible movements. Astley absent-mindedly took up the full glass that stood so invitingly to his hand, and tossed down its contents. Murchison nodded to the barmaid, and the long tumblers were once more replenished.
‘What do you think of the girl?’ inquired Astley conversationally. ‘Not much,’ said Murchison. ‘Long, narrow strip of swank. Not my style.’
Astley chuckled. ‘Not my style, either. But there's no accounting for tastes. Where's she got to, by the way? When did she leave your place?’
‘She left about ten days ago. I've no idea where she is. I shoved her on the irish boat-train at Euston the time I tried to see her off and she didn't go.’
Astley winked. ‘She's not in Ireland. Don't you worry. The Irish boat-train stops at Llandudno junction and picks up the mails from the north. Your little friend drops off there and goes up to a shack Brangwyn has in the mountains.’
‘I don't care if she drops off where it doesn't stop,’ said Murchison, ‘so long as she doesn't hang around the flat.’
Astley looked at him sharply. ‘You don't seem to fancy her much,’ he commented.
‘I don't mind her,’ said Murchison, ‘but it's a nuisance having her hanging about the flat.’
‘Bit of a misogynist, aren't you?’ said Astley, continuing to eye him.
‘No, I'm not. A girl's all right if you can have a bit of fun with her, but when there's nothing doing and she wants a lot of waiting on and fussing after, well, I prefer her room to her company, that's all.’
‘Do you know what I think?’ said Astley. ‘I think that they've got designs on you, Brangwyn and that Morgan le Fay sister of his.’
‘What d'you mean?’ said Murchison sharply, startled by Astley's shrewdness.
‘Brangwyn dabbles in some pretty queer quarters of some pretty queer arts, and, as for that sister of his, she's a first-class vampire. Literally, I mean, not just metaphorically. They mean to feed her on you, I think, and as she bucks up, you'll go downhill.’
‘You needn't worry about that. She's got no use for me, cooked or raw.’
‘And have you got no use for her?’ asked Astley, continuing to watch Murchison with a scrutiny under which he felt his fair skin beginning to burn uncomfortably.
‘No, sir, no use at all, not on your life. I don't need any chaperoning in that quarter.’
‘I shouldn't be too sure of that, if I were you. If I wanted to work the Mass of the Bull with Ursula Brangwyn, you're the exact type I'd choose, and I'll bet Brangwyn spotted it.’
‘What d'you mean?’ said Murchison, trying to look curious, but not too curious, and feeling a growing sense of uneasiness.
‘Know what the Mass of the Bull is, that they used to celebrate in Crete? The origin of the Minotaur legend?’
‘No, ‘fraid I don't.’
Astley told him, and he did not mince his words. Murchison opened his mouth indignantly to repudiate Astley's conception, and then shut it again hastily. He must play his part of ignorance and unscrupulousness.
‘Talk about lounge-lizards!’ he said, ‘well, I'm blowed! All the same,’ he added, ‘I honestly think you're wrong. I dare say I may be there to see that nobody meddles with Miss Brangwyn, or any of Brangwyn's other valuables; but I am pretty certain that nothing would induce the girl to have any truck with me. Anything she fancied would have to come out of the top drawer, and no mistake. To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Astley, she treats me as if I were a waiter.’
Astley's ear was quick to catch the note of resentment that had crept into Murchison's voice unawares.
‘If I were in your shoes, my lad, I'd soon disillusion her. But you can say what you like, I bet I've spotted Brangwyn's game. They tried it on once before, you know, with young Fouldes. But he couldn't hold her. Too much of a Nancy-boy. Now you're just the right type.’
‘I should have thought that Fouldes was just her fighting weight.’
‘No. That's where you're wrong. A very vital woman, if she has ideals, invariably goes in for ultra-refinement; if she hasn't got ideals, she goes on the variety stage and makes a big hit with the gallery. If you take a woman like the Brangwyn girl at her face value, and treat her to ideals and refinement, you miss the mark. What she wants is sheiking. That's what Brangwyn knows. He's cute. And he's picked you out for the job. Look at your type. People are always attracted by opposites. There's Ursula Brangwyn, dark as midnight; touch of the Kelt. They're a Shropshire family, I believe. Then there's you, a blond beast, as we used to say during the War. Couldn't be a more perfect pair. You're for it all right, Murchison. Believe one who knows. Sure the girl doesn't attract you? She ought to, by all the rules of the game.’
Murchison felt himself growing the colour of a beet. ‘I can't stand the damned girl!’ he snarled.
Astley guffawed shamelessly. ‘And are you quite sure you don't attract the girl?’
‘Absolutely sure. Haven't I told you she treats me like a waiter?’
Astley's ha-ha's brought the barmaid from the public bar in hopes of sharing the joke.
‘What more do you want? This isn't leap year! The Ursula Brangwyn who ought to be on the variety stage is taking it out of the Ursula Brangwyn who ought to be in a stained-glass window, and she's passing the kick on to you.’
‘I dunno what you mean,’ said Murchison, outwardly sulky and insulted, but inwardly experiencing a strange warmth and glow. ‘I've got other fish to fry,’ he added hastily, hoping they would prove to be red herrings.
That's a pity,’ said Astley, looking genuinely disappointed. ‘I should have liked to have seen that experiment come off, even if I didn't have a hand in it. Look here, I'm going to let you into the know. I've taken a fancy to you.’
(‘And so you ought,’ thought Murchison, ‘after the number of my double whiskies you've put away!’)
‘It was all fixed up for Ursula and Fouldes to work the Mass of the Bull, when old Brangwyn poked a stick into the works and dished everything. Now, I've been helping Fouldes, teaching him a thing or two, and I think we'll be able to land that girl in the near future. Now, look here, you'd be a much better partner for her in the Mass than Fouldes; if I give Fouldes the push will you take it on? You'll have an exceedingly interesting experience, and you'll land a girl with money.’
‘I dunno about that. I've other fish to fry. It'll have to be made worth my while.’
‘I can make it worth your while all right,’ said Astley.
(‘Oh, can you,’ thought Murchison. ‘Then why do you live in a slum?) What do you propose to do?’ he asked aloud.
‘Drop in on the girl unexpectedly when she's alone, and use force if necessary. She'll be amenable enough when once she's broken in.’
‘How'll you manage to get her alone? Her brother looks after her like a cat at a mousehole.’
Astley winked. ‘She's a young woman who's fond of being alone. Goes for long walks, and all that. As a matter of fact’ - he dropped his voice to a whisper - ‘Fouldes is up in Wales now, watching his chance. He'll do your dirty work for you, and as soon as he brings her back to my house I'll give him the push and send for you. I'll make it worth your while, you needn't worry about that. And, anyway, you'll have a bit of fun.’
(‘I'll have a bit of fun, all right, you spotted black swine!’ thought Murchison, ‘and I know who I'll have it with, too!’}
‘It might be rather a lark,’ he said aloud. ‘But I don't want the girl for keeps. I've got other fish to fry, as I told you.’ He rose.
‘Must you be going?’ said Astley, looking longingly at his empty glass.’
‘Fraid so. Must do a bit of work sometimes.’
Brangwyn, glancing up from his desk, found his secretary standing over him, looking like a storm-god, and saw that something had struck him on the raw and roused him from his Achilles-sulks. In a few curt words Murchison told his news. Brangwyn, staring at him, saw he was simmering like a kettle coming to the boil.
‘This is an ugly business,’ said Brangwyn.
‘Ugly, do you call it?’ cried Murchison, and supplied an amended version that came straight from the trenches.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ he demanded at length, when he had recovered his breath, and Brangwyn had stopped blinking.
‘The first thing I am going to do,’ said Brangwyn quietly, looking at his enraged lieutenant, ‘is to sit down and think it out. This is a problem that requires strategy, not force, and we have got to lay out our plan of campaign very carefully, because Ursula is not to be relied on. For two twos she would go over to the enemy.’
‘What do you mean? Go to Fouldes? She's scared to death of him. She'd run a mile at the sight of him.’
‘Are you sure of that, Murchison? Did she run at the sight of him, or did she cower down helplessly?’
‘She cowered all right. She went absolutely flat. But I should have said that nothing would have induced her to look at the fellow of her own free will.’
‘Murchison, if there were only Fouldes to reckon with I would not worry, but Fouldes has Astley behind him, and Astley knows more about the rarer aspects of hypnosis than any man in Europe. I know a good deal about it, but I can't hold a candle to Astley. And I don't know that I particularly want to. There is a price that has to be paid for certain aspects of that knowledge that I am not sure that I should care to pay. Give Fouldes half a chance, and I believe Astley was quite right, he could land Ursula.’
‘Well, what do you propose to do about it? Sit down and let him land her?’ Murchison looked so truculent that Brangwyn began to fear that if he did not take action forthwith he would get his own head punched.
‘Look here, Murchison, sit down and write Astley a letter pretending to play into his hands. That, and his reply, may be a piece of evidence that will be useful to us. Moreover, it will give you a foothold in his precious establishment that may come in handy. He planted Monks on me; good God, why shouldn't I plant you on him?’
‘Right you are, sir, what'll I say?’ Murchison took a Woolworth fountain-pen out of his pocket. Brangwyn produced heavy, embossed notepaper from a cabinet. Murchison, his knees clapped together to form a table, and his large feet wound round the legs of his chair, prepared to take dictation. Brangwyn looked at him, and thought he had never in his life seen anything more clumsy. The huge, overgrown schoolboy, with the cheap little pen grasped in his red fist, and his shock hair standing up on end all over his head, was the most unlikely private secretary that anybody ever had.
‘Dear Mr. Astley,’ dictated Brangwyn, and Murchison laboriously scrawled it down in sprawling, unformed longhand.
‘I have been thinking over our talk this morning, and although I don't see much chance of getting hold of the papers you want while B is at the flat, I may be able to do so if he is away for a bit, and I believe he is going away shortly. If you can wait till then I will have a shot at it. £75 being the price.’
Murchison raised his head. ‘There's a little nobbly bit might go in there that will give a realistic touch to the outfit. I bargained like a Sheeny with him because rogues never trust each other. Let's put the result of my bargaining in. Shall I say, “No results, no pay, but cash on delivery”?’
‘Right you are,’ said Brangwyn, and Murchison scrawled it down.
‘With regard to the girl,’ continued Brangwyn, ‘I'm game for anything I'm paid for, except to actually marry her, and I can't do that because - What was it you said to him, Murchison?’
‘Because I have other fish to fry,’ said Murchison.
‘That's right, put that in. You haven't really got other fish to fry, have you, Murchison?’
‘Me? Good Lord, no! Do I look like it? That was a red herring, that fish. What next, sir?’
‘Your usual signature, and whatever ending you feel to be appropriate. You know what terms you are on with him.’
‘“Yours affectionately,” I think!’ said Murchison, concluding his scrawl.
‘Now then,’ said Brangwyn, ‘make a copy of that, and get it off to him.’
Murchison scribbled a copy in pencil on another sheet of Brangwyn's best notepaper. ‘There,’ he said, ‘I can read that, even if no one else can.’
Brangwyn thanked his stars that there was no serious secretarial work to be got through with the help of his most inept assistant.
‘Now then,’ said Murchison, ‘what are we to do about Ursula?’
‘There's only one thing to do, get down to her as quickly as possible.’
‘Why not wire her to be careful?’
‘Unwise. She would only panic. Her nerve is completely gone.’
‘How do the trains go?’
‘We've missed the morning one. There isn't one till the afternoon now, which will get us in about eight at the junction. Then we've got twenty miles over mountain roads in a hired car. I think the best way would be to use my car. It's pretty high-powered, and it's all main-road running till you get into the mountains. We can't expect to get in before dark, but we have got powerful headlights, and in any case we shall be no later than the train, and will have the car for use at the other end, and we may be very glad of it if we want to get Ursula away quietly and quickly.’
‘Right you are, sir, but I haven't got a licence.’
‘I have, and once we are out of London the bobbies aren't to know which of us is which. I have got the car in the mews behind this house, will you go round and fetch it while I put a few things into a suitcase?’
‘No, sir, not on your life. You shove your shaving tackle into one pocket and your pyjamas into another, and come as you are. We don't want to advertise to Monks that we are off on an expedition. If you want a clean collar, you can buy one.’
Brangwyn meekly acquiesced, and Murchison went off to his own quarters to collect the needful.
On a chair in a corner stood a pile of cardboard boxes. His trousseau had begun to arrive. He cut the string of the top box hastily, and the smoky smell of Harris tweeds rose to his nostrils. He cut the string of another and dragged out an armful of made-to-measure shirts. Rapidly, in a perfect snowstorm of tissue paper, he flung on his new garments, and with hardly a glance at the glass in his haste he dragged on his old trench-coat over them, clapped his ancient slouch hat on his head, and with his glories discreetly eclipsed from the watchful eyes of Monks, slipped quietly out of the house and went round to the garage, where his employer had already got the car out and started her up. Murchison looked at the long, lean bonnet of the two-seater, and saw that she was a thoroughbred. At one time in his chequered career he had driven a van, and he reckoned that there was nothing much he couldn't do in London traffic, but this craft was an altogether different story, and he was thankful that his employer had got her out of the garage.
He took her out into the traffic of the Gray's Inn Road, moving gingerly in second, feeling her jump at the slightest touch on the accelerator; feeling also how lightly she answered her helm and the vice - like grip of the brakes. He thought of the old death-cart he used to trundle around, and wondered what would happen when he put this thoroughbred into top gear, and how long she would run in second without boiling.
Murchison had never driven a decent car before, and once he had got used to the way the thoroughbred jumped under him, he began to feel the fascination of it, and when they reached the North Circular Road he let her out, amazed how easy she was to handle and how she held the road as compared with the slithering, labouring van he was used to. So this was the kind of toy rich men played with, he thought to himself, not without a touch of bitterness, and seeing a luxurious limousine in front of him he first hooted for the road and then took it, cutting in shamelessly out of pure cussedness, to the great amusement of Brangwyn, who caught a glimpse of the chauffeur's face as he wrenched at his wheel.
Presently they turned into the long road that goes on and on and on till it stops at the sea-wall of Holyhead, and Murchison, now quite at home with the car, began to fling the miles over his shoulder. Brangwyn, watching the needle of the speedometer creeping round the dial, chuckled to himself, thinking of that ancient scene outside the walls of Troy, and wondering whether, metaphorically speaking, the body of Hector was not tied on behind. Achilles had come out of his tent in style.
Murchison was too busy getting the hang of the unfamiliar car to do much thinking for the first part of the journey, but as they skirted the edge of the Black Country and ran along a ridge of high ground and he saw the Welsh mountains lift over the horizon, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder whether they would reach their objective in time, or whether Ursula Brangwyn, tempted out for a lonely walk by the fine day, had fallen into the hands of Fouldes and unspeakable abominations. The road stretched straight and empty before them; he trod on the accelerator, and the speedometer gave up the unequal struggle. It was only Brangwyn's admonitions which persuaded him that the relative crawl of forty miles an hour was not a suitable speed at which to take a large car through the narrow streets of the ancient city of Shrewsbury.