“I’m not sure Mr Sangster can see anyone, I’ll…”
“Don’t worry, Matron,” I heard an unfamiliar voice say. “We’ll only be a moment. Police business and all that.”
“Well, I don’t know…”
“As I say, don’t worry, Matron.”
I opened my eyes to see the owner of the voice, a tall man of early middle age, rather oddly, or so I thought, wearing a dark suit despite it being a Saturday. His hair was also heavily slicked back with Brylcreem (rarely seen in this new decade, Sarah having banned my use of it the year before), which, along with a pair of black, heavy-rimmed glasses, gave off an air of decades past. Behind him stood three more familiar figures; DCS Pentreath, Sergeant Bolitho, and WPC Woon.
I looked around to see the whitewashed walls of the academy infirmary, and through the haze just about remembered being brought here the night before, then being woken up early in the morning by Mrs Davey sticking a thermometer in my mouth.
“Hello Sangster,” said Pentreath, in what sounded to me, despite my still being half asleep, like a very uncomfortable voice compared with his usual measured and very deliberate tone. “Trust you’re on the mend?” I nodded. “No broken bones then?”
“Just aching bones and a few cuts, Pentreath. I’ll be up and about this afternoon.”
“That’s good to hear because you were certainly in a state when we found you. Must have taken the brunt of that blast.”
“It’s all a little hazy. Was I there long with Angel after the explosion?”
“About fifteen minutes. We found the two of you by that stone entrance to the fogou, both pretty well out of it.”
“And Angel?”
“Dehydrated, saw her on a drip in Treliske hospital this morning.”
“A drip?”
“Yes, but as far as I understand it, that was all, and she’s pretty much recovered now. Parents were already there at her bedside when I went to visit.”
“Did she, er, say anything to you?”
“Not much. Now may I introduce Mr, er… Smith.” He looked at the stranger. “He’s down from London. Would like a few words alone with you if that’s alright?”
I looked at Mrs Davey and Velinda Flimwell for confirmation, both of whom shrugged.
“Good,” Pentreath continued. “Now, we can all leave the room, and Mr Smith and Mr Sangster can have a chat.”
“So,” said the stranger when they’d gone. “May I sit?” He pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed without waiting for me to say yes. “You’ve had quite an ordeal I believe?”
“Smith’s your name, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“And what do you do?”
“Oh, government matters, small cog, big machine, that sort of thing.” He took a biscuit from my bedside table. “May I?”
Er… yes.”
“Oh, thank you, I’ve such a weakness for bourbons.”
“Mmmm…” I nodded, sensing a menace in his voice that made me try all the more to wake myself fully.
“So,” he said, in between biscuit bites. “I’m here to make sure any loose ends are tied up. This Slevin character, what d’you know about him?”
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen the likes of Smith (or whatever he was really called). His type had appeared now and again during my time with Naval Intelligence and, by coincidence, I’d encountered one of these invisible government people very recently during a case with the institute, so decided it would be futile to avoid any questions.
“Soviet agent, masquerading as a Vatican official.”
“Well not masquerading,” said Smith. “He was the real thing, Roman Catholic man and boy, but his loyalties didn’t lie, er… with the church.”
“Or the West in general I suppose,” I added.
“Indeed. Now did you know there’s been a Russian sub in these waters recently, Sangster?”
“The sea monster locals have been seeing?”
“Quite. Well, the sub dropped off the equipment Slevin needed, such as an inflatable dinghy, shortwave radio, and some kind of infernal chemical that Slevin could use to cover his tracks. Dog proof, makes it so there’s no trace of his scent.” Smith picked up another bourbon. “They even came ashore and helped him with the digging to expose the tomb. That lifting gear we found had Soviet markings on it, but,” he laughed, “I suppose you already know all that?”
“I know about the chemical because we used it to cause the explosion. What was it by the way?”
“Soviet cleverness, Reds are good at that kind of thing. Not sure exactly what the stuff was made of though.”
“No?”
“You rather selfishly blew it all up and didn’t leave anything much for us to analyse.”
“And did Slevin make his escape?”
“We think that sub picked him up at high tide. New class of boat, very manoeuvrable, came in close to a cove on the point. Carricknath, I believe they call the place.”
“Yes, I’ve seen that boat, near the lighthouse.”
“Oh,” Smith said. “And how would you know it was that particular submarine?”
“Come on,” I shouted, his urbane and obfuscating manner getting the better of my self-control. “How many Russian subs are lurking in these waters, and anyway, it’s a class of one vessel.” It was then my turn to laugh. “But I suppose you already know all that.”
“Touché, Sangster.” Smith smiled to himself. “Your calls to the redoubtable Admiral Anson and his subsequent, er… enquiries, are what prompted me to come here and visit in the first place. We’d somehow missed Slevin slipping out of London because he used the train, and we were only watching for him on the roads.”
“Ha, so he was one step ahead of even you people.” I laughed harder before groaning at the pain in my bruised ribs. “But what of the priest now?”
“Well, the police found Slevin’s motorbike, with some equipment including a radio, abandoned in the car park by the lighthouse, and the empty dinghy washed up close by as well.”
“There was a storm last night. Do you think he could have drowned?”
“That’s a possibility, or the sub picked him up. Either way, I’m sure you’ll agree this traitorous Monsignor is probably gone from our shores.”
Smith was silent for a moment, glancing sideways in a way that told me he might be hiding something, before looking me directly in the eye.
“So, Sangster, you’re ex-naval intelligence, commander in your own right and all that, so you’ve signed the official secrets act, know the importance of, er… keeping mum.” I nodded. “Well, none of this comes out, understood?” I nodded again. “Now, is there anyone else who knows, other than that Blackwood girl.” He frowned, slightly theatrically I thought. “I’m afraid she does worry me, Sangster, I—”
“You leave her alone, Smith,” I shouted, sitting up. “She’s young and fragile.”
“Calm down, man,” he said. “I’ve already spoken to her this morning, very gently I promise, and accompanied throughout by Pentreath’s sweet little WPC Woon.”
“Where?”
“Girl’s in Truro hospital and seems remarkably well given her ordeal. Even her sprained ankle is almost healed, I was quite…”
“As I say, leave her alone, Smith. I mean it.”
“Oh, I will. She doesn’t know anything. Seemed to think it was hilarious, Slevin imagining he’d find the body of Christ buried in Cornwall.”
“Did she?”
“Yes, told me the tomb is just an historical grave, of interest to people who dig that kind of thing up, but nothing more.”
“How can you know she’s right?”
“Well, for a start, the human remains in the tomb were of an old woman, not a thirty-something man. Police who went into the place established that straight off. And the idea of Christ coming to England, or his body being brought here, well, it’s preposterous…” He snorted.
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m glad you see,” he said, licking biscuit crumbs off his fingertips. Now, there isn’t anyone else who knows about these, er… extra details. Not that Canon Pengelly, or any of the other staff or pupils here?”
“Nobody.”
“Not even your lovely wife?”
“You’ve crossed a line there, Smith, step back.” I felt my voice gag, but nevertheless tried to speak with authority and conviction, which was difficult, lying in bed wearing a pair of borrowed pyjamas while Smith was suited and sitting in a chair. “And she knows nothing of all this.”
“Then I know it’s all safe, because any leak would have to come directly from you, and we both know that couldn’t happen.” He drew in a breath. “Got to be careful you understand, nothing personal.”
“All safe,” I said solemnly, feeling, for the first time I could remember the sensation that my veins (as I’d read in numerous books) had turned to ice. “Because Mr, er… Smith you said your name was?” He nodded. “Well I’ll take your word for it, but remember, you found me so I can find you, and I’d take it entirely personally in the worst possible way for you if my wife was to, er… know anything of this.”
“Um… of course,” he said, his bland manner now ruffled. “I’ll, er… take the opportunity to, er… bid you a speedy recovery and a good day, Mr Sangster.” He quickly stood up. “Good day.”