Dover Beach (19 page)

"Yes, that's it. They kept her there until she bore the child, then they took it away from her and said cheerio. She never saw the child—or the inside of Bromford—again. Totally disgusting."

"Why did she wait so long before telling anyone?"

"She had become a convert to our movement, you see, and she realized the evil of what had taken place—what was still taking place—at Bromford."

"Her child—the child she bore—was still there?"

"I don't know for sure, but
something
was still going on at Bromford. I simply couldn't find out what."

"The government simply closed the place when you started questioning them."

"Precisely."

"It sounded as if you wanted to make more of a fuss about it at the time, but nothing seemed to come of it. Why was that?"

"Two reasons, really. My witness suddenly disappeared—she emigrated to Australia, I later found out. Apparently she wasn't quite as strong a convert as I had hoped, and the government were able to buy her off. More important, Charles Hatton told me to drop the whole thing."

Hounslow sounded bitter. "Why would Hatton want you to drop it?" I asked. Across the room, Winfield looked quite interested by that question. "Wasn't it a good issue?"

"I thought so," Hounslow replied, still sounding bitter. "But Hatton was beginning to believe he could become Prime Minister, and he was becoming cautious. He was afraid the issue might turn against us. What if the government
were
curing babies of genetic defects at Bromford? We couldn't be against healthy babies. So I was forbidden to mention Bromford again. The strategy was correct, I'm sure, since we won the election. But I must say it continues to bother me. What happened to the child that woman bore? What really went on there? I don't know."

"But wait a minute. Couldn't you find out once you came to power?"

"It wasn't I who came to power," Hounslow said, and the bitterness was stronger now. "It was Hatton; I remained a backbencher. And Hatton, once he became Prime Minister, seemed more interested in staying in power than in uncovering old horrors. Forgive my cynicism. I'm an old man who has lived through a great deal."

"I understand. Would you know, sir, if anyone else might be able to give us information about this man Cornwall or what went on at Bromford?"

Hounslow paused to consider. "I'm sure the records are there somewhere at the Ministry of Science," he said finally. "Now whether the Ministry will let you look at them—I'm afraid I just can't say. It's all passed me by, you see. I prefer pottering about in my garden now to worrying about our government."

"I can understand that, sir. Thank you for your time. You've been extremely helpful."

"Happy to oblige. Glad to see you Americans getting back on your feet. It's been a long time."

"It certainly has."

I hung up, and summarized for Winfield what he hadn't been able to make out from my side of the conversation. He paced the small room, too excited to sit still. "It all fits, then," he said. "Cornwall was cloning at Bromford. Hounslow made a stink, and they had to shut Bromford down. But obviously Hatton liked what Cornwall was doing, and he probably had Cornwall start it up again somewhere when he became Prime Minister."

"That's quite a leap of reasoning," I said. "From what I've read of the Hatton government—"

"I don't care what you've read," Winfield said. "What you've read failed to take into account the fact that someone doesn't want me to find Cornwall. Jesus, the government would probably fall if this became public knowledge. Let's go to Bromford."

That seemed a bit sudden to me. "Even assuming that it was Cornwall there," I said, "—and I admit that's a pretty good assumption now—the trail's going to be pretty cold at Bromford."

"Well, what do you suggest, then? Shutting ourselves up in the goddamn library for another day?"

"Today was reasonably productive," I pointed out. "And we have a better idea of things to look for now."

"Then look for them yourself. I've got other things to do."

I shrugged. He could go back to America, for all I cared. "Fine with me," I said. "Can I have my per diem now?"

He tossed me five pounds, and then called down to the desk clerk to find out how to get to Bromford.

* * *

Winfield left on a train early the next morning. He was vague about exactly what he was going to do in Bromford, and I had no investigative tips for him. But it made him happy to be on the move, and it left me on my own for the day, so there was no reason to complain.

I was conscientious enough to go to the library and do my research, but without Winfield in the next carrel there was considerably less urgency to the task. I studied up on Bromford and Charles Hatton and the Ministry of Science, but I didn't find out anything exciting; my mind started to wander, and eventually my body followed.

I took the Tube back to Russell Square and revisited the British Museum. It's a big place; but then, there's a lot of history, a lot of the products of human genius, to cram into it. The place was actually rather depressing, in a way: all that history, all that genius, leading to this. And what was next? I looked at the Elgin Marbles, battered by war—saved to be, inevitably, destroyed in another war. They had escaped this one, but they wouldn't escape forever.

I came across a display on Shakespeare; it included a specimen of his signature on some contract.
We shall not see his like again.
I thought of Mr. Fitch, back in New Hampshire. Wouldn't this give him a thrill?

And that brought me back further, to my time in Washington, which I mostly spent shooting dogs and making sure the salvagers didn't shoot each other. One day I was with a sergeant who had seen me squirreling away books to read off-duty. He waved at a pile of rubble across the street from us. "Folger Library," he said. "Biggest collection of Shakespearean stuff in the world in the old days. Mighty impressive now, eh, Private?"

We poked around it for a while. If there was anything left, it wasn't going to be easy to find, and the government hadn't the time, the manpower, or the inclination to look for it. The country needed copper wire more than it needed rotting volumes about a long-dead writer. We walked away, and I shot a lot of dogs the next couple of days.

And now I wondered: if Shakespeare had been born twenty-two years ago, would his genius have flowered? Probably not. Like that other genius, Dr. Charles Winfield, he would have been frustrated; he would have spent too much time in pubs; maybe he, too, would have looked for some way out, even if it was only the dream of some other life that would—and would not—be his.

When I finally returned to the hotel, I was not as happy as I should have been. Here I was in the Promised Land, free, with a heated room and a bathtub awaiting me. But it wasn't enough, or why was I stomping through the British Museum, brooding about the vanity of human wishes?

It was Gwen's problem in the fallout shelter, of course. Get what you want, and you want a little more. This was my first case, damn it, and I wasn't making much progress. And that bothered me, even in the Promised Land.

There was no message from Winfield when I arrived at the hotel. The Indian desk clerk smiled apologetically. I bought a newspaper and went up to my room.

London newspapers were better printed than the
Globe,
but none of their reporters was as good as Gwen, it seemed to me. Anyway, I was more interested in the movie listings than in the news. The previous night, after everything had been settled about the trip to Bromford, Winfield and I had split up, as usual, and I had attended my first movie. I had been a little disappointed—it was a prewar comedy, and I didn't get the jokes. I had felt like a hick, straining to understand why everyone was laughing, and just not being able to figure it out. Maybe I could find something that was more to my taste, something that would chase away my depression.

Sure enough—a Humphrey Bogart festival was starting at Notting Hill Gate. Humphrey, patron saint of private eyes. Going to one of his movies would be like going to church. Maybe if I prayed to him at the theater he would help me crack the case.

Unfortunately, I didn't have enough money left to go—never mind eat supper. Where was Winfield? I needed my per diem.

He called while I was taking a bath. I sloshed back into the bedroom and answered. His voice was tinny and distant but unmistakable.

"How did it go?" I asked.

"I didn't find anything," he said. "Not a fucking thing." He wasn't happy. There were voices in the background, clinking glasses. At least he had found a pub.

"Are you still in Bromford?"

"Yeah. I missed the last goddamn train. I'll have to spend the night. No one here remembers anything—at least that's what they say. They're probably lying, of course. The research center is a goddamn old people's home now. Jesus, you'd think at least someone would remember if an American lived here once. We're rare enough. Did you find out anything?"

"Nothing to speak of," I said. "I think we're about done with the newspaper library."

Winfield was silent for a moment. It was not a pleasant silence. I dripped. Glasses clinked. "Goddamn it," Winfield said. "We've got to find him. I don't have enough money to fool around like this. Understand?"

"What do you want—"

"I don't give a shit. You're supposed to be the expert. That's why I brought you over here. So find him. Fast. I don't care if you have to break into the fucking Prime Minister's house. Understand?"

"Yes, boss."

"And you better be there when I get back tomorrow. Understand?"

I hung up, then got a towel and dried myself. I looked at the newspaper, lying open on the bed to the movie listings.
Saint Humphrey, pray for us.
Sam Spade probably would have told his client to shove it.

Not if it was his first case, maybe.

I got dressed and went down to the lobby. The desk clerk smiled his knowing smile.
Those Americans and their crazy problems,
it seemed to say. I tried to smile back. "Could I borrow the telephone directory for the letter 'C'?" I asked.

* * *

"Hello, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm a reporter from the United States, and I'm doing a story on an American scientist who I believe emigrated to England after the war. His name is Robert Cornwall. I wonder if you would be related to him?"

Cornwall, R. was very sorry, but she couldn't help me.

Cornwall, R. did not answer.

Cornwall, R. (or whoever answered Cornwall, R.'s phone) did not speak English, and our conversation got nowhere.

Cornwall, Arthur had a cousin named Robert, but no, he was from Bristol and had never been to America.

Cornwall, Beatrice thought I had a nerve calling up perfect strangers, and she had a mind to report me to the authorities.

Cornwall, E. and Cornwall, Edgar did not answer.

Cornwall, George was surprised there were reporters in America, and wondered why they wanted to write a story about Robert Cornwall. No, he didn't know any Robert Cornwall, he was just curious.

Cornwall, Harold's wife was pretty sure he didn't have a relative named Robert, but he wasn't in right now, and could I call back later?

Cornwall, John's brother had died of radiation poisoning while with the American Relief Expedition, and he hoped we would all suffer the way his brother had suffered.

Cornwall, K. said why, yes, her father was Robert Cornwall, the American scientist. What was the story about?

Er, um.
I stared at the listing in the directory. This was really happening, wasn't it? The voice was young and innocently curious. What was I supposed to say to Cornwall's daughter? "Well, the fact of the matter is, Ms. Cornwall, I'm not a reporter. I represent a man who is a relative of Professor Cornwall's from America. We've come to England to try and find him."

There was a pause. "What kind of relative?"

"Well, perhaps I should leave that to the relative himself to explain."

"Why did you say you were a reporter if you weren't?"

"Well, the relative wished, uh, to avoid having to explain the circumstances of his search to a lot of people."

"Are
you
this relative?"

"No, no. As I say, I'm his, um, uh, representative." I was turning in a stunning performance here. Sam Spade, eat your heart out. "Would it be possible to meet your father?"

A pause. "Well, maybe I should meet you people first. My father is rather a private person."

"Of course. I understand perfectly. Name the place and time, and we'll be there."

She gave me the address of a pub in Soho. "I have classes during the day. How about five-thirty tomorrow afternoon?"

"That would be perfect."

"How shall I recognize you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Ms. Cornwall. We'll be the two American-looking gentlemen. See you tomorrow."

I hung up and said a prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Humphrey. We had wasted a few days, but that was all right; the case was on the move. All I needed to complete my happiness was some money to buy food. You can't have everything, I suppose.