Gold by Gemini (18 page)

‘And I need a good map.’

‘In the living-room bookcase. Please don’t lose any if you can help it. What are you?’ She faced me frankly.

‘Eh?’ I countered cunningly.

‘Well, are you a walker, or an archaeologist after the Viking burials, or a tape recorder man who wants me to speak Manx, or what? Sugar and milk?’

‘I’m . . .’ I had a brainwave and said, ‘I’m an engineer. Like my old friend Bexon who used to come here.’

‘You know him? How nice!’ She poured for us both while I rejoiced inwardly at my opportunism. ‘Such a lovely old man. He’d been to Douglas on his honeymoon years ago. How is he?’

She’d obviously taken to the old chap. I said he was fine and invented bits of news about him.

‘He was so proud!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’d helped to build a lot of things on Man. Of course, that was years ago. Are you here to mend the railway? It seems so noisy lately.’

We chatted, me all excited and trying to look casual and tired. Betty finally departed, promising to get a car. We settled for first thing in the morning.

So I’d hit the exact place Bexon had stayed. Now, then. Businesslike, I went to suss out the scenery.

The bay window overlooked the valley. Over a row of roofs the light was beginning to fade. Something was rankling, slightly odd. If Bexon was an ailing man, why ever stay at Groundle Glen? Betty Springer had told me the little train stopped near the crossroads up on the main road, maybe four hundred yards away. And an old man walking slowly up to the tiny roadside station could get wet through if it rained. So he was here for a purpose.

The bungalows were too recently built to be of any romantic significance to the old man. There seemed to be only one reason left. I peered down towards the river.

Tally-ho?

I went out to buy some eggs, cheese and bread. They had some lovely Auckland butter which I felt like. I bought a miserable pound of margarine instead
because the quacks are forever on at you these days. They had no pasties or cream sponges. I found I’d accidentally bought a cabbage when I got home. What the hell do people do with cabbage? I suppose you fry it some way. I opened the windows and looked about for some ducks but saw none. But do ducks like cabbage? I gave up and put it in a drawer.

I fried myself an omelet. That, a ton of bread and marge, a pint of tea and I was fit enough to switch on the news to see who we were at war with. Outside hillside creatures stalked and cackled. The sea shushed. The sun sank. Lights came on in the bungalows here and there. A ship’s green lamp showed a mile or two off shore.

It seemed a fearful long way to town. When you’re in countryside it always does.

I got the fright of my life that evening.

It was about midnight. The lights were on in the next bungalow. It was the man who’d followed me. I knew that. Throop. My lights were off. The telly was doing its stuff but I’d turned the sound down.

This figure moved in silhouette. My kitchen door was glass so he was easily visible. Probably thought I was out. I got the poker and crept to the little passageway. The stupid man was fumbling noisily with the latch. Some sleuth.

I hid in the loo doorway, trembling. My mouth was dry. In he blundered. His glasses gleamed in the part light as I leapt and grabbed him.

‘Right, Throop, you bastard!’ He was too astonished to struggle. I clicked on the light.

‘Greetings, Lovejoy!’ It was Algernon, pleased we’d met up.

‘You stupid . . .’ I let him go. ‘You frightened me to death.’

‘Did you not realize?’ He went all modest. ‘I’m being your . . .
undercover agent
!’

‘Brew up,’ I told him, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice and trying to hide the poker. I felt like braining him.

‘Certainly!’ He breezed into the kitchen, falling over a stool. ‘How perfectly marvellous that someone so perspicacious failed to penetrate my
subterfuge
!’ he nattered, chuckling. He pulled a kitchen drawer out all the way. The crash of the cutlery as it spread over the tiled floor made me jump a mile. Unabashed, he wagged a finger playfully while he grabbed the kettle. ‘You should have realized, Lovejoy! Algernon sort of goes with Throop!’

‘What else?’ I put my head in my hands. A spray of water wet me through, just Algernon trying to fill the kettle.

It was rapidly becoming a bad dream. Here I was trying to slip about quietly, a difficult, risky business with that sinister nut Rink on my tail. I’d thought I was doing reasonably well. Now, thanks to Algernon, following me would be like shadowing a carnival. I had to get clear.

‘And I have another surprise for you!’ he crowed, plugging the flex in with a blue flash.

‘Please, Algernon.’ I couldn’t take any more. My heart was still thumping.

‘No, Lovejoy!’ he cried roguishly, spilling tea round his feet and skilfully nudging a cup into the sink as he turned. I heard it break on the stainless steel. ‘I won’t tell you! It’s a
surprise
?’

Somehow he’d managed to pour hot water into
the teapot though it was touch and go and a lot of luck went into it. To save breakages I got the cups. He broke the fridge door looking for the milk which I’d got prominently displayed on the table anyway. He prattled on about his journey, hugging himself with glee about the mysterious surprise he’d lined up for me. I had a headache.

‘Push off, Algernon,’ I said.

‘Very well, Lovejoy!’ he cried. ‘Your tea’s all ready! See you in tomorrow’s fair dawning! And when you wake . . .’ He went all red and bashful and tripped head over heels down the passage. The door crashed. I could have sworn something splintered. I listened, wincing. No tinkle of glass, thank God. Another crash. He’d made it home, the next bungalow. I took a sip of tea and spat it out. He’d forgotten the bloody teabags.

I sighed and looked for a bottle of beef. A secret with Algernon’s like a salvo. I’d have to get some sleep. Algernon’s secret would be on the night boat. Always assuming her car wasn’t too long to fit on the deck.

Somebody was in the kitchen again. Light tottered through curtains, still drawn. I vaguely remembered making love when it was dark. I forget to wind watches so there’s no point in having one, and those new digital efforts are always trying to prove themselves. I could tell it was about after seven o’clock. I went to the bedroom window and peered out. Sure enough, a Lagonda by the shop.

I climbed back into bed, sitting up. In she came, lovely and floury from baking.

‘Morning, Lovejoy, darling.’

‘I’m supposed to be here alone,’ I said bitterly.

She set the tray right and got back in with cold feet.

‘You can’t possibly manage without me, Lovejoy.’

‘It’ll be like a Bedouin caravan with you lot. How did you know I was here?’

‘Algernon,’ she said brightly. ‘I persuaded him your welfare depends on me.’

‘Anybody else?’ I demanded. ‘Jimmo? The Batemans? Jill?’

‘Just me.’ She dished breakfast out, smiling roguishly.

‘You’re going back. First boat.’

‘No, Lovejoy,’ she gave back calmly. ‘You’ve to pay up.’

‘Er,’ I said uneasily. She must mean the sale. ‘Well,’ I said slowly, working it out as I went, ‘I had a lot of expenses. I made about twenty per cent. Fifty-fifty?’ I keep meaning to get one of those electric calculators.

She was shaking her head. It was a pity we could see ourselves in the mirror of the dressing table opposite. She watched me in the pale light. I looked away casually.

‘A day. Remember?’ Hard as nails, women are.

‘Oh.’ Of course. I owed her a day. I thought hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. I had a good dozen antiques dealers’ addresses on the Isle. Some were supposed to be pretty fair. ‘Well, Janie love –’

‘Before you say it, Lovejoy,’ she told me. ‘No. No antiques. No dealers. No playing Bexon’s silly game. One complete day. And
I
say what we do.’

I groaned.

‘My hands are hurting,’ I said bravely. ‘They’re agony –’

‘And you can stop that,’ she interrupted. ‘It won’t work.’

‘Look, love –’

‘We’re shopping, Lovejoy.’ She ticked them off on
fingers. ‘And you’re going to cook me a lovely supper. Then you’re going to sit with me in the evening, come for a walk and then seduce me in bed. Here. Beneath these very sheets.’

‘What if we pass an antique shop?’ I yelped, aghast. She’d gone demented.

‘You will walk bravely past. With me.’ She smiled, angelic.

I nodded, broken. Ever noticed how bossy women really are, deep down?

‘When?’

‘Whenever I say.’ She smiled, boss; ‘I’ll let you know.’

Day dawned grimly and relentlessly.

I
PICKED UP
courage while we dressed. ‘Is this your day?’

Janie thought for a couple of centuries. ‘No, thank you.’

I cheered up at that.

‘I have a car coming. Nine o’clock.’

‘I’ve cancelled it,’ she said innocently. We don’t want Lovejoy getting lost; do we?’

Of course we didn’t, I assured her.

‘Come on, then,’ I said; ‘Get your knickers on and we’ll look around.’

‘Cheek.’

We walked down to the shore. The river runs into a curved stony beach, only about a hundred yards across. The stones are a lovely blue-grey colour. Steep jagged rocks rise suddenly to form rather dour headlands. In the distance towards Douglas we could see the gaggle of chalets forming a holiday camp. I’d seen the sign for it during the drive along the cliff road.

‘How noisy.’ It was a racket, stones clacking and. shuffling and the sea hissing between.

We gazed inland. The shale-floored inlet, only ran about two hundred yards back from the water before it narrowed, into a dark, mountainous cleft filled
by forest. A wooden bridge spanned the river there, presumably for us visitors to stroll across and up the steep hillside. Well, whatever turns you on, I thought. Then it occurred to me: what if it was Bexon’s favourite walk? After all, he had to have some reason for coming this far out of town. Bushes and gorse everywhere. It would be a climb more than a stroll.

We walked over and explored the hillside. The footpath divided about a hundred feet from the bridge, one branch running inland along the glen floor to follow the river. The other climbed precipitously on planked steps round the headland. Janie chose left, so we followed that.

‘Look. Palm trees.’

I was going to scoff, but they were. The valley bulged soon into a level, densely wooded swamp for about a quarter of a mile as far as I could tell. Somebody years ago had built tall little islands among the marsh, creating lagoons complete with palms. Here and there we could find pieces of rotten trellis among the dense foliage. Once we came upon a large ruined hut by the water. There were at least three decorative wooden bridges.

‘Betty Springer said they used to have dances along here.’

I wasn’t interested. No engineering works, and I wanted evidence. The valley narrowed again a little way on. The trees crowded closer and the undergrowth closed in on our riverside path. The water ran faster as the ground began to rise. I didn’t see any point going on. Ahead, an enormous viaduct crossed the valley. The beck coursed swiftly beneath, gurgling noisily. It looked deep and fast. We headed back past the lagoons and took the ascending fork from the bridge, talking
about Bexon. The path was only wide enough for one at a time. I told her over my shoulder how I’d got the taxi-driver to find the place.

‘Are you sure this is where he stayed?’

‘Betty remembered him.’

Janie really found it first, a brick kiln set in the hillside. Overgrown, like the rest, but reassuring.

‘Look how flat the path is here.’ She pointed out the iron rails set in the ground. The path ran on the contour line seawards from the kiln.

‘That’s odd. It looks dead level.’ The flat path was wider now than any other on the hills.

‘For hauling bricks?’ she suggested.

‘Maybe.’

It was a little railway. We traced it inland. It ended in a hillside glade. There we found a ruined station, wooden, collapsed into the forest down the steep slope. We walked back, almost hurrying now. A railway means an engineer. Maybe Bexon worked on it, probably a scenic run through, the woods to view the sea from the headland or something. Of course, I thought. There’d be a junction further inland with the road. And on the road there was still a working steam railway. Hence Bexon’s choice of Groundle Glen. It’s where his railway ran.

I became excited. We followed the rails seawards. Some parts were quite overlain by small landfalls but at least you could see where the tracks ran from the shape of the incised hillside. We had difficulty getting past where sections had slid down into the valley but managed it by climbing upwards round the gap – using gorse bushes to cling to. We eventually emerged round the cliff’s shoulder in full view of the sea. Still the tracks ran on, high round the headland. A tiny brick hut lay in
ruins at one point near the track. Curiously, a fractured water tap still ran a trickle of its own down the cliff face. Over the years it had created its own little watercourse.

The railway finished abruptly at a precipitous inlet, narrow and frighteningly sheer.

‘Dear God.’

At the bottom the sea had been dammed by a sort of stone barrier set with iron palings, now rusted. It was lapped heavily by the sea. I didn’t like the look of it at all. Nor did Janie. I’m not a nervy sort but it was all a bit too Gothic.

‘It’s creepy,’ she said, shuddering.

‘Why dam it off?’ I asked her. ‘Look across.’

There seemed to be a sort of metal cage set in the rock face. It was easily big enough to contain a man. Anyone in it could scan the entire inlet. But why would anyone climb into it? A wave larger than before rushed in and lashed over the rusty barrier. If Bexon had anything to do with building that he really, was round the bend. There seemed no sun down there though the day was bright elsewhere. Some places are best avoided. This was one.

‘Come on.’

We hurried home, scrambling hurriedly along the railway track until we met the path. From there we took our time.