The Age of Treachery (9 page)

And with that she saw him out.

Forrester spotted Haraldson easily among the crowd leaving the Bodleian Library because he towered above the rest of the departing readers, but Haraldson was not pleased to see him.

“I am on my way to the station,” he said. “I return to Norway tonight.”

“What time’s your train?” asked Forrester.

“It leaves within the hour.”

“I’ll walk with you to the station. I have a few questions about what happened the night Lyall died.”

“I’ve answered many, many questions from the police while I was in the hospital,” said Haraldson, “and my head is still sore. I do not really want to talk about this any more.”

“I quite understand,” said Forrester. “It’s just that I’m afraid an innocent man may go to the gallows unless I can dig up some more information.”

“But I have no more information,” replied the Norwegian. “So I cannot be of any help to you.” Haraldson’s stride was long and Forrester had to walk swiftly to keep up with him.

“What were you looking for in Lyall’s room when I found you that night?” he asked.

“I was looking for nothing: I saw someone up there, went up to find out who it was, and was hit on the back of the head by a torch.”

“You were lying on top of it.”

“What?”

“The torch you claim you were attacked with was underneath you. How could it have got there if it had been used to hit you on the back of the head?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think the police would be interested in the fact.”

“The police must already know it.”

“In fact they don’t. I regret that I didn’t make myself clear enough to them when they arrived. I’ve been thinking I ought to go back and make sure they do understand that your claim about how you had been injured was demonstrably false.”

“You should do what you think is best,” said Haraldson.

“If I do that, and the police feel they need to question you again,” said Forrester, “it may interfere with your travel plans. You may not be able to make your boat.”

“What’s that to you?” demanded the Norwegian. Forrester stopped and Haraldson stopped beside him.

“I’ve no desire to cause you inconvenience,” he said, “but I would like you to help me. I think there are things you’re not telling me about your relationship with David Lyall and if you’re prepared to open up to me I’m prepared to postpone any revision of my statement to the police until after you’ve returned to Norway.”

Haraldson looked at him steadily and studied his watch for a moment. “If we walk rapidly without any further talking I believe we can reach the station with perhaps fifteen minutes to spare before my train. During that fifteen minutes, in return for the promise you have offered, I will tell you what I know about David Lyall. Do you agree?”

Forrester agreed.

* * *

They reached the station with twenty minutes to spare and rattled in vain at the doors of the refreshment room with its glass dome of yesterday’s sandwiches curling gently in anticipation of tomorrow’s customers. Finally they took refuge in the second-class waiting room, where the gas fire remained unlit and the wind rattled the windows. Posters advertising Sanatogen Nerve Tonic and Iron Jelloids made their muted appeals in the feeble light of forty-watt bulbs, swaying gently in the draughts. A thick carpet of cigarette stubs covered the scarred linoleum floor.

“So,” said Forrester. “How did you know Lyall?”

“My injuries after the Norway campaign were such that I could not fight again,” said Haraldson, “but I offered my services to give guidance to the Special Operations Executive when they were sending men into Norway for operations behind the lines.”

An express roared through without stopping and the windows rattled angrily in response. “I met Lyall in February 1943 when I briefed him before he was sent into Norway.”

“Sabotage mission?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a success?”

“I never found out. I have the impression it was not, but as you’ll be aware information like that was not widely available.”

“Of course.”

“Lyall got back eventually, but I did not keep in touch with him. In fact, I had no contact with him between November 1943 and September of last year.”

“And what happened in September?”

“He wrote to me at the University of Oslo, where I now work, asking if I intended to visit England in the near future. As it happened I had several matters to attend to here, and I told him I’d be coming in January. He then invited me to Oxford, saying he had something to show me which he thought might be of interest to me.”

“What was it?”

“An Old Norse manuscript.”

“A manuscript?”

“Or part of a manuscript; it wasn’t clear. He said it contained—” A train began shunting a row of freight cars back and forth outside, and Forrester did not hear the next words.

“He said it contained what?”

Haraldson, for the first time, looked sheepish. Then he said, “I have no interest in these speculations, except academic interest. I do not subscribe to such outlandish notions.”

Forrester narrowed his eyes. “What outlandish notions?”

“The mythology of my people is just that, mythology. It has nothing to do with the supernatural.” And suddenly Forrester remembered Lyall’s words before High Table on the night he had died.

“You’re talking about the occult,” he said. “Lyall told you this manuscript he had spoke about—”

“I have no desire to reach through to other worlds!” said Haraldson with sudden intensity. “I am interested only in the history and literature of my people. That was why I wanted to see the manuscript, not for any other reason. I knew from the first that all his talk of encryption was nonsense.”

“Encryption? Encryption of what?”

“Runes are runes. Nothing is hidden within them. They are not symbols for summoning anything.”

Forrester felt something move inside his mind, as if two tectonic plates were sliding past one another.

“But that’s what Lyall told you? He told you something was hidden within the manuscript? Some sort of spell for conjuring diabolical—”

“There is no link,” said Haraldson decisively, “between the old gods of my people and whatever being rules the Judeo-Christian Hell. I am a Norse scholar, that is all.” As Forrester watched him, he did not believe the disclaimer for a second. He knew in his bones that it was Lyall’s promise of occult knowledge in some ancient Norse document that had drawn Haraldson to Oxford, like a moth to the flame, whatever he said to deny it.

“Did Lyall explain more when you arrived in Oxford? About what was in the manuscript?”

“There was no opportunity,” said Haraldson. “We exchanged greetings before High Table and arranged to meet the next day. But before that could happen, he was killed.”

“So you went up to his room to see if you could find the manuscript for yourself?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“I was attacked before I found it. Not, as you have already deduced, by the torch, which I had picked up from Lyall’s desk to use in my search, but by some other, I think considerably heavier object.”

“I see. And you decided not to confide this to the police?”

“I did not believe it was relevant. Also, I did not wish to become involved in the investigation. Lyall’s murder has nothing to do with me.”

“How can you say that? He offered to show you a valuable document—”

“There is no proof it was valuable—”

“And he was killed before he could do so. My friend is accused of murdering him in a jealous rage. Your evidence suggests another possibility.”

“I don’t think so. The manuscript may have been of scholarly interest, but I doubt it had much monetary value. And as for its occult significance, you can forget it. I am certain now it was a figment of David Lyall’s imagination.”

“Nevertheless the police should know about the manuscript.”

“You have a point. When I misled them on the subject I didn’t of course anticipate your friend being arrested.”

“But he has been,” said Forrester. “Which rather changes things.”

“True.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

Haraldson considered for a moment. There was a mournful hooting outside and a train wheezed regretfully alongside the platform. Haraldson picked up his suitcase and opened the waiting-room door. Whistles blew and carriage doors slammed and the station loudspeaker gave its usual incomprehensible announcements. Forrester grasped Haraldson’s arm.

“What are you going to do?”

“I will write from Norway,” said Haraldson. “I will write to the police and send them a copy of the letter Lyall sent me. They will be able to draw their own conclusions.”

“I think you should go to see them now,” said Forrester.

“No,” said the Norwegian. “I can foresee endless complications. When I am back home, I will deal with it.”

Forrester realised he was not going to get any further. Haraldson extricated himself from his grip, crossed the platform and stepped into a carriage.

“The train now departing Platform Three…” said the loudspeaker. Forrester held onto the carriage door.

“Listen,” he said. “An innocent man may hang unless you do what you have promised.”

“He may hang even if I do,” said Haraldson. “Because I don’t believe there’s any connection between the manuscript and Lyall’s murder.”

The whistle blew and the train began to move. Haraldson pulled the door to. “Nevertheless I will write,” he said. “And I hope you save your friend.”

And with that, Forrester was engulfed in a blast of steam from the engine, and the train began to wheeze out of the station. He stood on the platform for a long time, watching its lights disappear into the distance.

Forrester made an appointment to see Inspector Barber the next day. He knew perfectly well that his threat to convince the police that Haraldson had been lying and thus prevent his departure was a hollow one, but what he hadn’t expected was the force of Barber’s disappointment when he told him why he had come.

“I had hoped you were going to assist us, Dr. Forrester,” said Barber, “not supply us with red herrings.” As he spoke he drew a fish on his blotter, and then another. “Or stories of black magic.”

“I would have thought the fact that David Lyall had a valuable Norse manuscript which has since disappeared was highly relevant,” said Forrester. “Unless you’re discounting all possible suspects except Dr. Clark. Surely you’re not doing that?”

“We are of course keeping an open mind,” said Barber, “but unlike you, we come to the case with open eyes.”

“Which is why I thought you would be interested in new evidence,” said Forrester.

“At present, Dr. Forrester, it’s not evidence, it’s hearsay,” said Barber. “We have only your word that this is what Haraldson said, and he, conveniently, is not here to corroborate it.”

Forrester stood up. “I’m sorry you doubt my word,” he said stiffly, “but Haraldson has promised to write to you enclosing Lyall’s letter to him, referring to the manuscript, as soon as he gets back to Oslo. You should have it within two or three days.”

“I’ll read it with interest,” said Barber, remaining seated.

“But there’s no reason not to do something straight away,” said Forrester. “For example you could start investigating people who might have wanted to get their hands on that document.”

“Is that your advice, sir? On how we should conduct our investigation?”

“It’s not advice,” said Forrester. “Surely it’s obvious that’s what has to be done?”

“Obvious, eh? The kind of thing the plodding constabulary would probably miss, but which the clever Oxford don would see at once?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all—”

“I do respect your attempts to help your friend, Dr. Forrester,” said Barber. “I do expect you to pass on any information you may have regarding the case.
Any
information, that is, whether helpful to Dr. Clark or not. But I do not wish to be told how to do my job. Is that understood?”

Forrester forced himself to take a deep breath. “Of course, Inspector,” he said, opening the door. “I’m sure we have every reason to feel complete confidence in you.”

And he walked out.

* * *

Forrester was still grinding his teeth in suppressed fury as he climbed the stairs to the laboratory where Alan Norton conducted his experiments. It was a long, low room with dark wooden floors and arrays of equipment, which vaguely reminded him of a darkroom. A young blonde woman was inserting a tiny square of glass into one of these objects. The fit was tight – in fact Forrester was tempted to wonder if the glass was supposed to go into that particular slot at all, but the young woman thrust it home with great determination and there was no audible crack.

“Dr. Norton isn’t here,” she said in answer to his enquiry. “But he should be back shortly.” Her voice was high pitched and oddly grating. Forrester knew she wanted him to go away but felt a strange compulsion to stay there in order to irritate her. He felt as if there were great reserves of irritation beneath the surface of her personality, just waiting to be released. He watched her for a moment.

“That looks interesting,” said Forrester. “What is it?” The young woman looked at him with piercing blue eyes as if deciding whether to attack him with whatever object came to hand, and then, with an effort of will, smiled icily.

“X-ray crystallography.”

“And what is that?”

“The science of determining the arrangement of atoms within a crystal from the manner in which X-rays are deflected
by
the crystal,” she said. “It involves scattering X-rays from a single, very pure crystal to produce a pattern on a screen behind it.”

“I see,” said Forrester. “And the object is…?”

“Obviously to discover the architecture of proteins,” she said. “I’m supposed to be working with Professor Hodgkin on the structure of penicillin, but she’s assigned me to help Dr. Norton with Gramicidin C.”

“Your supervisor is Dorothy Hodgkin?” said Forrester. He remembered Dorothy from his undergraduate years, a brilliant, voluble woman passionate about pacifism and correcting social injustice. She had married a charming, serially unfaithful communist named Thomas Hodgkin, but this had not prevented her becoming the lover of her scientific mentor, the brilliant J.D. Bernal, who was also married. And also a communist. Not surprisingly, the private lives of all three were complex and full of drama. “Working with Professor Hodgkin must be fascinating, Miss…”