The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2) (13 page)

“A lake, is it? Or is it a desert? Somewhere in China, anyway. Well, I’ve never been there. But I heard it mentioned a few months ago in connection with…What was it?”

“There’s a scientific research station near there. Meteorology, mainly, but they cover a number of other disciplines as well. Anyway, they’ve lost a number of scientists, inexplicably. They just vanished. I did hear rumors about Dust,” Malcolm said.

“I remember now. Charlie Capes told me about it.”

Charles Capes was a priest in the hierarchy of the English Church, and secretly a friend of Oakley Street. His position was a risky one; there were severe penalties for apostasy, and there was no appeal from the verdicts of the ecclesiastical courts, which allowed only one defense: overpowering diabolical temptation. In passing information on to Oakley Street, Capes was risking his career, his freedom, and possibly his life.

“So the Magisterium is interested in Lop Nor,” said Malcolm. “And possibly roses too.”

“You’re going to take this material to the Botanic Garden?”

“Yes, but I’ll photo all the papers first. And, Hannah…”

“What?”

“We’re going to have to tell Lyra all about Oakley Street. She’s too vulnerable. It’s time she knew where to find help and protection. Oakley Street could give her that.”

“I nearly told her this afternoon,” she said. “But of course I didn’t. I think you’re right, though, and we must. You know, this reminds me of that other rucksack all that time ago, the one you brought me from Gerard Bonneville. So much material! I’d never seen such a treasure trove.
And
her alethiometer.”

“Thinking about alethiometers,” he said, “I’m concerned that the other side managed to pinpoint Lyra and the rucksack so quickly. That’s not usual, is it?”

She looked troubled. “It sort of confirms what we’d guessed,” she said. “People have been talking for months now about a new way of reading the alethiometer. Very unorthodox. Experimental, partly. The new way depends on abandoning the sort of single-viewpoint perspective you have with the classical method. I can’t explain exactly how it works, because the only time I tried it I was violently sick. But apparently if you can do it, the answers come much more quickly, and you hardly need the books at all.”

“Are there many people using this new method?”

“None in Oxford, to my knowledge. The general feeling is against it. It’s Geneva where most of the discoveries have been made. They’ve got a young man there who’s brilliantly gifted. And you’ll never g—”

“Lyra? Does she use the new method?”

“I think she’s tried once or twice, but without much success.”

“And sorry. I interrupted you. What was it that I’d never guess?”

“The name of the young man in Geneva. It’s Olivier Bonneville.”

As soon as she’d read Strauss’s journal, Hannah agreed with Malcolm that Oakley Street needed to see it as soon as possible. Accordingly he spent much of the night photogramming every one of the papers from Hassall’s rucksack, together with the title page of each of the books. He put the rolls of film in his refrigerator and went to bed nearer five o’clock than four.

Before they fell asleep, Asta said, “Has she still got her gun?”

Every Oakley Street agent of Hannah’s rank had to take an unarmed combat course and pass a test on their marksmanship with a pistol once a year. Hannah looked like a mild gray-haired academic, which is what she was; but she was armed, and she could defend herself.

“She keeps it in that safe of hers,” said Malcolm. “I’m sure she’d prefer not to take it out.”

“It should be closer at hand than that.”

“Well, you tell her. I’ve tried.”

“And what are we going to do about Olivier Bonneville?”

“Can’t do anything but speculate at the moment. A son? Bonneville might have had a son. One more thing to find out. We’ll see what Oakley Street knows.”

After breakfast, Malcolm delivered the rolls of film to a trusty technician for developing and walked along the High Street to the Botanic Garden. It was a somber gray day with the taste of rain in the air, and the lighted windows of the administrative building glowed brightly against the bulk of a large yew behind it.

A secretary told him at first that the Director was busy, and that he’d need an appointment, but as soon as he said that his visit concerned Dr. Roderick Hassall, her attitude changed. In fact, she looked shocked.

“D’you know where he is?” she said, and her dæmon, a little Boston terrier, stood with hackles raised, uttering a hardly audible whine.

“That’s what I’ve come to discuss with the Director.”

“Of course. Sorry. Excuse me.”

She left her desk and entered an inner room, the dæmon scampering at her heels. A few moments later, she came out and said, “Professor Arnold will see you now.”

“Thanks,” said Malcolm, and went in. The secretary closed the door behind him.

The Director was a woman of forty or so, blond, slender, and fierce-looking. She was standing. Her hummingbird dæmon hovered in the air over her shoulder before settling there.

“What do you know about Roderick Hassall?” she said at once.

“I was hoping you could tell me something about him. All I know is what’s in here,” said Malcolm, and laid the shopping bag on the neatly ordered desk. “I found it at a bus stop, as if someone had forgotten it. There was no one nearby, and I waited for a few minutes to see if anyone would come back and claim it, but no one did. So I thought I’d better see who it belonged to. There’s a wallet in there.”

Professor Arnold found the wallet and looked at it briefly.

“And seeing that he’s a member of your staff,” Malcolm went on, “I thought I’d bring it here.”

“A bus stop, you said? Where?”

“On the Abingdon Road, the side heading into town.”

“When?”

“Yesterday morning.”

She put the wallet down and took out one of the folders. After a quick glance at the contents, she did the same with the other two. Malcolm stood waiting for her to speak. Finally she looked at him. She seemed to be weighing him up.

“I’m sorry, my secretary didn’t tell me your name,” she said.

“She didn’t ask me for it. My name’s Malcolm Polstead. I’m a Scholar of Durham College. When I mentioned Dr. Hassall’s name, though, she looked shocked, and now I have to say that you look the same. It is genuine, I take it, all this? The university cards are real? There is a Dr. Hassall, and he is on your staff?”

“I’m sorry, Dr.—Dr.?” He nodded. “Dr. Polstead, but this has taken me aback. Please—sit down.”

He sat in the chair facing the desk. She sat too and lifted the telephone. “I need some coffee,” she said, and raised her eyebrows at Malcolm, who nodded. “Could you bring us coffee for two, Joan, please.”

She picked up the wallet again and took out cards, papers, money, and laid them all neatly on her blotter.

“Why didn’t you…,” she began, and stopped, and began again: “Did you think of taking this to the police?”

“The first thing I did was look in the wallet, to find a name, and when I saw the card saying he worked here, I thought it would save time all round if I brought it here directly. Besides, I couldn’t help being curious, because when I was looking through the wallet, I caught sight of the name of a place where I spent a little time myself, and I wondered what Dr. Hassall was researching.”

“Which place?”

“Lop Nor.”

Now she was more than interested. In fact, she was suspicious, even alarmed.

“What were you doing there?” she said. “I’m sorry, that sounded like an accusation.”

“I was looking for a tomb. I’m an historian, and the Silk Road has been one of my interests for a long time. I didn’t find the tomb, but I did find some other things that made the journey worthwhile. May I ask what Dr. Hassall was doing in Central Asia?”

“Well, he’s a botanist, of course, so…There’s a research institute—we support it together with the universities of Edinburgh and Leiden. He was working there.”

“Why there? I don’t remember much in the way of plant life around Lop Nor—a few poplars, some grass—tamarisks, I think….”

“For one thing, the climatic conditions—thank you, Joan, just leave it there—aren’t easy to replicate further north and west, especially here on the edge of a large ocean. Then there’s the soil—there are some unusual minerals in it—and then there’s local knowledge. They grow flowers that just…can’t be grown anywhere else.”

“And Dr. Hassall? Is he back in Oxford now? I’m just wondering—and it’s none of my business, I know—why you’re so alarmed.”

“I’m alarmed for him,” she said. “The fact is that he’s missing. We thought he was dead.”

“Really? When did you begin to think that?”

“Some weeks ago. He vanished from the station.”

“The station?”

“We call it the station. The research institute at Tashbulak.”

“The place near Lop Nor? And he vanished?”

She was looking more and more uncomfortable. She tapped her fingers on the desk: short nails, he noticed, and even a touch of dirt in them, as if she’d been botanizing when he arrived.

“Look, Dr. Polstead,” she said, “I’m sorry to seem evasive. The thing is, communications with the station aren’t quick or reliable. Obviously, our information about Dr. Hassall was wrong. It’s good to have this—these things—very good—because it might mean that he’s alive after all, but I’d have expected—if it was him that brought them to Oxford, of course—it would have been wonderful if he’d come here in person….I just can’t imagine what anyone was doing leaving them at a bus stop. I’m sure he wouldn’t do that. Someone else must have….I’m utterly perplexed. I hope he wasn’t…Thank you very much, Dr. Polstead, for, for bringing this in.”

“What will you do now?”

“You mean, about this? These things?”

She was frightened of something, and frightened separately of betraying the fact to him, a stranger. Her dæmon had not moved from her shoulder, or closed his eyes, which gazed at Malcolm solemnly. Malcolm looked back, trying to seem bland and harmless and helpful.

“It’s about roses, isn’t it?” he said.

She blinked. Her dæmon turned away and buried his face in her hair.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Two things. One is the specimens—the seeds and the rose oil. The other is that battered book in the red cover. It’s an epic poem in the Tajik language called
Jahan and Rukhsana.
It’s about two lovers who search for a rose garden. Was Dr. Hassall investigating something to do with roses?”

“Yes, he was,” she said. “I can’t tell you any more because, well, I have to supervise dozens of projects—postgraduate theses, the work done here as well as what they do at Tashbulak, and my own research as well….”

She was one of the worst liars he’d ever met. He felt sorry for her; she was having to improvise a defense when she was in a state of shock.

“I won’t bother you anymore,” he said. “Thanks for explaining what you could. If for any reason you need to get in touch with me…” He laid one of his cards on the desk.

“Thank you, Dr. Polstead,” she said, and shook his hand.

“Do let me know if you have any news. I feel as if I’ve got shares in Dr. Hassall now.”

He left the building and went to sit in the garden, where a little weak sunshine was gilding the bare stems of the shrubs, and where two young men were doing something horticultural near the glasshouses.

“Should have told her,” said Asta.

“I know. But that would drag Lyra into it. And involve the police, and it was one of them who killed him.”

“But the policeman wasn’t acting officially, Mal, come on. The one Pan saw is corrupt. The police need to know what happened, and know about him.”

“You’re absolutely right, and I feel very bad about it.”

“But?”

“We’ll tell her soon. Tell them soon.”

“When?”

“When we’ve learnt a little more.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“Not sure yet.”

Asta closed her eyes. Malcolm wished that Lyra hadn’t taken the risk of getting the rucksack from the station alone, but who’d have been able to help her? Not him, clearly. Not then. Once you’ve witnessed a murder and decided against telling the police, you’re really on your own.

And that set him thinking about her again. While Asta lay sphinx-like on the wooden seat beside him, eyes half closed, Malcolm wondered how Lyra was getting on at the Trout, and how safe she’d be there, and a dozen other questions gathered around one central one that he didn’t want to look at yet. Had she completely changed from the sullen, contemptuous girl whose manner and tone had been so difficult to deal with when he was teaching her a few years before? She seemed to be much more hesitant, reticent, uncertain of herself. She looked lonely and unhappy, not to make too much of it. And there was her strange, cold relationship with her dæmon….But when they’d spoken in the little restaurant, she’d been almost confiding, almost friendly; and her pleasure in having concealed the things from the rucksack was like a little ripple of laughter, something almost carefree; delightful, anyway.

That central question wouldn’t go away. He came back to it helplessly.

He was conscious of his own ox-like clumsiness. He was conscious of all kinds of contrasts—his maturity and her youth, his bulk and her slenderness, his stolidity and her quickness….He could watch her for hours. Her eyes, large and long-lashed and a gloriously vivid blue, more expressive than anyone’s he’d known; she was so young, but already he could see where the laughter lines, the lines of sympathy, the lines of concentration would gather in the years to come and make her face even richer and more full of life. Already, on each side of her mouth, there was a tiny crease made by the smile that seemed to hover just under the surface, ready to flower into being. Her hair, dark straw-colored, shortish and untidyish but always soft and shining: once or twice when he was teaching her, bending to look over her shoulder at a piece of written work, he’d caught a faint scent from that hair, not of shampoo but of young warm girl, and drawn away at once. At that time, when they were teacher and pupil, anything like that was so wrong, his mind shut it out before it had even fully formed.

But four years later, was it still wrong to think about it? About Lyra now? Wrong to yearn to put his hands on either side of her face, on those warm cheeks, and bring it gently towards his?

He’d been in love before; he knew what was happening to him. But the girls and women he’d loved in the past had been roughly his own age. Mostly. In the one exception, the difference went the other way. Nothing he knew was any help in this situation, and she was in such danger and difficulty at the moment that bothering her with his own feelings would be unforgivable. But there it was. He, Malcolm Polstead, aged thirty-one, was in love with her. It was impossible to think that she could ever love him.

The quiet of the large garden, the distant conversation of the two young botanists, the regular scraping of their hoes, the purring of his dæmon, all combined with his lack of sleep and his troubled heart to make it tempting to close his eyes and hope to dream of Lyra; so he stood up and said to Asta, “Come on. Let’s go and do some work.”

At eleven that night, Mr. and Mrs. Polstead were talking quietly in bed. It was the second evening of Lyra’s stay at the Trout. She was in her bedroom; the girl who helped in the kitchen, the potboy, the assistant barman had all gone home; there were no guests.

“I can’t make her out,” said Reg Polstead.

“Lyra? What d’you mean?”

“She seems perfectly cheerful on the surface. Full of, you know, chatter, friendliness. Then sometimes she’ll fall quiet and her whole face changes. It’s as if she’s just had some bad news.”

“No,” said his wife, “it’s not like that. She doesn’t look shocked. She looks lonely. She looks as if she’s used to it and doesn’t expect anything else, but that’s what she is. Melancholy.”