rolled over on to his face. As he struggled to move, he heard the sound of car doors slamming and a motor being started. Somewhere in the darkness, voices were calling. He saw lights weaving through the shadows and red blood on the snow and the dark shapes of men and women standing and staring at him. There was a roaring sound, then the headlights of a large car stabbed through the darkness at him. A second later, they were gone and he was in the darkness, sobbing into the bitter snow.
The clock on the Abbey tower chimed six times. It was Tuesday evening, and the market-place, recently filled with people buying geese and turkeys for the coming Festival, was deserted. Snow had begun to fall, gentle and bright against the uncertain halo of a street lamp.
Christopher was growing cold. Winterpole should have been here by now. On the telephone he had said he was taking the midmorning train from King’s Cross to Newcastle, then driving the rest of the way to Hexham. Even allowing for a quick lunch, he should have been here two hours ago.
It was two days now since the attack and William’s kidnap, and still the police had nothing to report. A superintendent had grilled Christopher for hours, asking questions both men knew could not be answered. Scotland Yard had been notified, and an alert put out to watch every port; but nothing had been seen of three foreigners and a boy in a large car. The kidnappers themselves had remained silent: no message, no telephone call, no ransom note. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.
Christopher walked up and down in an effort to keep warm.
Behind him, the coloured windows of the Abbey hung suspended in the blackness, dimly lit patterns from another age. A faint sound of singing could be heard: Evensong was almost over.
Out of the darkness, borne on the cold night air, all the smells of England came to him, whether real or imagined he neither knew nor cared. He smelled dead leaves beneath the snow on the Sele, and below that the fragrance of countless summer days, the odours of leather and resin and polished willow, grass trodden beneath the feet of running batsmen, the green turf cut away at the crease, the naked soil giving up its worms. And flowers in spring, and bonfires in autumn, and the dead rotting in ancient churchyards all winter long.
There was the sound of an engine coming down Priestpopple on to Battle Hill. He heard it turn right into Beaumont Street, heading for the Abbey, and moments later its lights appeared. The car stopped on the corner opposite him and the driver extinguished the lights and the engine. Winterpole had come at last. Winterpole and all he stood for. Christopher shivered and walked across the street. The car door was already open, waiting for him.
There was just enough light from the nearest gas-lamp to confirm what Christopher had already guessed: Winterpole had not changed visibly since they last met. A little greyer on the temples, perhaps, a little tighter around the lips, but otherwise unchanged and unchangeable. As always, he reminded Christopher of nothing so vividly as an undertaker. He dressed in black whatever the season or the time of day, as though in perpetual mourning, though what or whom he mourned for no-one had ever been able to guess.
Briefly, as he entered the car and closed the door, Christopher caught a glimpse of Winterpole’s eyes. Who was it had said, all those years ago, that they were like a doll’s eyes? Perfect, blue, and shining, yet with no more life in them than pieces of cobalt glass.
Splinters in the skin, grown hard over the years. It was rumoured that the only time he had ever been known to smile was when his mother died after a long illness. He had turned up late for a rugger match somewhere.
“Sorry I’m late,” he was reputed to have said, “I’ve just been burying my mother.” And he had smiled.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting in the cold,” he said as soon as Christopher had settled in the soft passenger seat.
“I came as quickly as I could. The trains are running to time, but the road to Hexham is bad. I was lucky to get through.”
Christopher wiped a half-moon in the condensation on the window by his side and looked out. The lights were going out in the Abbey and the last worshippers were making their way home in silence. After Sunday, people were staying together.
“Yes,” Christopher murmured.
“You were lucky.”
Major Simon Winterpole was the head of British Military Intelligence’s Russian and Far Eastern Section. Since the Bolshevik revolution of 1917, his had become one of the most powerful voices in the country, discreetly but firmly guiding British foreign policy with respect to out-of-the-way places most Ministers had never even heard of. Even before the war, he and Christopher had met regularly to discuss Russian intelligence activities on the northern borders of India.
“How long has it been now, Christopher?” Winterpole asked.
“How long?”
“Since we last met. Since we last spoke.”
Christopher did not have to think. He remembered their last meeting well.
“Five years,” he said.
“At the end of nineteen-fifteen. You came to Delhi after the Benares Conspiracy Trial.”
“So I did. I remember now. A lot has happened since then.”
Christopher did not reply. He hated meeting in the dark like this, like men who had something to hide. Like clandestine lovers.
But Winterpole had insisted. Unlike Christopher, he loved the secretiveness of his trade, the little rituals that set him and his colleagues apart from other men.
“And how long is it now since you left the service?” Winterpole went on.
“A year,” answered Christopher.
“A little more. I thought you might come then. You or someone like you. But no-one came. Just a letter, signed by someone called Philpott. All about the Official Secrets Act. And my pension.”
“We thought you needed time,” said Winterpole.
“Time? Time for what?”
“To mull things over. To get away from things.”
“What was there to mull over? I had made my mind up.”
“Dehra Dun. The war in general. Your wife’s death. Whatever mattered to you. Whatever still matters to you now.”
Several of Christopher’s best agents had died in Dehra Dun because of an administrative blunder by the Delhi Intelligence Bureau, to which he had been attached. He still felt a sense of responsibility for the deaths, though he had been in no way to blame for them.
“I was surprised,” Christopher said at last.
“Surprised?”
“That you let me go so easily. Just that letter. That letter from Philpott; whoever Philpott is.”
Winterpole took a silver cigarette-case from his pocket and snapped it open. He offered a cigarette to Christopher, but he declined. Delicately, Winterpole extracted a single cigarette for himself, closed the case, and put the cigarette between his lips. He paused briefly to light it. Christopher remembered the smell from the old days. The match flared briefly and died.
“How can I help you, Christopher?” Winterpole asked.
“You say your boy was kidnapped. I’m sorry to hear that. And I understand someone was killed; a priest. Have the police discovered anything?”
Christopher shook his head.
“You know they haven’t.”
“Have you no idea at all who was responsible?”
“I was hoping you might tell me that.”
There was a nervous silence. Winterpole drew on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, through the corners of his mouth. The car filled slowly with a perfumed smoke.
“Me? Why should I know anything about this?”
“You didn’t travel all the way from London to tell me you know nothing.
A telegram would have done. A telephone call. A messenger-boy.”
Winterpole said nothing. He was watching the snow fall against the windscreen.
“Let me tell you exactly what happened,” Christopher went on.
