relapsed into a suffused presence behind the ceiling of steady grey. The shadows of buildings were smoothed and softened and the presence of the buildings strangely enlarged, while the railway smell of London streets had sharpened until it pressed upon the consciousness. At Evans’s request they had lunched at a Corner House, a murmuring hall of communal eating; and now they were driving out to Wimbledon, retracing their route of the day before. Evans was deep in a midday paper: his sombre mood had become almost a sulk. The matter of the rope had failed to stir his enthusiasm, it was a frivolous detail, it was almost academic.
‘But it happened all that time ago, man.’ During lunch he had condescended to discuss it. ‘Kincaid’s forgotten it, if he ever understood. That’s plain enough now, and I ought to have my head tested.’
‘It gives a sound enough motive, taken together with the circumstances.’
‘Aye, so I thought. And you’ve proved me wrong.’
‘And for the first time it enables us to link Kincaid with Kincaid.’
‘That’s bloody magnificent. You job is done, man.’
So Gently had let it drop, though he felt absurdly pleased with himself. It had been no mean feat, this slipping of a lassoo over Kincaid. A lot of talent had been loosed on it before Gently came on the scene, and up till that moment nothing tangible had emerged from the research. But now it had. That missing rope flashed an unmistakable positive. It underwrote Kincaid’s story with a persuasive flourish. The shadowy past has been penetrated and the shadowy present grown more distinct: this might be only a first step, but it suggested that further steps were possible. And who knew even yet what the value of identifying Kincaid might be? The spotlight had shifted on to Heslington, but it was a purely circumstantial spotlight…
Evans lowered his paper and gave the Thames a dirty look, but he raised it again as they crawled through Putney. The Welsh inspector had no more doubts, he was seeing the case in black and white; in that curious dance of death his attention was fixed on Raymond Heslington. But Kincaid was still there, he still held the centre of the stage. He remained the dancer whose appearance had set the ballet in motion. Was it possible to dismiss him now as an accidental subsidiary, a monumental introduction to a commonplace finale? Gently involuntarily shook his head. He couldn’t credit that, yet. Now, before he had seen Heslington, he could affirm that his mind was still open. In an hour it might be different, this was what they were going to discover; but as they drove towards Wimbledon the balance was level, though tremulous.
Hadrian’s Villa, Heslington’s house, was sited actually on the Common, and appeared as a white flat-topped building partly hidden by a grove of birches. It had a courtyard which was enclosed by high pantile-capped walls, and these were pierced by a round-arched gateway and by occasional unglazed windows. The driver parked before the gateway and the two of them got out. Through the wrought-iron gate, which bore an imperial eagle, they could see a formal garden and a colonnade. The paths of the garden were of zigzagged brick, and in the centre stood the statue of a youth, in bronze; the colonnade was reached by a shallow flight of steps and its tiled roof was supported by short, slab-top pillars. Over the gateway was a round stone plaque. Its inscription read: HADRIANVS AVGVSTVS.
There was a bell-pull and Gently tugged at it, producing a distant, melodious chime. After an interval a door was opened and a woman came across to the gate. They both stared at her in amazement; she was a surprise for Wimbledon Common; she was dressed in a voluminous scarlet robe which was tucked in at the waist with a belt of leather. On her feet she had drawstring sandals and her hair was piled beneath a copper ring. She was about fifty and had rather hard features. She eyed them coldly but without embarrassment.
‘You wanted something?’
Her voice spoiled the illusion. It was a voice from the wrong side of Aldgate Pump.
‘We want to speak to Mr Heslington. We are C.I.D. officers.’
‘Oh, I see. It’s about that, is it? You’d better come in while I go and tell him. Mr Heslington’s a bit particular; he doesn’t like people to come disturbing him.’
She closed the gate with a slight slam and led them over to the colonnade, her long robe swishing at every step and her sandals shuffling on the bricks. When she’d left them their eyes met and their shoulders lifted in unison. There was no commenting on this: one could only exchange a gesture! Gently glanced round the courtyard. It was all of a piece with the general theme; various round-arched, stump-pillared outbuildings, some miniature holm-oaks and minor statuary. He noticed a pair of modern folding doors.
‘Take a look into the garage, will you?’
Evans sneaked over and tried to open the doors, but they were apparently locked and he was obliged to squint through the window. He returned.
‘So what does he keep there. A couple of chariots for the Common?’
‘No, man. A Ford Anglia. And a green-and-cream Austin-Healey.’
‘Then where the devil-?’ Gently was beginning, when the return of the housekeeper interrupted him. She threw a look at Evans which suggested that she had witnessed his manoeuvre.
‘Mr Heslington says he’ll see you, if you’ll kindly step inside. It’s the second door on the right.’
She flounced rustlingly away.
A passage ran the length of the house as an interior parallel to the colonnade and its floor was paved with mosaic in a pattern of red and white. Gently tapped at the door, which was painted apple-green, and on hearing a response turned the bronze claw handle. It was like straying on to a theatre set. The room beyond was awe- inspiring. It was some fifteen feet in height and perhaps twenty feet square. The walls were panelled with rusty marble, framed by inlays of alabaster, and a frieze of the same material was rendered with formalized designs in colour. The floor was bare and of warm, veined stone, with a rich mosaic in the centre, and the only furniture was a marble table with gilded legs and lion-claw feet. The room possessed an antechamber on the side opposite to the door. This opened into a conservatory in which grew a vine and some potted shrubs. It also contained some more useful furnishings, a table in bronze, a bench and a couch, and it was here that Heslington stood waiting for them: clad — it was inevitable — in a purple toga.
‘ Tempori parendum. Come in and sit down.’
He was a man who, surprisingly, looked well in a toga. His age was forty-four and his height about five feet ten; he was lean but broad in the shoulder, and his shoulders sloped gracefully. But there was nothing Roman in his features unless it was the slight hook of the nose; he had reddish hair, flecked with grey, hazel eyes and a full beard. His complexion was fresh and his teeth uneven but good, and he spoke in a deep tone with a good deal of resonance. He nodded to Evans but didn’t shake hands.
‘I thought you’d settled this business, Inspector. I didn’t expect you to lug me back to it from the public baths in Pompeii.’
Evans looked startled. ‘From where was it you said, sir?’
‘The public baths in Pompeii.’ Heslington pointed to the paper-strewn table. ‘I’d just written myself in. I write books, you know. And I was deep in the baths when Mrs Vincent came to announce you. But never mind, I’m out now; I’m busy towellingmy hair. So if the twentieth century has questions, let the second century hear them.’
He did it well, but not well enough to conceal his uneasiness, nor to control the challenging glance which he flashed at Gently. The twentieth century was probably closer than the second century liked to admit, and stood in danger of closing the gap with less than senatorial ceremony.
‘This is Superintendent Gently, sir. He’s assisting me in the case.’ Evans was curt. He stepped back a pace to leave no doubt who was the principal.
‘Really?’ Heslington surveyed Gently again. Now it was with a touch of boredom. ‘I hope I can do something for him besides repeating repetitions. Would you be interested in archaeological reconstruction, Superintendent?’
Gently hunched non-commitally. ‘I’m always interested in reconstructions.’
‘You stand on the site and in the triclinium of an Anglo-Roman villa. The Emperor Hadrian’s I maintain, though I fail to carry a majority.’
‘My reconstructions are more modern.’
‘After Rome the field is plebeian.’
‘All the same, it has its points. I’ve a present interest in cars.’
‘You’ve come to the wrong person, I’m afraid.’
Gently shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’m wondering how you run an Austin-Healey in addition to the car you’ve officially taxed.’
