'Crisis!' I shouted. 'Look at this! I've only just seen it. Magnus caught an earlier train. Why the hell didn't he telephone? What a bloody mess-up!'
Vita, distraught, looked at the half-fried mackerel. 'He'll be here for dinner, then? Good heavens, I can't give him this! I must say it shows very little consideration for us. Surely—'
'Of course Magnus will eat mackerel,' I shouted, already half-way down the back stairs. 'Brought up on it, very probably. And we've cheese and fruit. What are you fussing about?'
I tore out to the car, in half-agreement with her immediate reaction that to change his time of arrival, knowing we could easily be out for the day, showed small consideration for his hosts. But that was Magnus. An earlier train had suited his plans and he had caught it. If I arrived late to meet him he would probably take a taxi and pass me en route with a callous wave of the hand.
Ill-luck dogged me to Saint Austell. Some fool had driven his car into the side of the road, and there was a long queue of traffic waiting to get past. It was a quarter to nine before I drew up at Saint Austell station. No sign of Magnus, and I did not blame him. The platform was empty, and everywhere seemed to be shut up. Finally I routed out a porter on the other side of the station. He looked vague, and told me that the seven-thirty had been on time.
'I dare say,' I replied. 'That's not the point. The point is I was meeting someone off it, and he isn't here.'
'Well, sir,' he grinned, 'he probably got tired of waiting and took a taxi.'
'If he'd done that', I said, 'he would have telephoned, or left a message with the chap in the booking-office. Were you here when the train came in?'
'No,' he said. 'The booking-office will be open again in time for the next down train, due at a quarter to ten.'
'That's no good to me,' I told him, exasperated. Poor devil, it wasn't his fault.
'I tell you what, sir,' he said, 'I'll open it up and see if your friend left a message.'
We went back to the station and laboriously, or so it seemed to me, he fitted a key in the lock and opened the office door. I followed close behind. The first thing I noticed was a suitcase standing against the wall with the initials M. A. L. upon it.
'That's it,' I said, 'that's his case. But why did he leave it here?' The porter went to the desk and picked up a piece of paper. 'Suitcase with initials M. A. L. handed in by guard on seven-thirty train,' he read, 'to be delivered to gentleman named Mr. Richard Young. You Mr. Young?'
'Yes,' I said, 'but where's Professor Lane?'
The porter studied the piece of paper. 'Owner of suitcase, Professor Lane, gave message to guard that he had changed his mind and decided to get out at Par and walk from there. Told guard Mr. Young would understand. He handed me the scrap of paper, and I read it for myself.'
'I don't understand,' I said, more exasperated than ever. 'I didn't think the London trains stopped at Par these days.'
'They don't,' replied the porter. 'They stop at Bodmin Road, and anyone wanting Par changes there, and gets the connection. That's what your friend must have done.'
'What a bloody silly thing to do,' I said.
The porter laughed. 'Well, it's a fine evening for a walk,' he said, 'and there's no accounting for tastes.'
I thanked him for his trouble and went back to the car, throwing the suitcase on the back seat. Why the hell Magnus should take it into his head to alter every one of our arrangements beat me. He must be at Kilmarth by this time, sitting down to his mackerel supper, making a joke of the affair to Vita and the boys. I drove back at breakneck speed and arrived home just after half-past nine, furiously angry. Vita, changed into a sleeveless frock and with fresh make-up on, appeared from the music-room as I ran up the steps.
'Whatever happened to you both?' she said, the hostess smile of welcome fading as she saw I was alone. 'Where is he?'
'You mean to say he hasn't turned up yet?' I cried.
'Turned up?' she repeated, bewildered. 'Of course he hasn't turned up. You met the train, didn't you?'
'Oh, Jesus! What the hell is going on? Look,' I said wearily, 'Magnus wasn't at Saint Austell, only his suitcase. He left a message with the guard on the 7.30 train that he'd be getting out at Par and walking here. Don't ask me why. One of his bloody silly ideas. But he should have been here by now.'
I went into the music-room and poured myself a drink and Vita followed, the boys running down to the car to fetch the suitcase.
'Well really,' she said, 'I expected more consideration from your Professor, I must say. First he changes trains, then he changes connections, and finally he doesn't bother to turn up at all. I expect he found a taxi at Par and has gone off to have dinner somewhere.'
'Maybe, I said, but why not telephone to say so?'
'He's your friend, darling, not mine. You're supposed to know his ways. Well, I'm not going to wait any longer, I'm starving.'
The uncooked mackerel was put aside for Magnus's breakfast, though I was pretty sure orange juice and black coffee would be his choice, and Vita and I sat down to a hasty snack of game pie, which she remembered she had brought down from London and had put at the back of the fridge. Meanwhile Teddy rang, or tried to ring, Par station, with no result.
'They did not answer. You know what,' he said, 'the Professor may have been kidnapped by some organisation in search of secret documents.'
'Very likely,' I said. 'I'll give him half an hour longer and then ring Scotland Yard.'
'Or had a heart attack,' suggested Micky, 'flogging up Polmear hill. Mrs. Collins told me her grandfather died walking up it thirty years ago when he missed the bus.' I pushed aside my plate and swallowed the last drop of whisky.
'You're perspiring again, darling,' said Vita. 'I can't say I blame you. But don't you think it might be a good idea if you went up and changed your shirt?'
I took the hint and left the dining-room, pausing at the top of the stairs to glance into the spare-room. Why the hell hadn't Magnus telephoned to say what he was doing, or at least written a note instead of giving the guard a verbal message that had probably been garbled anyway? I drew the curtains and switched on the bedside light, which made the room look more snug. Magnus's suitcase was lying on the chair at the bottom of the bed, and I tried the hasps. To my surprise it opened. Magnus, unlike myself, was a methodical packer. Sky-blue pyjamas and Paisley dressing-gown reposed beneath a top layer of tissue paper, with blue leather bedroom slippers in their own cellophane container alongside. A couple of suits, a change of underwear beneath. Well, it was not an hotel or a stately home; he could do his own unpacking. The only gesture from host to guest — or was it the other way round? — would be to place the pyjamas on the pillow and drape the dressing-gown over the chair.
I took both out of the case, and saw that there was a long, buff-coloured envelope immediately beneath them, and typed upon it the words: 'Otto Bodrugan. Writ and Inquisition. 10 Oct. 5 Edward III. (1331)'
The student must have been at work again. I sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the envelope. It was a copy of a document giving the names of the various manors and lands owned by Otto Bodrugan at the time of his death. The manor of Bodrugan was amongst them, but he apparently paid rent for it to Joanna, Relict of Henry de Campo Arnulphi (which must be Champernoune). A further paragraph followed: 'Henry his son, aged twenty-one years and more, was his next heir, who died three weeks after his said father, so that he had no seisin in the inheritance aforesaid, nor did he know of his father's death. William son of the aforesaid Otto, and brother of the said Henry, aged twenty years on the morrow of the feast of Saint Giles last, is his next heir.' It was a strange sensation, sitting there on the bed, reading something I already knew. The monks had done their best, or perhaps their worst, for young Henry at the Priory, and he had not survived. I was glad he had never been told of his father's death.
There was another long list of properties which Henry, if he had lived, would have inherited from Otto, and then a further note, taken from the Calendar of Fine Rolls.
'Oct. 10. Westminster. 1331. Order to the escheator on this side Trent to take into the King's hand the lands late of Otto de Bodrugan, deceased, tenant-in-chief.'
The student had scribbled P.T.O. at the bottom of the page, and turning over I found a half-page attached, also taken from the Calendar of Fine Rolls, and dated Nov. 14th, 1331, from Windsor.
