The man smiled. ‘Yes?’ he repeated. Rebus couldn’t take his own eyes off those of the elderly man. Those green lenses reminded him of claret bottles. Vanderhyde would
be sixty-five, maybe seventy. His hair was silvery yellow, thick, well groomed. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, brown waistcoat, a watch chain hanging from one pocket. And he was leaning ever so slightly on a silver- topped stick. For some reason, Rebus had the idea that Vanderhyde would be able to handle that cane swiftly and effectively as a weapon, should anyone unpleasant ever come calling.
‘Mr Vanderhyde, I’m a police officer.’ Rebus was reaching for his wallet.
‘Don’t bother with identification, unless it’s in braille.’ Vanderhyde’s words stopped Rebus short, his hand frozen in his inside jacket pocket.
‘Of course,’ he mumbled, feeling ever so slightly ridiculous. Funny how people with disabilities had that special gift of making you seem so much less able than them.
‘You’d better come in, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’ Rebus was in the hall before it hit him. ‘How did you -?’
Vanderhyde shook his head. ‘A lucky guess,’ he said, leading the way. ‘A shot in the dark, you might say.’ His laughter was abrasive. Rebus, studying what he could see of the hall, was wondering how even a blind man could make such a botched job of interior decoration. A stuffed owl stared down from its dusty pedestal, next to an umbrella stand which seemed to consist of a hollowed elephant’s foot. An ornately carved occasional table boasted a pile of unread mail and a cordless telephone. Rebus gave this latter item most attention.
‘Technology has made such progress, don’t you agree?’ Vanderhyde was saying. ‘Invaluable for those of us who have lost one of the senses.’
‘Yes,’ Rebus replied, as Vanderhyde opened the door to another room, almost as dark to Rebus’s eyes as the hall.
‘In here, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’ The room was musty, and smelled of old people’s medicaments. It was comfortably furnished, with a deep sofa and two robust armchairs. Books lay behind glass along one wall. Some uninspired watercolours stopped the other walls from seeming bare. There were ornaments everywhere. Those on the mantelpiece caught Rebus’s eye. There wasn’t a spare centimetre of space on the deep wooden mantelpiece, and the ornaments were exotic. Rebus could identify African, Caribbean, Asian and Oriental influences, without being able to pinpoint any one country for any one piece.
Vanderhyde flopped into a chair. It struck Rebus that there .were no occasional tables scattered through the room, no extraneous furniture into which the blind man might bump.
‘Nick-nacks, Inspector. Gewgaws collected on my travels as a younger man.’
‘Evidence of a lot of travel.’
‘Evidence of a magpie mind,’ Vanderhyde corrected. ‘Would you care for some tea?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
‘Something a little stronger perhaps?’
‘Thank you, but no.’ Rebus smiled. ‘I’d a bit too much last night.’
‘Your smile comes over in your voice.’
‘You don’t seem curious as to why I’m here, Mr Vanderhyde.’
‘Perhaps that’s because I know, Inspector. Or, perhaps it’s because my patience is limitless. Time doesn’t mean as much to me as to most people. I’m in no hurry for your explanations. I’m not a clock watcher, you see.’ He was smiling again, eyes fixed somewhere just right of Rebus and above him. Rebus stayed silent, inviting further speculation. ‘Then again,’ Vanderhyde continued, ’since I no longer go out, and have few visitors, and since I have never to my knowledge broken the laws of the land, that
certainly narrows the possible reasons for your visit. You’re sure you won’t have some tea?’
‘Don’t let me stop you making some for yourself.’ Rebus had spotted the near-empty mug sitting on the floor beside the old man’s chair. He looked down around his own chair. Another mug sat on the muted pattern of the carpet. He reached a silent arm down towards it. There was a slight warmth on the base of the mug, a warmth on the carpet beneath.
‘No,’ Vanderhyde said. ‘I had one just recently. As did my visitor.’
‘Visitor?’ Rebus sounded surprised. The old man smiled, giving a slight and indulgent shake of his head. Rebus, feeling caught, decided to push on anyway. ‘I thought you said you didn’t get many visitors?’
‘No, I don’t recall quite saying that. Still, it happens to be true. Today is the exception that proves the rule. Two visitors.’
‘Might I ask who the other visitor was?’
‘Might I ask, Inspector, why you’re here?’
It was Rebus’s turn to smile, nodding to himself. The blood was rising in the old man’s cheeks. Rebus had succeeded in riling him.
‘Well?’ There was impatience in Vanderhyde’s voice.
‘Well, sir.’ Rebus deliberately pulled himself out of the chair and began to circuit the room. ‘I came across your name in an undergraduate essay on the occult. Does that surprise you?’
The old man considered this. ‘It pleases me slightly. I do have an ego that needs feeding, after all.’
‘But it doesn’t surprise you?’ Vanderhyde shrugged. ‘This essay mentioned you in connection with the workings of an Edinburgh-based group, a sort of coven, working in the nineteen sixties.’
