Snatched Read online

  ‘It’s just that I have to give a speech tonight,’ Lepage said. ‘Obviously, I would not wish to make premature, confidential disclosures. But I feel very much in the dark as to what tone I should take.’

  ‘Ah, tone,’ Kanda remarked excitedly. ‘Could anything be more crucial? This is where the English language is so famously subtle. You are very lucky. But, no, I must take that back. It is not luck that has produced such splendid sensitivity in your language. It is time, it is answered need, it is imagination.’

  ‘Oh, yes indeed, “tone”,’ Itagaki said. ‘This is where irony comes in and such matters as understatement, or “litotes”, to give it the Greek via Latin term. If there is one thing I can never get my fill of it’s litotes. Among colleagues I am notorious for this. Upon being posted to Britain I declared that what I most looked forward to were real ale and litotes.’

  As the music stopped and people began leaving the floor, Lepage thought he glimpsed for a moment a gorgeous turquoise, silver and white dress on a woman who might be Kate. Then she was obscured by the crowd. He watched keenly for her to emerge, but there was no reappearance.

  Itagaki said: ‘Continuing our theme, there were, I believe, “ditties of no tone” in a poem by John Keats, but this is a very difficult concept. What a ditty must have, surely, above all else, is tone – namely, the specific tone of a ditty, otherwise we could be in the realm of the roundelay or barcarole.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to sound optimistic in my speech about the Hulliborn’s prospects, or guarded, or depressed,’ Lepage replied.

  ‘Do not be ashamed of your uncertainties, Dr Lepage,’ Itagaki said. ‘They are the very stuff of life. Doubt can be a right old bastard, but also a stimulant.’

  The music restarted, and people came out to dance again. ‘There now is Quentin Youde, partnering his wife, Laura,’ Kanda said. ‘That is very charming and wholesome, in the circs.’

  ‘Decent,’ Itagaki said.

  Lepage could see Julia partnering one of the BBC people. Although he scoured the faces once more he still didn’t see Kate. He left Kanda and Itagaki and went down to the bar. He waited for Julia to join him. But when the music ended again, it was Ursula who touched his arm. ‘George,’ she said, ‘you’ll have noticed that, as agreed, I’ve been taking close care of Nev.’

  ‘Yes, good.’

  ‘But now he’s given me the slip. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It could be nothing,’ Lepage said. ‘He seemed happy.’

  ‘Yes, he did. But what about?’

  ‘Being with you? Memories revived?’

  ‘It was calculated.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Escaping from me. Very deliberate and crafty, and to hell with memories. It’s worrying, isn’t it, George?’

  Yes, bloody worrying. ‘I expect he’ll turn up,’ he said.

  ‘Where, though?’

  True. They went to the edge of the dance floor together and looked for Falldew. No success. ‘It should be easy to spot him – that head which is almost not a head, and the cummerbund. Keep searching here, will you, Ursula?’

  Lepage followed instinct – absurd instinct? – and made his way quickly towards the Folk gallery. Reaching there, though, he found the door to the medieval breakfast tableau safely locked and no sign of Nev. Lepage was about to return to the dancing when instinct – super-absurd, atavistic instinct? – pushed him again, and with his master key he opened the door, switched on the non-medieval light and went in. Here, too, everything looked normal. He stood in the doorway and stared very thoroughly around the room: possibly Falldew owned duplicates of all Hulliborn keys. Although nothing seemed wrong, Lepage could not rest. As if merely pacing aimlessly, he crossed the room towards the old patriarch, humming with emphatic nonchalance, and, when close, very suddenly turned and grabbed its raised arm, the one pointing so proudly at the table spread with its prop breakfast. ‘Better come quietly, dear Nev,’ he cooed. ‘You won’t be sporting your oak in here any more, will you?’

  But, of course, of course, under the sack jacket its arm was unmistakable wax: thin and pipe-like, and not the thinness and pipe-likeness that might come from undernourishment, and an attempt to harmonize with Falldew’s flimsy head, but the thinness and pipe-likeness of artificiality. Lepage felt ashamed of his suspicion and stupidity. What would have been in it for Nev tonight with no public present to witness any personal display? God, Lepage thought, perhaps he – he, Lepage – did need early retirement after all. Had some of Falldew’s mania rubbed off on to him? Was the job too big? Once more he found himself asking what Butler-Minton would have done about all this; found himself, in fact, actually preparing the words to be used in a plea. At the same time, he had a vision of himself all ponced up in tails and shiny black shoes, official host at a notable function, and yet about to address the definitely dead, implore the definitely dead flouncer for help.

  Then, while he continued to hold the effigy very firmly, paralysed for the moment by guilt and confusion, Lepage heard someone move swiftly behind him at the door, and, turning, full of panic, he gasped: ‘Flounce? I mean, Sir Eric? Thank God. Aid. But no, no, how could it be?’ It was, instead, the squat, energetic untentative frame of Angus Beresford, Entomology, that Lepage saw entering at a fierce rush, eyes full of rage and hatred above his excellent, obviously custom-made tails. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Director?’

  ‘I—’

  But Beresford was not interested. ‘Is it Falldew again? I’ve said all along he shouldn’t be asked. But, anyway, we’ve got the creature this time, before he can start further disgrace and trouble. Hang on to him. Oh, yes, hang on to him. I saw the door was open, knew something must be up. Yes, something must be up. Great work, George.’ He pushed the door shut. ‘Now, together, we can beat the shit out of him. Nobody will hear the screams above the band. Let’s use the bumkins’ medieval hoes and pitchforks, yes?’ He more or less sprinted across the room and, before Lepage could say anything, threw a heavy left-hand punch that landed square in the middle of the patriarch’s face, and followed it with a swinging right to the stomach. The model was torn from Lepage’s grip, spun around and dropped once more on to the straw. The closed door kept the band noise out, and Beresford would have heard the particular, almost negligible sound when the dummy hit the floor. It had nothing like the solidity and weight of a human body falling. It settled at their feet with not much more than a mild, rustling crackle. ‘My God,’ Beresford said, ‘it’s not Neville. What the hell are you doing in here, Director, holding a nothing’s arm and talking to Flounce?’

  ‘We should get out,’ Lepage replied. ‘There’s been a slight error. It might all be difficult to explain. I’ll try to do repairs tomorrow.’

  Beresford went and picked up the patriarch. He lifted him very gently, as though to compensate for the ferocity of his attack. Because of the first punch, the model’s features were wrecked, with both glass eyes and the nose now on one side of the face, like a tilted fruit salad; and the body seemed twisted and unnaturally bent on account of the later blow. ‘Can we really put him back to rights, George?’ Beresford said.

  ‘I don’t want to hang about in here. I have a bridge-building speech to make.’

  Beresford tried to get the figure propped up safely against a big piece of tree trunk that was there as its chair, but all balance and poise seemed to have gone, and it slumped forward into Lepage’s arms like a drunk. Its own arm still pointed forwards in what could be mistaken for a warm and moving attempt to embrace George.

  ‘We’ll just have to leave it, Angus. Say it was vandals, or the room temperature too high, causing selective meltdown.’

  Hand-brushing his tails, Beresford said doggedly: ‘Director, I don’t regard myself as blameworthy. Why, almost any man with the Hulliborn’s interests at heart might have done the same. I still mean to catch up with Falldew.’

  Lepage had been so frequently in contact with the patriarch lately that he’d begun
to develop a terrible feeling of nearness, as if their lives were unbreakably bound together, like Héloïse and Abelard. Now, while Beresford took the body of the old, beaten-up peasant and went to lay it out as neatly and humanely as possible on the mock-hovel floor, Lepage moved towards the door, ready to leave. As he neared it, though, it suddenly started to open gently and he caught sight of the skirt of a beautiful turquoise, silver and white evening dress. Kate looked happily around the door’s edge at him.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘somehow I knew you’d come here and wait for me, despite that silly spat we had about the invitation. Oh, George, love, this is our own special place.’

  ‘No, Kate, there’s someone else here,’ Lepage whispered. He stepped out from the room past her and pulled the door more or less closed In the passageway he spoke very sotto to Kate. ‘There have been developments.’

  ‘Someone else?’ Thank God she whispered, too. ‘Who? Who’ve you brought here now, you insatiable swine? That Japanese slag in black? You want everything in sight! So, where is she? She going to give you a bit of geisha? This your regular lech venue, is it, no matter who with?’

  ‘A minor crisis,’ Lepage replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The old father peasant was misunderstood, and some violence resulted.’

  ‘Misunderstood? He’s wax. How could he be misunderstood?’

  ‘Misunderstood in the sense that his waxness wasn’t recognized – not until too late. It’s the opposite of what happened to you.’

  ‘Damage?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Oh dear. I must see.’

  ‘Well, all right.’ Lepage pushed the door open. Beresford was still on the other side of the room with the peasant family, crouched very low over the dad, like someone giving the kiss of life, apparently trying to do some cosmetic repairs on its face with his thumb. He looked up as Kate and Lepage came further into the room.

  ‘Good God, don’t I know you?’ he asked Kate. ‘You’re the affronted woman, surely. I saw you in the mêlée on that appalling day, didn’t I?’

  ‘What’s the matter with that dummy?’ Kate replied.

  ‘It can all be put right,’ Lepage said.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Beresford asked her.

  ‘I believe Miss Avis has a fixation on this room, following the incident,’ Lepage said. ‘Something that compels her. It’s sad, yet, perhaps, understandable.’

  ‘And dressed up for it so beautifully,’ Beresford said. ‘I don’t get it. You were invited, Miss Avis?’

  ‘It seemed the decent thing to do,’ Lepage said. ‘A sort of apologetic gesture for what happened on these premises under different circumstances.’

  ‘That bastard Falldew has done lasting psychological injury to her,’ Beresford said.

  ‘I felt an obligation to counter that,’ Lepage said.

  ‘You’ve been very wise and considerate, George,’ Beresford said.

  Kate crossed the room and stared down at the peasant. As far as Lepage could tell, Beresford’s attempts to reconstruct a face for the model had not worked, and its nose had more or less disappeared. ‘What’s happened to him?’ Kate asked. ‘I hadn’t realized he was damaged when he fell the other—’

  ‘He’s very fragile,’ Lepage said.

  ‘You mustn’t be upset, Miss Avis,’ Beresford said. ‘I see that he might be of special significance to you, in however dark a fashion.’

  ‘No, not dark,’ she said. ‘Not any longer. Not in his authentic form. I feel very fond of him, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Oh, that’s rather beyond me. I’m only a Keeper of Entomology, not a psychologist.’

  ‘We share certain memories, as it were, he and I,’ she said.

  Beresford considered this for a few moments. ‘Ah!’ Suddenly, he nodded in recognition. ‘I see – think I see. You mean in the deepest sense: that of folk memories? You feel a link across the ages, perhaps. Our common humanity. He – it – can only represent humanity, being simply a model, but it works, just the same. Very fine. That’s what museums are about in large measure, of course.’

  ‘Most of the time, I think of him as “he” not “it”.’

  ‘Arthur will be gratified,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Who’s Arthur?’ she said.

  ‘Hugh Arthur is Folk,’ Lepage said.

  ‘“Is folk”? I don’t understand. Aren’t we all folk?’

  ‘That’s what Angus means,’ Lepage said. ‘Linkage across the centuries: you, me, Angus and what the wax man stands for. Look, I think we should leave now and say nothing of this. It doesn’t really fit in with the occasion.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Beresford said.

  ‘But what did happen to his face?’ Kate asked, bending over the patriarch, which lay on its back near the piece of tree trunk. ‘This isn’t the result of just a fall. It’s as if he’s been struck with something. What kind of loony would thump a waxwork, though?’ She raised the figure a little by its shoulders, so she could examine the damage more closely. It was a bit like a tango movement, Lepage thought, when the man swings the woman towards the ground and pulls her up, though now Kate had the man’s role, like Daphne with Osgood Fielding in Some Like It Hot.

  Her remarks had made Beresford ratty. ‘I’m not certain how one judges the cause of injuries in a dummy. Perhaps we should send for a medieval medic.’

  ‘What did you say you were Keeper of?’ Kate replied. ‘Wit? You certainly keep all that to yourself.’

  The door opened, fairly abruptly this time, and a youngish man unknown to Lepage stood there, his tails grand. ‘Kate!’ he cried. ‘I’ve been looking all over. Saw the light under the door. Listen: there’s something very strange going on in the ballroom. You must come and see. But why are you holding that ghastly thing?’

  ‘Strange? “Very strange”?’ Lepage asked, full of alarm. ‘Strange how?’

  ‘This rather bizarre looking guy out there.’

  ‘“Bizarre”? So, the archbishop? The BBC Head of Programmes? The place is full of them.’

  ‘But really bizarre. His head.’

  ‘What about it? Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘He’s my escort,’ Kate said. ‘Adrian. From the agency. We hit it off at once, didn’t we, Adrian?’

  ‘His head?’ Lepage said.

  ‘So narrow,’ Adrian replied. ‘Like a fox’s.’

  ‘Falldew,’ Angus Beresford said. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Now, wait a minute,’ Lepage said. ‘Let’s be sure of our moves. Close the door, please, Adrian.’ He found himself deliberately working for delay, scared of discovering more trouble.

  ‘But what’s going on in here?’ Adrian replied. ‘You ask who am I, and I ask who are you?’ He did not shut the door, as if determined to have an exit available. ‘Why is she holding that dreadful thing? I don’t want to get involved in any … well, in any far-out behaviour, three men one girl, that sort of agenda, and all these bloody dolls. Is this some annual Founder’s Day carry-on? People often expect too much from a hired escort. These tails belong to the agency, and I must keep them in good order; they stressed that. I’m new on their books. Can’t risk any … well, unsavouriness. They’re so keen on reputation. They very specifically told me, “We are not Rentaknob.”’

  ‘I have to go to Central Hall immediately,’ Lepage said. He led the way swiftly from the tableau room and back towards the dancing. Kate hurried to keep up with him. Beresford and Adrian followed a little way behind. ‘You were there for me, George, weren’t you, and only because of me?’

  ‘Of course, darling,’ he said. ‘But let’s be circumspect.’

  ‘Perhaps the peasant room later?’ she replied.

  ‘What about Adrian?’

  ‘Look at the swine,’ Beresford said as they came to the edge of the dance floor. He pointed up at the balcony.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ Adrian said. ‘He’s been there a while, capering about.’

  ‘I think he’s going to make
a speech,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Yes,’ Lepage said. ‘Oh God.’

  Dr Itagaki and Dr Kanda were still where Lepage had left them on the balcony, talking now to one of the newspaper editors and his wife. All watched Falldew with sickening, amused interest as he came to the balcony rail and signalled to the band to stop playing, so he could be heard. He looked wonderfully serene.

  ‘But I know this man,’ Kate said. ‘The glassy blue eyes.’

  ‘You had more of his body bits to go on previously,’ Beresford said.

  ‘I might be able to get to him in time and limit the disaster,’ Lepage said.

  ‘I’ll come,’ Beresford said. ‘We can pitch him over the rail if we’re lucky. But he’ll probably float down like a paper dart.’

  ‘I’ll go alone,’ Lepage said. ‘Dealing with this kind of thing is my sole responsibility as Director.’

  ‘Which kind?’ Beresford replied. ‘You come up against such situations regularly – ex-Keepers going ape? There’s a laid-down procedure?’

  Lepage said: ‘Well, the scale, the implications. Angus, I feel I have to take—’

  But as he spoke the music came to a natural break, and at once Nev’s waving grew more imperious and urgent. Except for Falldew’s build, it reminded Lepage of Mussolini, also on a balcony, declaring the capture of Rome by his mob, or something similar. People below gazed up wonderingly, many waving back, a few shouting encouragement or rough, jolly insults. His smiling self-confidence shone even brighter, and soon he began to address the crowd on the dance floor and around the perimeter. ‘Friends,’ he said, ‘yes, it is indeed I, Neville York Falldew, recently a part and a proud part of this famed institution, so rich in achievement and distinction: someone who, I believe, may reasonably claim to have added a quantum through scholarship, loyalty and diligence to that Hulliborn achievement and distinction.’ For one so slight looking, his voice was remarkably big, hypnotic and commanding, and Lepage found himself compelled for the moment to stand and listen.

  ‘I bring great news,’ Falldew said. ‘Yes, news that could transform all our lives. I’m sure you’ll all remember that epigraph from Dante at the start of T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock about Lazarus returning from the dead, with unprecedented wonders to describe. Well, Neville York Falldew does not pretend to have returned from the dead, but he can say he is the custodian of a marvellous revelation.’