Dimension Of Horror

Chapter 4

The bells in the massive tower of the Church of Saint Peter Mancroft in Norwich had ceased pealing, but their humming drone had not yet faded away to silence when a pale slender woman in her thirties emerged from the Royal Shopping Arcade, crossed Gentleman's Walk, and entered the wide market area in the center of town, moving slowly through the crowd, stopping here and there at the stalls to buy fruit and vegetables. She wore a yellow plastic raincoat and hat, as did the three boys of various ages who tagged along behind her, for it had recently rained and the cold breeze and overcast sky promised more rain soon.

«Mama, let me carry it.» This was the youngest who piped up, stretching his arms to accept the bag of apples she had purchased.

«All right, Dickie.» She carefully handed it to him.

Mrs. Zoe Cornwall Smythe-Evans smiled. Dickie was not like his older brothers. He had a surprising maturity, a manliness, an almost knightly chivalry the others lacked, and there was no denying he was healthier, and that he was stronger than the others had been at his age. While the others moped about, doing as little as possible, little Dickie was always springing forward to volunteer his services. What could be the cause of the difference?

All three boys had the same father; the eldest was named Reggie Jr., and the next younger called Smitty, both taking their identities from Reginald Smythe-Evans. Dickie had many names. He was christened Edward Thomas Richard Smythe-Evans, but somehow from the beginning she could only think of him as Dickie, the name he had gotten from his second-godfather, Richard Blade. Had the name influenced her in some subliminal way, making her expect more of him than of the others, and had the child sensed this expectation and responded to it? She did not know, but this was not the first time the idea had crossed her mind.

Packing a head of lettuce into her string bag and paying the mustached vendor, she let her thoughts slip back into the past, to the days and the nights she'd spent with Richard at his seaside cottage in Dorset so many, many years ago. It was amazing how vividly those memories came back to her at times, though for the most part her busy life occupied her full attention, allowing little time for daydreams.

Her wild-set dark eyes clouded. Her generous mouth formed into a frown. She did not like to think of Richard. There was pain in the memories as well as pleasure, and frustration, and a curiosity that did not fade with the years, but grew gradually stronger. What was the secret work Richard had never been able to tell her about, the work that had finally destroyed their plans for a life together? Was he some sort of secret agent, or a criminal, or something else, something so strange as to be entirely outside her experience?

Richard Blade!

Against her will she saw his rugged face again, heard his voice, felt his touch, and was transported to a time-one time among many-when he and she had drifted in the gentle rise and fall of the breathing surf and watched the sunrise.

«Damn you, Dick,» she whispered.

«What?» asked little Dickie, surprised and worried.

«Nothing, Dickie. I was thinking of someone else.»

The boy was visibly relieved, yet there remained in his eyes that terrible alertness, the same alertness she had often seen in the dark restless eyes of his namesake.

Her shopping done, she left the marketplace, crossed the narrow road called Gaol Hill, and passed the brooding ancient flintstone Guildhall that stood like a medieval sentinel guarding the northern boundary of the city square.

Here the crowd thinned out and she quickened her pace so that Dickie, with his short legs, was forced to trot. The other boys lounged along sullenly, plainly resentful at having their precious time wasted on a boring shopping expedition. Though they were big enough to help, Zoe had not been able to bring herself to ask them to carry anything. Reggie would have answered, echoing his father, «We have servants to do the bleedin' shopping.»

Except for little Dickie, who now stumped cheerfully along at her side, nobody in her social circle could understand her need to do things for herself, even if they were things that «weren't done.» All of them sat down most of the time, and smoked a great deal, and drank a great deal in a quiet way and tried to look world-weary. Their favorite expression was, «You'll get over it, my dear.» If she showed any feeling at all, any unusual happiness or unhappiness, someone would always parrot, «You'll get over it, my dear.»

She sometimes thought, How efficient! A single bit of wisdom that fits every possible occasion! She'd never been able to bring herself to say the loathsome phrase, even on those occasions when it really did fit.

Sometimes her friends asked her, «Are you happy?»

She would answer, «I suppose so.»

It always satisfied them to hear her say that.

She strode along narrow Dove Street, crossed Pottergate, and continued on to the corner of Duke Street and Charing Cross, passing under the overhanging second floors of the ancient pastel-painted cottages. There she paused to let Reggie and Smitty catch up. They had been dawdling along behind, listlessly trying to push each other into the gutter.

«Mama,» Dickie said suddenly. «Do I know him?»

«Know who?» she asked, puzzled.

«The man you're mad it. The man with my name.»

«No you don't, dear.»

«Will I ever meet him?»

She shook her head firmly. «Never! Now let's hurry home. Daddy will worry about us if we're out when the rain starts.» She had already felt a few tiny droplets on her cheek.

The rain began in earnest as they came in through the garden gate, so Zoe and the boys were forced to run the last few hundred yards along the stone walkway, up the red brick steps, across the little porch and, with a whoop of laughter from Zoe and Dickie, through the tall front doorway into the vestibule. Reggie and Smitty ran, but they permitted themselves no laughter, only a mild annoyance.

The Smythe-Evans residence was, to judge by its exterior, a beautiful old house, as beautiful and as old as any of the others in the neighborhood, half-timbered, tile-roofed, vaguely Tudor, with the stucco portions of the wall in a pale candylike «Suffolk pink.» It was surrounded with the usual trees, the usual flowers, and the usual lawns.

The interior, however, had been modernized by Reginald's father some time in the Roaring Twenties, and the omnipresent Art Deco furniture and hangings were not yet old enough to be quaint, but too old to make a strong statement in favor of progress.

Mrs. Kelly, the roly-poly cleaning woman, paused on her way down the hall stairs to frown disapprovingly as Zoe opened the closet and proceeded to put her yellow raincoat on a hanger.

«May I be assisting you, mum?» the old woman demanded.

«No, thank you, Mrs. Kelly. I can manage.» Zoe was helping the children off with their coats.

«There was a telephone call for you, mum.»

«Really? Who from?»

«I've no idea, mum. When I found out it was long distance, I passed the phone to the mister.»

«If you don't know who it was from, surely you can tell me where it was from.»

«From London, mum.»

«London? I don't know anyone in London. At least, not anymore.»

Mrs. Kelly drew herself up indignantly. «I wouldn't lie to you, mum.»

«No, no, of course you wouldn't.» Zoe was perplexed.

The children, freed from their raincoats, clambered up the stairs. Mrs. Kelly, with a minimum of movement, stood aside to let them pass.

From the library, at the opposite end of the entrance hall, came the well-modulated, profoundly civilized voice of «the mister» himself, Reginald Smythe-Evans. «Is that you, dear?»

«Yes. I'm home,» Zoe answered brightly.

«Could you come in here for a moment, old girl?» In his carefully controlled tone there was a trace of tension that only someone who knew him well could have detected.

«Of course.» She hurried to the library door and opened it.

Reginald, behind his massive plain «functionally modern» desk, looked up at her as she entered. He was pale, thin, balding, and had a spotty complexion. He forced a broad toothy grin as he leaned back in his chair, but the illusion of ease and calm was spoiled by the way he pulled nervously at the lapels of his brown tweed suitcoat with his long white fingers. To her surprise, she noticed beads of sweat on his forehead.

«Good Lord, Reggie. What's the matter?»

«If you'll sit down, I'll tell you.» He gestured toward one of the few chairs in the room. (It was, she knew, no more uncomfortable than any of the others.)

She sat down, saying, «The phone call?»

''Yes.»

«What was it?»

«You remember that fellow Richard Blade?»

«Blade?»

«Come, come, old girl. I know you remember him. I daresay there are times when you're out of sorts with me that you wish you were his wife instead of mine. I'm not a fool, you know.» He paused, frowning. «But be that as it may, it seems something's happened to him.»

«Happened? Are you trying to tell me he's dead?»

Reginald waved the suggestion aside with a languid hand. «No, nothing like that. His employer, a chap named Jay, claims your Mr. Blade is sick. Yes, and it seems the only thing can put the fellow to rights is a few words from you. Bleeding romantic, eh what?»

«Reggie, there's no need to be upset. Whatever there was between Richard Blade and me is over.»

«Nothing but memories, eh? Never mind. I'm not the sort to turn up on the front page of The Sun, a smoking revolver in my hand and my wife and her lover tastefully piled in the background.»

Impulsively she stood up and leaned over to kiss him lightly on the cheek, whispering, «You do understand me, don't you?»

«Yes. Quite. Are you going to see Mr. Blade?»

«Not if you say no.»

«I won't be put in the position of jailer, my dear. You're old enough to make up your own mind.»

She sat down again, unnerved by the coldness in her husband's voice. «What's the phone number of this Jay person?» she asked. «We could ring him back and see how serious this is. Perhaps there's no real need for me to step in.»

«He wouldn't give me his phone number, my dear. If he's Richard Blade's employer, his phone number is probably secret, like everything else about him. He said he would phone back.»

She searched her memory frantically. Jay? Jay? Suddenly she placed him. J! The funny old man with no name, only an initial. He'd been at her wedding, hovering in the background, always in the background. Had she known J before? Had she seen him after that? She could not remember. The man was so gray, so utterly-perhaps deliberately-forgettable.

When the telephone on the desk rang, it startled her badly. Though she sprang up and reached for it, Reginald was quicker.

«Hello. Reginald Smythe-Evans speaking. Yes, she's here now.»

He handed her the receiver.

J had briskly walked the few blocks from the Tower of London to the Fenchurch Street Station where now he paused inside the entrance, stepping out of the stream of pedestrian traffic to examine his pocketwatch and get his breath.

He was a little early, though the gathering darkness outside in the street showed nightfall was not far off, overcast blurring the distinction between night and day. By fast train, as J knew, Norwich was only two hours from London. Mrs. Smythe-Evans would be arriving in three minutes, if the British railway system performed with its customary punctuality. He waited, composing himself, until he heard, above the murmur of the crowd, the rumble of the train entering the station, then he went to meet her.

He recognized her instantly when he saw her coming toward him along the platform. The years had been remarkably kind to her; at least at a distance she seemed hardly changed at all from the time he had seen her at her wedding. She was wearing a yellow plastic raincoat, unbuttoned in front to reveal a tasteful tweed pantsuit, and she carried a small green overnight bag.

J frowned. At her side strolled her husband in a similar yellow raincoat, and following him, trotting along hand in hand, came three yellow-raincoat-clad boys. Bringing up the rear, in another yellow raincoat, was a fat, red-faced woman, who could only be their maid, loaded down with luggage. Mrs. Smythe-Evans had brought her whole family.

«Damn and blast,» J muttered, but he hid his consternation behind a set of shiny grinning false teeth as he advanced to welcome her.

«Ah, Mrs. Smythe-Evans!» He shook her hand heartily. «How good of you to come. And this, I take it, is your husband?»

«Yes. J, meet Reginald Smythe-Evans,» she answered brightly.

The men shook hands.

Reginald said stiffly, «Jay? Is that your first name or your last?»

«Neither, old man. It's only a nickname, but people have been calling me by it for so long I hardly remember any other.» Reginald obviously was not satisfied with this answer, but J turned to the children. «And these, I suppose, are your handsome children?»

«That's right,» she replied, somewhat nervously, but with a note of pride in her voice. «Here's Reggie Jr., and Smitty. Shake hands with the gentleman, boys.» Gravely they obeyed. «And this is my youngest, little Dickie.» J found a small hand thrust into his, and a pair of dark eyes peering up at him with a look of disquieting intelligence.

«Pleased to meet you, sir,» said Dickie.

«I hope you don't mind if I brought my family along,» she continued. «I thought if I was coming in to London anyway, we might as well make an event of it. The boys are out of school, and Reggie has been working so hard he deserves a holiday. It's all right, isn't it?» She looked at J doubtfully.

«Of course, of course. No problem,» J assured her. «I've booked a room at a hotel for you not far from here, and I'm sure we can expand the reservation to cover your entourage. If you'll follow me… «He led the way toward the exit, allowing no trace of his inner indignation to show outwardly.

«Perhaps I can be of some assistance with this Blade business,» Reginald offered, falling in step.

«I'm afraid not, old chap,» J said.

«I can come along for moral support, at least,» Reginald persisted.

«Thank you, but I'll have to say no.» J was firm.

«And why not?» Reginald demanded.

Awkwardly J explained, «It's a matter of security, classified information, government secrets and all that rot. I don't make the rules, but I have to play by them. Your wife is cleared-that is, she has a security clearance.»

«And I don't?» said Reginald.

«That's right.»

Now Reginald was genuinely surprised. «Why should she have a clearance when I don't?»

J hesitated a moment, then told him the truth. «When your wife was, so to speak, intimately associated with our Richard Blade, we looked into her background quite carefully, and we've kept track of her, in our quiet way, ever since. Strictly routine, you understand, but fortunate in this case. That's how we were able to find her so easily. I'm sure you're a loyal British subject, Mr. Smythe-Evans, at least as loyal as Kim Philby or some other people who have gotten the highest clearances only to turn out to be Russian spies. Obviously this security clearance business doesn't work. Obviously it only makes us keep tripping over our own feet, but it's a tradition. You can't expect us to go against tradition.»

«I suppose not,» Reginald reluctantly agreed, bewildered but clearly impressed by the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere J had managed to project.

«I'll get you all settled in your hotel,» J said in a businesslike tone. «Then I'll borrow your wife for a few hours. I hate to inconvenience you, but it's dreadfully important. You can fend for yourself for awhile, can't you?»

«I suppose so.»

J clapped him on the back. «There's a good chap!»

They came out of the station and descended the steps into Hart Street, hunching their shoulders against the chill of early evening.