Diana's Altar Read online

  “Nonsense! That was a believable excuse. Sandilands will recognise the device. In any case, he’s not gone far—he’s at home in Huntingdon Road with his boys, teaching them how to repair clocks. Family hobby, don’t you know. I’ll try my luck.” He picked up the receiver and asked for a number.

  Suddenly agitated by a memory Haraldson’s words had triggered, Joe hissed across the desk, “Solder! I smelled it when we went into the room. Mention to the professor that the concealment may have involved a soldering process.”

  Not a word was wasted. When Haraldson put the receiver down two minutes later he was smiling. “He’s on his way. By motorbike. Bringing his toolkit. Shall we go to the car park and receive him, gentlemen?

  Haraldson acted swiftly. He ordered the sounding of the fire alarm and cleared the building with orders to the grumbling staff that they go straight home and stay away for the rest of the weekend. He retained on the premises only the usual stewards to man the door and gatehouse. “We’re testing the alarm system, evacuation times and all the other palaver,” he announced to anyone querying the sounding bells. “No one will be able to work through the noise we’re about to make so you might as well beetle off and take your girl to the matinée at the Victoria.”

  The three men waited by the door and were not kept waiting long. At the sound of a motorbike engine roaring in through the gates, Joe looked at his watch and raised an eyebrow. “The prof doesn’t waste any time,” he commented.

  “The prof, you’ll find, is supercharged. In everything he does,” Haraldson said with affection.

  The rider parked his Scott motorbike by the back door and Joe took in the neat, low-slung, purposeful nature of the machine. Black with a big brass radiator, it looked almost too modest to be the race winner Joe knew it to be. The Bauhaus of bikes, Joe decided, and if fate ever tempted him to risk his limbs on such a contraption, he’d choose one like this.

  The scientist had spent no time putting on special clothing before leaving. Or perhaps he wore a cloth cap with a wide peak and the inevitable tweed suit for every activity? The British-built bike, the outfit, even the pipe tucked away in the breast pocket shouted the message that here was an Englishman and the best kind at that—an eccentric. His face was alive with the anticipation of a pleasantly challenging experience, Joe thought. A game of chess, perhaps, rather than a possible bomb-disposal exercise. He had dark, expressive eyebrows in a handsome face and looked like nothing so much as a very knowing and mischievous elf.

  He swung a leg over and went to detach the metal tool case he’d strapped to the back carrier.

  “Haraldson!” he exclaimed with a delighted smile. “You have a little puzzle for me? Always glad to have a Saturday morning’s diversion.” His voice was high-pitched and noticeably Russian accented in spite of his having spent more than twelve years in England.

  Introductions followed once they were inside the laboratory and Joe sketched out the events of the morning, filling in his suspicions in broad strokes. Kapitza listened without interruption, eyes flitting over the scene and always being drawn back to his pride and joy, the new liquefier.

  “Sorry to drag you out for this, old man!” Haraldson clearly thought the story at second telling sounded even thinner than it had before. “We aren’t convinced ourselves, not even Sandilands here. If you can just run a quick check and assure us that we’re overreacting to a mundane situation, we will all be delighted.”

  The physicist went straight over to check his precious equipment. He walked to the far wall where the new installation gleamed innocently, halted ten feet from it and studied it. The others went to stand behind him, taking care not to crowd him.

  “Yes. I thought so. Oh, my goodness, me! Thank you so much for drawing my attention to it. Clever! Even I could have easily missed it. Especially with the distraction of a glass of champagne in my hand and a crowd of chattering friends.”

  “What are you seeing, or not seeing, Peter?” Haraldson asked.

  “The dials. Look at the dials.”

  Joe peered at the backboard accommodating the various glass faces. In differing sizes and lined up in a rather higgledy-piggledy fashion, they were all connected to some other part of the equipment by snaking wires and measured heaven knew what—Joe supposed pressure, temperature and so on. Nothing caught his attention.

  “There ought to be—there were when I left after installation—only eight dials. There are now nine.”

  They all peered again, counting.

  “The smallest one—there, do you see?” He pointed. “Almost hidden by the broad pipe—that was not put in by me. It’s surplus to requirements and—it appears to be a common or garden clock face. A timer, are we thinking?”

  “What’s it connected to?” Joe asked the urgent question.

  Kapitza moved closer and, with a confidence that made Joe cringe, he stuck out a forefinger and traced the line of the wire leading downwards from the clock. “There, neatly out of sight because hidden by the cylinder itself, indeed, attached to it, is a smaller, slim cylinder that looks as though it could well be a bona fide piece of the equipment. I think, Sandilands, you were certainly right when you said you smelled solder. Metal has been fixed on metal. I shall have to scramble behind to find out exactly how. What a nerve! They could have—may have—ruined my experiment.”

  Joe approached and verified this. “It’s the size of a policeman’s truncheon,” he called back to the others. “Big enough to cause a sizeable explosion if it’s carrying the right substance. I’ve seen nothing like this. The nearest, I suppose, would be a Bangalore torpedo. We used them in the war. To blast through barbed wire obstacles. Filled with bits of metal and projected by a couple of kilos of Mr. Nobel’s best—good old gelignite? Perhaps something we haven’t even come across yet . . . They haven’t been standing still since the last war ended. You may know more about that than I do. Explosive substances available from Nobel Chemicals in Ayrshire, Scotland.”

  “Nitrols of some sort, I expect. Whatever’s inside there, it’s meant to blow to bits twenty scientists standing in a confined space within feet of it,” Kapitza concluded. “Death by blast and shrapnel. You can leave this to me. I’ll get it out. Would you like to retire to a safe distance while I fiddle with the blue touch paper, gentlemen?”

  Three short and decisive statements of intent tumbled over each other.

  “Leave you alone with it? No!”

  “Not a chance!”

  “I’m not leaving!”

  “Well then, let’s not waste time,” Kapitza said. “I was in the middle of fixing the mechanism of a Louis XV carriage clock when you dragged me off. A much more delicate operation. I’d like to get back to it. Now, I can see you fellows will want a witness to the removal. Sandilands, representing the law, is my obvious choice. He can stay if he’s willing.”

  Sandilands stayed. He actually held the sinister black metal tube once it had been removed and made safe. At the moment when Kapitza turned his attention to the small clock face, which had been meant to count out the minutes and seconds to an ugly death for the man now advancing on it with a screwdriver, Joe called him to a halt. Apologetically he asked if the clock could be left in place for a while longer.

  “Not only that, Professor. I wonder if I may ask—is it possible to put the whole device back in place, looking as though it hasn’t been discovered?”

  The imp grinned a conspiratorial grin. Instant comprehension.

  “Nothing simpler,” he said. “The tube was magnetically attached to my cylinder. I’ve broken the contact with the timer so there’s no danger of an explosion. You are setting a trap of your own?”

  Joe explained that the perpetrator would be expecting to return to the laboratory to set the timing device. Probably at some time on Sunday when the labs would be deserted.

  “It would be good to catch him with his fingers in the jam jar! Of c
ourse. I do hope you’re planning a clean arrest, Commissioner. Rough and tumble in the middle of so much expensive and delicate equipment could do much damage.”

  Joe promised there would be no breakage. There would be no blood on the floor. He didn’t add that there would be no arrest.

  He sounded the all-clear to Page and Haraldson, who had dutifully stayed on watch in the courtyard, and the three men waved goodbye to Kapitza as he zoomed out of the gate.

  “May I ask what you’ve done with the device?” Haraldson asked, sighing but not letting go of the essentials.

  “It’s completely safe. Back in place again but all contacts broken,” Joe assured him. “When he returns to finish his dirty work tomorrow, I shall be there taking notes.”

  Limp with relief, they went back into the laboratory.

  “Well, I don’t know about you fellows,” the director said, “but I think, after the mill we’ve been through, we’ve earned a reward. Get down three of those glass measuring beakers from the shelf over there, will you, Page? I thought we’d stage a little controlled explosion of our own!”

  He rummaged around in one of the champagne crates and produced a bottle. Firm hands dealt with the wired cork and poured a lavish stream of the straw-coloured, almond-scented wine into the beakers. Joe smiled back at his two companions. He shared their euphoria but was careful to keep himself in check. This would be a good moment to push forward his plans, certain that success and fellow-feeling would ease his path.

  Once again, the director was ahead of him. “Take notes, you say, Sandilands? I was rather hoping for a swift arrest and carting off to the Tower or wherever you put traitors these days.”

  “The man who will be lighting the fuse, so to speak, is no more than a tool. I don’t want the master alerted by the disappearance of his minion.”

  “This master—Pertinax, you’re saying—will he try again?”

  “Yes. It will go on. None of you are safe, the country is not safe, until this man is behind bars or dead.”

  “Right-oh. Any immediate plans for bringing this about?”

  “Yes. I shall need your help. No danger involved, I assure you! But there is something . . . I take my inspiration from Hercules, who had a certain problem with the swamp-dwelling beast, the nine-headed Hydra. Head-chopping didn’t seem to be working as they instantly regrew, so he devised a more radical scheme.”

  “Oh, Lord! I know where he’s going with this! He’s going to set Cambridge on fire!” Page said, laughing, and refilled the beakers.

  “Not the whole of Cambridge,” Joe said. “Selected bits. I need to smoke this creature out of his lair. This is England. I can’t just put my Browning to his head and pull the trigger, which is what he deserves. I shall have to extract a confession before I can charge him and send him off to London.”

  “You think he’s likely to hold his hands up and say: ‘Sandilands! There’s something I simply have to get off my chest!’?” Haraldson objected.

  “Something like that. A man who believes himself to have been successful in his endeavours, a complete egotist, may be tricked into an incautious piece of boasting. If I can arrange for him to do it in front of witnesses and happen to have a pair of handcuffs in my pocket, I’ve got him.”

  The two scientists exchanged furtive glances of something very like pity. As a plan, it had sounded pretty thin even to his own ears. “Don’t worry—I shall call in backup of the very best kind. My Special Branch boys are polishing their knuckle-dusters as we speak.” They nodded with relief. Such was the reputation of the Branch, the mere mention of its name, delivered with a know-it-all expression, intrigued and reassured.

  “Now. The fire-raising. May I use your blackboard?”

  Joe strolled to the blackboard, picked up a stick of chalk and drew a map of Cambridge, recognisable from the loops of the river Cam. He swiftly sketched in the central area and the Cavendish. Next, his chalk moved towards the west and he marked with an X the position of Madingley Court. He drew a line from the house to the laboratory. The two scientists strained to make sense of his mutterings: “Six miles . . . woodland . . . hills?”

  He turned to his companions. “Is there a piece of public land between here and there? Something on this exact line?”

  “No. There’s the backs of the colleges and they’re private land. There’s Castle Hill but that’s too far north,” Page said.

  “Oh, look!” The director stepped forward and took the chalk from his hand. “I see what you’re after. Extend the line a bit in the other direction, past the lab . . . here . . . and you’ve got twenty-seven acres of public land. Parker’s Piece.” He drew in a square. “Wonderful space for football, cricket, picnicking, canoodling . . . Anyone can use it. It’s five minutes away on foot. And in a direct eyeline with Madingley.”

  “Oh!” Page’s eyes gleamed as he understood. “And we’ve got chemists here as well as physicists. We can take their advice. I’m sure they’ll have an exciting element to contribute!” He chortled. “You couldn’t have picked a better day! Do you know what the date is tomorrow? No. You haven’t got small children at home—why should you? It’s the fifth of November!

  Remember, remember, the fifth of November,

  Gunpowder, treason and plot!

  I see no reason why gunpowder treason

  Should ever be forgot!

  “It’s Bonfire Night! Every back garden in the city will have its small fire in celebration of the failure of Guy Fawkes to blow up Parliament. Toffee apples and gingerbread, a rocket or two. The kids love it! As it’s a Sunday there have been the usual objections from the killjoys and most people have put it off a day. Until Monday.”

  Joe grinned. “So no one is going to look askance at anyone hauling timber and building a bonfire where you wouldn’t otherwise expect one? Perfect! Right, gentlemen! I think we’re ready to put the finishing touches to this plot, involving gunpowder and treason, as it does. Let’s pray we end up with the right Guy on the fire.”

  His next request might be a bit tricky. Joe decided to play his man, using the horse gentling skills he’d learned from Hunnyton. He picked up the champagne bottle to fill the director’s glass, then caught himself and put it down again. “Sir,” he said, fixing Haraldson with a straight gaze of pure honesty and concern, “I have something to ask of you, and I don’t want you to agree because you’re too tiddly to say, ‘Out of the question!’”

  Haraldson listened, laughed and then replied, “Very well! If you’ve got this all wrong, Sandilands, there’ll be fences to repair, egos to smooth. But what the hell! We’ll do it from my office. Bring the bottle with you. And perhaps another, why not!”

  “Sir Gregory!” Haraldson exclaimed into the telephone. “This is Haraldson at the Cavendish. How good to hear you! And I’m delighted to find you at home. I’m ringing for two reasons and the first of them is—I’ve just discovered your gift to the laboratory. Another generous gift! Two crates of the very best! In fact, I have to admit, a colleague and I have just cracked open one of the bottles, so excuse the hiccups. It is excellent, by the way! We’re drinking to your good health!”

  He listened for a while to the response, seemed pleased by it and went on, “The second is to offer an invitation to an ad hoc sort of rather silly little party the cryologists are planning . . . The new helium liquefier—you remember? Only possible because of the generosity of our sponsors—we never lose sight of that here—and well, the long and short of it is—they’re planning a get-together to toast its arrival. With the unexpected, very welcome and totally appropriate Bollinger you sent. It’s happening on Monday—a drink before lunch—at half-past twelve here in the Mond. I can offer you Kapitza—you always get on well with him . . . the other Russians and two new faces for you—Americans both and utterly charming. Do say you can come! Late notice, I know, but sometimes these extempore occasions turn out to be the most memorable.�
��

  After more intent listening: “Oh, dear! That’s a pity! If your circumstances should change—well you never know—just turn up. Our people will be told to expect you. In any case, I’m sure . . .”

  He finished with a few polite phrases, a convincing hiccup or two, and put the phone down.

  Looking at Page and Sandilands teasingly from under his bushy brows, he announced, “Shame! Sir Gregory is otherwise engaged and won’t be able to join us. He’s got a party down from London he says. He’ll be entertaining them to lunch at the Court. They’ve got wild boar on the menu apparently . . . Is that what you needed to know, Sandilands?”

  When Joe returned to the hotel for lunch, the manager seized on him. A gentleman had rung three times. Sir Gregory Pertinax. He assured him that Joe would be informed the moment he reappeared. Joe thanked him and asked him to be so good as to ring back the number and hand him the phone once Sir Gregory had been passed through. Joe had no wish to speak directly to a butler he’d had a slanging match with only hours before. The voice of Professor Cartwright might still be ringing in his ears.

  “Ah. Hello there, Pertinax,” he said. “You’ve been trying to reach me?”

  “Sandilands! At last! Nearly too late. I was within a whisker of signing up an assistant master of a newish, rather obscure college in my desperation . . . I’m having a lunch party on Monday. Here at the Court. People up from London, don’t you know . . . I need a sixth at table and I thought of you. How can I tempt you to drop everything and hare over here at short notice? I think I have the lure! Dorothy Despond is here with her father. Yes, the lovely Dorothy! She’s particularly asked after you. She seems to know you’re holed up in Cambridge and says she’d love to see you again. Despond senior doesn’t seem to have any insurmountable objection . . . No, they’re not staying, sadly. Dorothy has friends in Grantchester and always descends on them.”