“What about his friends, or people he does business with? Do you know many of them?”
“No. As I told you, I only just got here. I haven’t met a soul.” She tried again to assert her own right to ask questions:
“Where is he? Can I see him?”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
They were moving more or less as a group from the simple kitchen into the paint-and-turpentine atmosphere of Adrian’s studio. Adrian was a frugal man, but he had been more lavish with light bulbs in his studio than in the rest of the house, and compared to the subdued illumination of the living-room and kitchen, the place had something of the brilliance of a floodlit stage.
Curtains had been drawn across the large windows; the skylight reflected the easels, tables, stools, and colour-smeared boxes and cloths that were arranged round the room. Adrian Norcombe obviously was a traditionalist, as numerous sketches and canvasses showed. His style varied, it seemed, from Renaissance to mild Impressionism, but among the examples of his work there were no cubist conglomerations, no abstract shapes or explosive splashes. In the centre of the floor was his current project, a very large canvass resting on heavy supports, its central feature a very large rosy-hued nude girl lounging in a cow-pasture beside some Corinthian columns.
The painting was the first thing that had aroused the interest of the two silent searchers, who stopped in front of it and surveyed the lavish contours of its central figure with more respect than they had shown the kitchen utensils.
One of them drew down the corners of his mouth approvingly. “I wouldn’t mind being on that picnic.”
“You can go to an art museum on your day off,” the leader said brusquely. “Let’s get on with it.”
Julie felt her face flush, and she avoided looking at the painting or the men. Their behaviour seemed rudely undisciplined, and a surge of indignation seemed to send some extra courage into her system. She found herself speaking out almost sharply:
“I’d like to know what you’re looking for. You can see that he’s not a rich man. I mean, he’s hardly been leading a successful life of crime, and I’m sure you won’t find any stolen goods here.”
“There are other crimes than theft,” the officer said quietly. “More serious in the long run, perhaps.”
The group moved back to the hall and into the single bedroom of the flat.
“What, then?” Julie insisted.
The Special Branch officer stood in the doorway with her as the other men went through the wardrobe and drawers, which contained neatly segregated allotments of Julie’s and Adrian’s clothes. Adrian had been sleeping in the living-room, turning over the bedroom to his sister, but his clothes were still kept there. The officer’s voice was like a knife inserted slowly and quietly into this homely setting.
“Your brother has been arrested under provisions of the Official Secrets Act,” he said.
“You mean, like spying?”
“The Official Secrets Act deals with espionage.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Julie said. “Adrian’s never had anything to do with the government or the services or anything! He’s got weak lungs and a bad back. How could he possibly be in a position to steal any secrets?”
“There’s more than one link in a chain,” the officer said mysteriously. “But I’m not at liberty to discuss this — and neither are you, Miss Norcombe.” He was looking at her very sternly. “I must emphasise this most strongly. You must not tell anyone what has happened. The situation is very touchy, with important things still hanging in the balance, and it is absolutely necessary that you keep quiet about it. At least until tomorrow, after you’ve spoken to Mr Fawkes.”
Julie was feeling unsteady again.
“Mr Fawkes?”
“Mr Fawkes is in the Home Office. You have an appointment with him tomorrow — or I should say today, at one o’clock. I already have the address and so forth written down here.” The man found a piece of paper in his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Mr Fawkes is the gentleman who can explain all of this to you. I’m sorry that I have to be so close-mouthed about it. But after all, it’s only a few hours until your appointment. Just have a good sleep, but see you’re not late.”
A good sleep! Julie thought despairingly. She felt she’d be lucky if she ever slept again. Unwelcome though these men and their news had been, she did not want them to leave. The thought of being alone now frightened her terribly. When they filed out into the damp August night, she had to struggle to keep her mouth from trembling. What if Adrian really had been involved in something? She could not believe it... but what if he had? Shouldn’t they offer her something more helpful than their spokesman’s final warning, before he turned to go down the steps:
“Not a word to anyone, remember.”
She closed the door, attached the chain, and threw the bolt. She must try to sleep, somehow. Only one thing held her in the front room, and it seemed to call to her silently, like a living creature with some awful hypnotic power: the telephone. She had to restrain her hand as she passed it.
This would be the first crisis in her life in which she would not be able to call for Mother.
Chapter 2
She had slept about four hours, and knew she looked it. She rubbed her cheeks as if that might bring more life to her face. It was five minutes to one, and the taxi that had brought her was pulling away, leaving her outside the building in Whitehall, where she was supposed to learn more about her brother’s fate.
She entered as if the very size of the place made her feel that she should make herself smaller, and approached a desk that promised information. She cleared her throat and said:
“I have an appointment with Mr Fawkes, in room 405.”
The commissionaire on duty was rather small and stout, and very businesslike.
“What time is your appointment?”
“At one o’clock.”
“Most of ‘em are out to lunch at this hour, but if he’s expecting you...”
He dialled a number on the telephone beside him, and tapped his fingers while he waited for an answer.
“Hullo,” he said. “Is Mr Fawkes in? A young lady to see him.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and leaned forward. “What name, please?”
“Julie Norcombe.”
She half expected his face to cloud over at the very mention of what now must be a notorious last name, but he went ahead as briskly as ever: “Miss Norcombe. It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she admitted a little unhappily.
“Jolly good.” He stood up after depositing the telephone in its cradle. “Take the lift to the fourth floor. Mr Fawkes’s office is immediately to your right as you get out.”
A few minutes later she was standing outside a door labelled “J. FAWKES” and “405.” She knocked. The door opened, and a red-haired girl looked out at her.
“Miss Norcombe?”
“Yes. I have an appointment with—”
“Mr Fawkes is expecting you. Come in, please.”
It was a large, impressive office, with solid heavy furnishings. Mr Fawkes’s red-headed secretary was also impressive, though for her shape and proportions rather than any heaviness. Mr Fawkes himself was most impressive of all. He rose from behind his desk to a height of about six feet, and spoke to her with an accent that she associated almost exclusively with the BBC Third Programme.
“Miss Norcombe, do have a seat. It’s good of you to come.”
She was overawed not only by the silky smooth uncoiling of his phrases, but also by the grey at his temples, his majestic straight nose, the poise with which he held himself and gestured her to a chair, a little as if he were flicking a speck of dust from the air with the backs of his fingertips.