Tommy turned his head slowly as they went through the front gates of the park.
“Everybody in the Order must be here. I’ve never seen this many cars,” said Marklin.
“We’ll be lucky,” said Tommy, “if they haven’t commandeered our quarters for some deaf and blind octogenarian from Rome or Amsterdam.”
“I hope they have. It’s a perfect excuse to turn everything over to the old guard and very considerately clear out.”
Marklin brought the car to a halt, several yards from the busy attendant who was directing the car in front of them to a parking spot quite far away, on the other side of the hedge. In all these years, Marklin had never seen cars packed side by side on the other side of the hedge.
He got out, and tossed the keys to the attendant. “Will you park, please, Harry?” he said. He peeled off several pound notes, a bribe sufficient to waive all objections to this breach of custom, and headed towards the front doors of the house.
“Why in the hell did you do that?” Tommy said, catching up with him. “Try to follow the rules, will you? Fade into the woodwork. Say nothing. Do nothing to attract attention, are we agreed?”
“You’re too nervous yourself,” said Marklin crossly.
The front doors stood open. The hall was choked with men and women, thick with cigar smoke, and positively roaring with voices. It had the air of a crowded wake or intermission at the theatre.
Marklin stopped. Every instinct in him told him not to go in. And all his life he had believed in his instincts, as surely as he believed in his intelligence.
“Come on, man,” said Tommy, between his teeth. He urged Marklin forward.
“Oh, hello,” said a bright-faced old gentleman who turned to greet them. “And who are you?”
“Novices,” said Marklin. “Tommy Monohan and Marklin George. Are novices allowed to come in?”
“Of course, of course,” said the man, stepping aside. The crowd pressed in behind him, faces turning towards him and then away indifferently. A woman was whispering to a man on the other side of the doorway, and when her eyes met Marklin’s, she made a small noise of surprise and distress.
“This is all wrong,” said Marklin under his breath.
“You should all be here, of course,” the jolly man was saying, “all the young ones should be here. When something like this happens, everyone is called home.”
“Why, I wonder,” said Tommy. “Nobody liked Anton.”
“Shut up,” said Marklin. “It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it, the way that people-you and I for instance-respond to stress.”
“No, unfortunately, it’s not remarkable at all.”
They edged their way through the press. Strange faces to the right and left. People everywhere were drinking wine and beer. He could hear French, Italian, even people speaking Dutch.
There sat Joan Cross, in the first of the formal parlors, surrounded by faces unknown to Marklin, but all of them in serious conversation.
No Stuart.
“You see?” said Tommy, whispering in his ear. “They’re doing what comes naturally after someone dies-gathering, talking, as if it were a party. Now that’s what we have to do. What comes naturally. You understand?”
Marklin nodded, but he didn’t like it, no, not at all. He glanced back once, trying to find the door, but the door had been closed, apparently, and the crowd blocked his view in any event. He could see nothing. Indeed, it struck him as strange that there were so many foreign faces, and he wanted to say something to Tommy, but Tommy had moved away.
Tommy was chatting with Elvera, nodding as Elvera explained something to him. She looked as dowdy as ever, with her dark gray hair knotted at the nape of her neck, and her rimless glasses halfway down her nose. Enzo stood beside her, that devious-looking Italian. Where the hell was his twin?
How dreadful to spend one’s life in this place, he thought. Did he dare to ask about Stuart? Certainly he didn’t dare to ask about Yuri, though of course he knew. Ansling and Perry had told him about Yuri’s call. Oh God, what was he to do? And where were Ansling and Perry?
Galton Penn, one of the other novices, was pushing his way towards Marklin.
“Hey, there, Mark. What do you think of all this?”
“Well, I don’t know that people are talking about it here,” said Marklin. “But then I haven’t really listened.”
“Let’s talk about it now, man, before they forbid all conversation on the subject. You know the Order. They haven’t a clue as to who killed Marcus. Not a clue. You know what we’re all thinking? There’s something they don’t want us to know.”
“Like what?”
“That it was some supernatural agency, what else? Elvera saw something that horrified her. Something bad happened. You know, Mark, I’m very sorry for Marcus and all, but this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened since I was received.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Mark answered. “Haven’t seen Stuart, have you?”
“No, not at all, not since this morning, when he declined to take charge. Were you here when that happened?”
“No. I mean yes,” said Mark. “I was wondering if he went out or what.”
Galton shook his head. “You hungry? I am. Let’s get some chow.”
This was going to be rough, very rough. But if the only people who spoke to him were bright-faced imbeciles like Galton, he would do just fine, just fine indeed.
Sixteen
THEY’D BEEN ON the road over an hour, and it was almost dark, the sky clabbering with silvery clouds, and a drowsy look coming over the great expanses of rolling hills and bright green farmland, neatly cut into patterns as if the landscape were covered with a great patchwork quilt.
They made a pit stop in a little one-street village with several black and white half-timbered houses and a small, overgrown cemetery. The pub was more than inviting. It even had the proverbial dart board and a couple of men playing darts, and the smell of the beer was wonderful.
But this was hardly the time to stop for a drink, thought Michael.
He stepped outside, lit a fresh cigarette, and watched with quiet fascination the formal gentleness with which Ash guided his prisoner into the pub and inevitably towards the bathroom.
Across the street, Yuri stood at a phone booth, talking rapidly, having made his connection to the Motherhouse, apparently, and Rowan stood beside him, arms folded, watching the sky or something in it, Michael couldn’t be sure which. Yuri was upset again, wringing his right hand as he held the receiver with the left, nodding over and over again. It was plain that Rowan was listening to his words.
Michael leaned back against the plaster wall, and drew in on the smoke. It always amazed him how tiring it was to simply ride in a car.
Even this journey, with its agonizing suspense, was no different ultimately, and now that darkness had closed off the lovely countryside, he would grow more sleepy, he figured, no matter what was yet to come.
When Ash and his prisoner emerged from the pub, Gordon looked resentful and desperate. But obviously he’d been unable to solicit help, or had not dared to try.
Yuri hung up the phone. It was his turn to disappear into the pub now; he was still anxious, if not crazed. Rowan had been watching him attentively during the drive, that is, when she was not riveted to Ash.
Michael watched Ash as he returned Gordon to the backseat. He didn’t try to disguise the fact that he was staring. That seemed unnecessarily cumbersome. The thing about the tall man was this: he did not in any way appear hideous, as Yuri had averred. The beauty was there, and rather spectacular, but the hideousness? Michael couldn’t see it. He saw only a graceful frame, and easy, efficient movements that indicated both alertness and strength. The man’s reflexes were amazing. He’d proved that when Stuart Gordon had reached again for the lock of the door when they were stopped at a crossroads about a half hour back.