A pair of stone gateposts loomed before him, but no notice saying Lanyon Rose. Burr stopped the car, took up the telephone, dialled Geoffrey Darker's direct line at the River House and heard Rooke's voice say "Hullo."
"Just checking," said Burr, and dialled the number of Darker's house in Chelsea. He heard Rooke again, grunted and rang off.
He dialled Darker's number in the country, with the same result. The intervention warrant was in operation.
Burr drove through the gates and entered a formal park run wild. Deer stared stupidly at him over the broken railing. The drive was thick with weeds. A grimy sign read JOYSTON BRADSHAW ASSOCIATES, BIRMINGHAM, With the BIRMINGHAM crossed out. Below it somebody had daubed the misspelled word Enquiries and an arrow. Burr passed a small lake. On the far side of it, the outlines of a great house appeared against the restless sky. Broken greenhouses and neglected stables clustered behind it in the dark. Some of the stables had once been offices. External iron staircases and gangways led to rows of padlocked doors. Of the main house, only the porch and two ground-floor windows were lit. He switched off the engine and took Goodhew's black briefcase from the passenger seat. He slammed the car shut and mounted the steps. An iron fist protruded from the stonework. He pulled it, then pushed it, but it didn't move. He grasped the door knocker and hammered on the door. The echoes were drowned in a tumult of howling dogs and a man's gravel voice lifted roughly against them:
"Whisper, shut up! Get down, damn you! All right, Veronica, I'll take it. That you, Burr?"
"Yes."
"You alone?"
"Yes."
The clatter of a chain being slipped from its runner. The turning of a heavy lock.
"Stay where you are. Let 'em smell you," the voice ordered.
The door opened; two great mastiffs snuffled at Burr's shoes, dribbled on his trouser legs and licked his hands. He stepped into a vast dark hallway reeking of damp and wood ash. Pale rectangles marked the places where pictures had once hung. A single light bulb burned in the chandelier. By its glow, Burr recognised the dissolute features of Sir Anthony Joyston Bradshaw. He wore a frayed smoking jacket and a town shirt with no collar.
The woman, Veronica, stood apart from him in an arched doorway, grey-haired and indeterminately aged. A wife? A nanny? A mistress? A mother? Burr had no idea. Beside her stood a small girl. She was about nine and wore a navy blue dressing gown with gold embroidery on the collar. Her bedroom slippers had gold rabbits on the toes. With her long fair hair brushed down her back, she looked like a child of the French aristocracy on her way to the scaffold.
"Hullo," Burr said to her. "I'm Leonard."
"Off to bed, Ginny," Bradshaw said. "Veronica, take her to bed. Got some important business to discuss, darling, mustn't be disturbed. About money, you see. Come on. Give us a kiss."
Was Veronica darling, or was the child? Ginny and her father kissed while Veronica from her archway watched. Buff followed Bradshaw down a long ill-lit corridor to a drawing room. He had forgotten the slowness of big houses. The journey to the drawing room took as long as crossing a street. Two Armchairs stood before a wood fire. Stains of damp ran down the walls. Water from the ceiling plopped into Victorian pudding bowls on the floorboards. The mastiffs arranged themselves cautiously before the fire. Like Burr, they kept their eyes on Bradshaw.
"Scotch?" Bradshaw asked.
"Geoffrey Darker's under arrest," Burr said.
* * *
Bradshaw took the blow like an old boxer. He rode it, he barely winced. He held still, his puffy eyes half-closed as he calculated the damage. He glanced at Burr as if expecting him |p come again, and when Burr didn't he shuffled forward a half step and threw a series of rolling, untidy counterpunches.
"Bollocks. Utter codswallop. Crap. Who arrested Darker? You? You couldn't arrest a drunken tart. Geoffrey? You Couldn't dare! I know you. I know the law too. You're a flunkey. You're not even police. You couldn't arrest Geoffrey any more than a" ― he was lost for a metaphor ― "fly," he ended feebly. He tried to laugh. "Stupid bloody trick," he said, turning his back while he addressed a tray of drink. "Christ." And shook his head to confirm this while he poured himself Scotch from a superb decanter that he must have forgotten to sell.
Burr was still standing. He had set the briefcase beside him on the floor. "They haven't got to Palfrey yet, but he's pinned out on the board," he said with absolute composure. "Darker and Marjoram have been taken into custody pending charges. Most likely there'll be an announcement tomorrow morning, could be afternoon if we can keep the press off. In one hour's time exactly, unless I give instructions to the contrary, uniformed police officers are going to come to this house in big, very shiny, very noisy cars and, in the full view of your daughter, and whoever else you've got, take you down to Newbury police station in handcuffs and detain you. You'll be dealt with separately. We're throwing in fraud for extra spice. Double accounting, deliberate and systematic evasion of Customs and Excise regulations, not to mention collusion with corrupt government officials and a few other charges we propose to think up while you languish in a prison cell, preparing your soul for a seven-year stint after remission and trying to shift the blame to Dicky Roper, Corkoran, Sandy Langbourne, Darker, Palfrey and whoever else you can shop to us. But we don't need that kind of collaboration, you see. We've got Roper in the bag too. There's not a port in the Western Hemisphere but there's a big burly man waiting on the dockside with extradition papers at the ready, and the only real question is, do the Americans snatch the Pasha while she's at sea, or do they let everyone have a nice holiday because it's likely to be their last for a very long time indeed?" He smiled. Vindictively. Sportingly. "The forces of light have won the day for once, Sir Anthony, I'm afraid. That's me and Rex Goodhew and some rather clever Americans, if you were wondering. Langley led Brother Darker up the garden path. What they call a sting operation, I believe. You don't know Goodhew, I suppose. Well, you'll get to know him in the witness box, I've no doubt. A natural actor, Rex turned out to be. Could have made a fortune on the stage."
Burr was watching Bradshaw dial. First he had watched him fumble in a huge marquetry desk, flinging aside bills and letters while he rummaged. Then he had watched him holding an exhausted Filofax to the pale light of a standard lamp while he licked his thumb and turned the pages until he came to D.
Then he watched him stiffen and inflate with angry self-importance as he barked into the telephone.
"I want Mr. Darker, please. Mr. Geoffrey Darker. Sir Anthony Joyston Bradshaw would like to speak to him on an urgent matter. So be rather snappy, will you?"
Burr watched the self-importance drain out of him and his lips begin to separate.
"Who's that? Inspector what? Well, what's wrong? Give me Darker. It's urgent. What?"
And then, as Burr heard Rooke's confident, slightly regionalized accents on the other end of the line, he saw the scene in his mind's eye: Rooke in his office, standing at the telephone, which was what he liked to do, his left arm straight at his side and chin tucked right in ― the parade-ground position for talking on the telephone.
And little Harry Palfrey, whey-faced and dreadfully cooperative, waiting for his turn.
Bradshaw rang off, making a confident show of it. "Burglary on the premises," he announced. "Police in possession. Normal procedure. Mr. Darker is working late at his office. He has been contacted. Everything totally normal. Told me."
Burr smiled. "That's what they always say, Sir Anthony. You don't think they're going to tell you to pack up and bolt, do you?"