Simon flicked through the address book. It was hardly Debrett’s. Two Sirs were the best he could find until he came to the G’s.
“Grantchester. Lord Grantchester. How does that sound?”
Rosco nodded.
“That’s it. I’m sure of it. I knew there was a local connection but I couldn’t think what.”
“What’s the betting our noble lord is next on the list?” Simon mused as he lifted the telephone and gave the number from Casden’s book to the operator.
He waited impatiently until she came back to say that the number of unobtainable. Last night’s storm, he was informed, had brought down the overhead lines. Reconnection was not expected until after Christmas holiday.
“By which time Lord Grantchester is likely to be as cold as tomorrow’s turkey,” Simon observed.
“I’ll contact the police,” Rosco was saying as he reached to take over the telephone. But the Saint stopped him.
“Why should we let the superintendent have all the fun? I consider this a very personal party.”
Five minutes later he was pointing the long nose of the Hirondel down the ice coated road towards Grantchester.
10
The weather is the favourite conversational gambit among the English for one simple reason: they are always totally unprepared for it. In summer, a week of what in any Latin country would be regarded as pleasantly warm weather leads to newspaper headlines that cry “Heat Wave” and moves to ration water. In winter, what any Indian worth his monsoon would consider a fairly heavy shower results in radio warnings of bursting river banks and flooded homes. But these pale into insignificance beside the chaos produced by a few inches of snow. Roads are blocked, trains stop, and pipes burst. The populace gazes at the white crystal falling like magic from the sky and wonders at the fact that it is snowing in December, forgetting that they have been singing about dreaming of a white Christmas for most of the month.
So ran the Saint’s thoughts as he grimly forced the Hirondel towards its destination.
The worst of the storm had passed before first light and by midday had subsided to brief flurries not heavy enough to fill a footprint. The volume of traffic had ensured that the town centre streets remained clear, but once the outskirts were reached the going became steadily slower. And if the outskirts were bad the cross-country roads were worse. The main trunk route to London was passable with care, but the lanes leading to the villages it by-passes featured hard-packed ruts alternating with treacherous soft drifts.
The light was failing quickly as the sharp brightness of the afternoon gave way to twilight that hung like a blue-black backdrop against the whiteness of the land. The Hirondel’s powerful headlamps carved a tunnel of brilliance through the gloom, and the Saint drove along it as fast as the conditions allowed, which was not breaking any records.
The broad tread of the Hirondel’s winter tyres hugged the icy surface, giving him better control than most of the other traffic, but still the journey seemed to take an age. It was not so much the snow and ice themselves as the mishaps which had befallen other motorists that delayed him. A lorry loaded with bricks had failed to master an incline and had been abandoned while its driver went for help, causing a long tailback. Once that obstacle had been passed, it was found that a family car had managed to get stuck in a snow bank on the other side of the hill, and again he found himself obliged to join some other compulsory Samaritans in helping to dig it out and clear the blockage. And so it went on.
Grantchester lies just three miles from Cambridge but it was more than half an hour before the church tower came into view. He stopped outside the rectory in the main street and consulted his Ordnance Survey map. Blansdown Court, the country seat of Lord Grantchester, lay three miles farther on into the snow carpeted countryside.
The holdups, although annoying, did give him time to marshal his thoughts.
He was playing a hunch, no more than that. Dr. Burridge had not been around that morning so the questions Simon wanted answers to had remained unasked. And as for Godfrey Nyall, his suspicion was based on only one foundation. Chantek’s playing with her knife had jogged his memory and made him recall the picture he had seen in the bursar’s study. The lack of identifications that had puzzled him were explained. That had been one of the rules of jungle warfare. Small groups working behind enemy lines, against the Japanese in Burma, had worn no badges of rank so that if captured the officers would not be identified. And they knew how to use a knife and were trained in unarmed combat to deliver the sort of blow that had felled Casden’s watchman. But its feasibility alone was not enough. Burridge’s fanatical conservatism was at least a motive of sorts. But outwardly Nyall appeared to have no reason to use any skills he might remember from his army service. Unless the Saint’s other guess was correct. Perhaps Lord Grantchester could suggest the necessary link. But then, there was no real certainty that he was next in line for a requiem. And even if he was, that didn’t mean that the danger was immediate. Reason told Simon that he could well be wasting his time; instinct told him to hurry. He pressed on.
Blansdown Court was as impressive a stately home as any day tripper in search of historical variety could have asked for. It rose from the flat Cambridgeshire farmlands in the centre of a spacious park surrounded on all sides by a crumbling grey brick wall. It was shaped like an E with out the centre bar. The stem of the E was graceful white Georgian with an ornate portico reached by double flights of steps which met in front of it. The east wing, though trying to blend with the central block, appeared to have been built a century later. The west wing was the original Elizabethan manor house, its small red bricks fitted around angled beams as stout as ships’ timbers, its tall chimneys leaning where the roof had sagged. The gateway was mid-Victorian Gothic. The tall iron gates were open. There were no signs of life in the lodges on either side.
The Saint drove through, followed the winding drive up to the house, and parked at the end of a row of half a dozen cars near the main steps.
His ring was answered by an elderly butler. Simon voiced his wish to see Lord Grantchester. No, he was not expected. The butler showed him into a small waiting room, enquired his name, and told him to wait while he checked with his lordship. He shuffled off across the cavernous high-domed hall and Simon followed soundlessly in his wake. He had no intention of hanging around only to be told that his lordship was not available.
The butler entered a room in a corridor leading from the hall. He delivered his message.
A voice said gruffly: “What does he want?”
“A few words,” answered the Saint, walking in as if on cue.
He found himself in a pleasantly comfortable drawing room. Logs blazed in the Adam fireplace and in front of it four people were finishing their afternoon tea. The two eldest were obviously Lord and Lady Grantchester. The younger two looked as if they might be their son and daughter-in-law or vice versa.
“Excuse my abruptness, sir,” said the Saint. “But the matter I have to discuss with you is very urgent.”
His lordship peered at his visitor from beneath bushy white eyebrows that matched his thick white moustache. Simon placed him at around seventy, yet despite his age there was a certain strength and alertness about him. He sat waiting for an explanation, and Simon realised that his surname alone might not have been quite sufficient.
“My name is Simon Templar. You may have heard of me. I’m sometimes called the Saint.”