Robert Goddard - Closed Circle

Closed Circle by Robert Goddard

Also by Robert Goddard

PAST CARING

IN PALE BATTALIONS

PAINTING THE DARKNESS

INTO THE BLUE

TAKE NO FAREWELL

HAND IN GLOVE

Robert Goddard

CLOSED CIRCLE

ITAM PRESS

LONDON NEW YORK . TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND

TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS LTD 61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS (AUSTRALIA) PTY LTD 15-25 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170

TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS (NZ) LTD 3 William Picketing Drive, Albany, Auckland

Published 1993 by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd

Copyright Robert Goddard 1993

The right of Robert Goddard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents

Act 1988.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0593 024923

This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of Sale of

Net Books and may not be resold in the UK below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,

or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Typeset in 11/12"Apt Times by Kestrel Data, Exeter, Devon.

Printed in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham, Plc, Chatham, Kent.

CHAPTER ONE

Chance had been our ally too often. We had grown complacent, over-confident of its loyalty. And so the moment when it first chose to betray us was also the moment when we were least likely to suspect that it might.

Max and I were leaning against the railings on the empty starboard promenade of the lounge deck, smoking cigarettes and gazing ahead at the widening river as the liner eased away from the shore. On the port side, a crush of passengers were still waving goodbye to the friends and family they were leaving behind in Quebec, but of wistful farewells we had no need. In Max's hand, folded open at an inside page, rested a two-day-old copy of the Wall Street Journal, and in the emboldened head-line of one of the columns blared silently the reason why we had eyes only for the seaway. BABCOCK FRAUD CASE TO GO TO TRIAL IN FALL. I watched Max scan the words once more and clench his jaw muscles in frustration or shame or relief or whatever he truly felt. Then he took a long pull on his cigarette and said, "Well, that tears it, doesn't it?"

"We knew it was coming," I said, by way of consolation. But in the look that passed between us there was an admission that foreknowledge only compounded the offence. "He'll have a good lawyer," I added with a shrug.

"He'll need one. They both will."

"And there's nothing we could have done, except..."

"Go down with them?"

"Exactly."

"Which isn't our style?"

"No. It isn't."

For an instant, I expected him to deplore what we had done. Not simply our desertion of the Babcocks, but all the other immoralities and illegalities which lay scattered across our pasts. It was a rare sentiment in either of us, though perhaps not as rare as we cared to pretend. And, in this case, it remained unspoken. Max crushed the last inch of his cigarette against the guard-rail and turned towards me with that crooked smile I knew so well. "It's bad luck on Dick. But we're well out of it, I reckon, don't you?"

"Assuredly."

"Even if it means going back to Blighty." He sighed and pushed himself upright. "I'm for a bath before dinner. Meet for cocktails at seven?"

"Good idea."

"And don't worry." He slapped the newspaper against my shoulder. "I won't bring this with me. What do you say to a ban on the subject at least until we reach England?"

"I agree. Whole-heartedly."

"Good. See you later, then."

He moved past me, grinning with a sort of stubborn jauntiness, and headed for the companion-way. I finished my cigarette, watching the tugs fall away behind us in the rippling shadows of the funnels. Then I too decided to make for my cabin.

As I turned from the rail, I saw ahead of me a bulky figure -female and tweed-clad descending the companion-way from the sports deck, an unlikely eyrie, I remember thinking, for one so stout and venerable, the creak of whose stays I almost believed I could hear above the rumble of the engines. Her ankles were swollen and her feet squeezed into what looked like an excruciatingly under-sized pair of high-heeled shoes on which she teetered top-heavily. The roll of the ship was modest, but still I would have bet against her completing the descent without mishap. And I would have won. A breath of Laurentian air twitched at the brim of her Alpine hat, she raised a hand from the rail to prevent it blowing off and a misplaced foot hovered ominously in mid-air.

"Oh ... Oh my goodness ..."

"It's all right," I said, gripping her firmly by the elbow. "I've got you." I smiled as reassuringly as I could and did not release her until we were both standing square upon the deck, she staring up at me from a foot below, pale blue eyes wide and bosom heaving in alarm, perfume and naphthalene neutralizing each other bizarrely in the air around us.

"Dear me, dear me. Thank you so much, young man." She was English, sixty or sixty-five I would have judged, with the butter-ball build of a dowager, all quivering jowl and pigeon chest. A triple necklace of pearls caught my eye, as did a flower-bouquet brooch on her left lapel in which rubies and sapphires glittered abundantly. "What would have happened if you'd not been passing by I dread to think," she said as she recovered her breath.

"Glad to have been of assistance, Miss ..."

"Charnwood. Vita Charnwood. And how nice of you not to call me madam." Thus was my guess of lifelong spinsterhood confirmed. "Do I detect the accent of my own homeland?"

"England? Yes, though corrupted by many years on this side of the Atlantic."

"In Canada?"

"No. The United States, actually, but..."

"Like me, you've been lured north by Canadian Pacific's promise that nearly a third of the crossing will be in the calm waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence? I quite understand. I too am a martyr to sea-sickness, Mr...."

"Horton." I plucked off my hat and shook her hand, surprised to find that her grip was considerably stronger than her stumble on the companion-way had implied. "Guy Horton."

"Yes, Mr. Horton, a martyr. There is no other word. Our voyage out was purgatorial." Our voyage, I noticed. So, she was not alone. "We must hope for better from this route, must we not?"

"Indeed." I smiled, content to let her assume I had chosen to sail from Quebec rather than New York for the same reason she had. The truth would have been altogether too alarming for an owner of natural pearls and genuine rubies. And I was not in the habit of telling the truth except when strictly necessary.

"The only disadvantage is that there is nobody to see one off. Hence, I suppose, your presence on this side of the vessel. I happened to see you talking to another gentleman by the rail while I was craning out above you admiring the view."

That was Max. We're old friends."

"And both going home after lengthy absences?"

"Yes. It must be ... oh, seven years or more." It was, in fact, nearer nine since either of us had lived in England, nine years which had, on the whole, treated us generously. The last two had been the least generous, but even so not as parsimonious as they might have been. To stand, well-dressed and sleekly groomed, on the first-class deck of the ocean's newest liner, while ashore depression sinks towards slump, is no mean achievement, even if riches do not await at the end of the voyage. Besides, there was always the hope of discovering riches en route to lift the spirits if they were in danger of sagging.