The morning was grey and overcast, turning to showers by the time they'd had breakfast at the Inn. James drove them in the green Morris Minor back towards the sea, radio tuned into Housewives Choice on the BBC. To Helen's surprise the presenter wasn't completely patronising – a wonder, considering the music was all deemed appropriate for cleaning the shelves to, or cooking breakfast for your little darlings. Doris Day or Frank Sinatra – neither seemed to really register with James who was, as ever, focused fully on his very cautious driving. Otherwise she might've fancied he'd be keeping himself from humming along.
Helen, on the other hand, attempted not to wring her hands, or press her feet onto an invisible gas pedal. She smiled politely when he happened to glance her way with some assurance-seeking comment – tried desperately to focus on the stunning Cornish landscape, wrapped in mist and low-lying cloud, or the music – but by God if she'd been insured she would've demanded the keys.
In fact, when he'd written to her that he'd not only taken his driving test, but passed, she'd had the first true shock in about a decade. Even back in the 1880s Watson had never taken to vehicles: being a passenger, fine, but driving a carriage? He couldn't even handle a cart and donkey, and don't even start on actually riding a horse! The man was a product of the Age of Steam: a buyer of train tickets, an urban dweller used to cabs and being able to walk everywhere within a five mile radius.
She chuckled to herself, remembering their expedition in Africa, the journey across that gorge… James had given the packhorse such a dirty look. Trying to stifle her mirth behind the back of her hand, she realised he was looking at her out of the corner of his eye, curious, silently querying the laughter that had escaped her lips.
Shaking her head before he could even ask she responded, "It's nothing."
"Really?" His eyebrow arched, "It seemed rather amusing for nothing."
She knew that tone… the tinge of self-consciousness, the wariness within the irony, that there was something he'd missed. He hated it, even if he could rationalise to himself that it wasn't important. For a genius, sometimes he was such a silly man. Her warm smile only grew.
"Just a trip down memory lane…" she dismissed breezily, "oh, you need to take the next right."
As designated navigator, she had the map on her legs, along with the address of Chez Griffin. They were the other side of the village to the church they went to yesterday, where the cliff-edge descended towards a crescent of soft sand. Rocky outcrops reached out like fingers either side of the settlement, dipping into the sea and creating natural breaks that sheltered the once-fisherman's cove. There were few fishermen working here now – they all harboured in the towns.
"Memory lane?" Watson asked as he took the turning.
Helen watched him closely, "Yes I…" she smiled again at the foolishness of her hesitation, "second left – I was reminded of your pack horse incident. In Africa."
"Oh indeed?" He smiled wryly, remembering that insolent animal all too well – how it had bucked him, and carried him off into the middle of a local tribe, traipsing all over their crops. Dear God that was such a mess, "And, what the devil reminded you of that in the middle of Cornwall?"
When she didn't respond he glanced her way more fully, and her smile had that mocking mischief to it that had never failed to keep him by her side. He sighed, knowing full well that it was probably a backward comment on his driving.
"It should be down here," Helen pretended to concentrate on her task, that cheeky smile unrelenting, "on the right." Backing onto the shore, against the few boats tied to the garden walls.
"Yes, well…" Watson continued, pulling up in front, "thank God for cars, is all I can say."
Helen looked to him with a smile then, feeling just a little sorry for teasing him, and entirely incapable of not wincing as he ground the gears, causing the most horrific noise as he brought the car to a stop.
"Not a word," he added quickly, the corners of his lips turning upwards at whatever she'd been about to say.
She was pressing her lips together to stop herself, all but grinning as she shook her head – silently protesting that the thought hadn't even crossed her mind. Then she cast her eyes out of his window, and her face fell a little, into something soft and compassionate.
"Shall we?"
He sighed again, picking up on the sobering shift in tone and remembering all-too-clearly why they'd come here, "Let's."
They got out simultaneously, letting the doors shut firmly behind them in the exceedingly quiet street. The only sound was from the waves lapping upon the shore with vigour, the seagulls floating in the salty air, drifting in the wind as it dragged the clouds further in land.
The rest of the village was perched in two rows of grey-stoned terraces above them, but on this row, slightly raised above the waterline, there were more modern homes. Some were detached, some semi-detached, with a small line of houses on the opposite side of the road that looked closer in age to the ones up hill – designed in a time when man still feared the elements, and struggled to keep himself warm.
Not so Griffin's house. It was a modern build – friendly and cheerful to look at. A dormer window indicated the existence of an upper floor in the attic, but it was essentially a bungalow. The front door, cottage like, against the cream-stuccoed walls, was painted duck-egg blue. There was a little portal window near it, from which anyone inside could see the driveway to the green garage door and front garden. A garden heaving with palms and shrubs, flower beds which would surely overflow in the summer. Nigel had kept it well tended. All the smaller palms were wrapped up for the winter, just in case a frost should strike, the lawn mown in perfect stripes. Despite the modernity, it seemed… very Griffin. James could almost see his friend, growing green-fingered with a new streak of white in his ever-thinning hair, swigging a bottle as the football blared on the radio in the sun. He surveyed the street, the narrowness of the lane – just enough for two cars abreast – the cottages immediately opposite, with their delicate net curtains. Aside from those few residences he was hardly overlooked – everyone's front gardens were full of greenery, their fences high enough for some privacy.
Helen headed straight for the front door.
"You won't get an answer," James concluded, noting the fresh trail of polluted water that had leaked out of an exhaust in the frigid morning air. Leading from the garage and out the drive way.
Helen whipped back round to him, following his eyes, before reaching for the door-knocker anyway. "Probably not," she agreed, watching as he lifted the unlocked garage door, verifying the absence of their car before taking a quick look around. "Seems rude not to at least knock before breaking in though."
"Hmm," he dusted his hands from the garage door after closing it, catching a flutter in the corner of his eye, across the street. Straightening somewhat, he spoke loud enough to be over-heard, "perhaps we better see if they're round the back?"
She gave him a questioning tilt of her head, but nodded, following him round the side and into the back garden. The view was stunning – especially as the clouds parted. A modest garden but pretty, even in winter: heather in the rockery, more leafy palms – a patio, big enough for entertaining on, with vines growing up a wooden awning in a very Mediterranean way. The lawn went right up to the rocks and then… the sea. On a quiet evening it would've felt like they were completely alone – just the three of them, in their own little sanctuary.
Magnus was so caught up in the sight James had already located the spare key. Not under the rug, or potted plants, but in a secret compartment in the base of a little statue: a jolly Buddha. From Nigel's jaunt in China no doubt. It seemed quite incongruous in the otherwise notably Western garden.
They opened the back door into the Kitchen, a big open-plan affair which was clearly Jeanette's domain. Onions and garlic hung in the French style, the new cooker a powdery blue that matched the blue, cream and brown colour-scheme. A little ceramic bulldog and chicken sat side-by-side on the large window looking out upon the Cornish coast, garish little things Nigel had probably picked out at some Village Bric-a-Brac. The radio, James noted, was tuned into a French station, picked up from the other side of the channel.
Everything was neat and tidy, just as one might expect after a weekly house clean, but – he checked the taps – the water was still on, the electricity too – the fridge was still working. He opened it up – a little bare of food but there was still some there, and four bottles of lager… he picked one out, eying it for any tampering as Helen passed in his peripherals.
"Jeanette?" she called out, moving into the lounge. "Anna?"
"Really Helen, they're not here," James repeated, calling out from the kitchen. There was a clatter, the fridge door closed, then, "there's not any bread. What self-respecting Frenchwoman doesn't have fresh bread in her larder by mid-morning?"
Helen knew he was right, the house had an empty atmosphere despite the fact that everything was there, just as they'd left it. Just as Nigel would've left it…
Jeanette didn't make idle threats or promises. She had held to her word. The car was gone. Even so, part of Magnus hoped to find some kind of sign that they weren't gone just yet – that they'd gone out for supplies or… something.
Instead, she found herself moving from room to room like a shade: her glazed eyes picking up on each memento, every hint, of the couple she'd known. Old photographs of Jeanette's family, a painting of… was that Carentan? She smiled nostalgically, noting the ugly African drinking vessel the witchdoctor had given Nigel when they'd gone to help a tribe of abnormals in the Congo. The rugby trophy from the College-Cup… oh goodness, she hadn't seen that statue of Anubis since the 20's… and was that... she picked up the signed first edition of HG Wells' The Invisible Man from the bookshelf. 'To my invisible muse. HG': Nigel had told the writer off for being such a wet blanket over that dedication – and oh, how Wells had laughed at that.
Helen could feel her eyes growing damp, a choke in her throat, and quickly put the book back before she got too emotional. Straightening her pencil skirt she carried on looking, finding Anna's room. It was a sweet home for his little princess: pink and white walls, hand-drawn pictures littering the doors of cupboards and cabinets. Open – empty. If ever there was confirmation… this was it. Barely any clothes on their hangers, empty draws, no underwear. Her toys were still here apparently: a little doll's house in the corner, where the father was stood completely undressed, as if such a thing was entirely normal. Helen smirked a little. Some things never changed, it seemed.
Upstairs, in Nigel and Jeanette's room, it was the same story. Behind every door, every draw, there was barely anything of Jeanette left. As if she'd left him – not the other way around. All her jewellery was gone from her dresser, hairbrush – perfume. Yet the coverlet was still on the double bed, the washing in the basket.
Back in the living room she found James stood next to the record player, looking surreptitiously through the gauze of the net curtains, deep in thought. She came to stand next to him, noting the record on the turntable – Apache. So Griffin was a fan of The Shadows?
Helen found her fingers absently tracing the vinyl, the music her friend would never hear again. She was finding it very hard to focus on why they'd come here… why they were walking amongst ghosts and memories, and things they never even knew. Frankly, Helen didn't have a clue what she should be feeling, how she should be dealing with this unnerving… space in her head. Even at 111 years old.
Taking a shaky breath she composed herself, before James realised something was wrong and again, gave her that awkward concern. The care and consideration she didn't want to face.
The sound turned his head alright, but he held back from the obvious question, noting the rigid set to her mouth, "I think we'd better pop across the street for a cup of sugar."
Helen started at the odd assertion, following his gaze across the street and catching sight of the lace curtains opposite shutting rather suddenly. Ah… it seemed the Griffin's had a nosy neighbour.
0
The woman who answered the door opposite was short; her permed and set hair a shocking white that Father Christmas might envy. She was slight – clothes which looked as if they'd been bought with ration coupons twenty years ago, hanging on a frame which had since shrunk and hunched over with age. Her green eyes immediately widened at the sight of them, momentarily startled at the thought of having been discovered for the busy-body she was, but she covered it well.
"Yes?" she asked in a soft Cornish burr, "Can I 'elp you?"
Helen and James smiled charmingly in return.
"Well, perhaps, you might," Magnus tried, "how long have you lived here?"
"Ooo, forever deary. I've reared eight children within these very walls."
"So might you know the family who lives across from you, the Griffins?"
She eyed Helen more warily, paying more attention to the silent gentleman at her left, and hugging closer to the open door. "Well I did, know 'em 'course… it's a small village. But… Mr Griffin passed 'way a few days ago y' see."
"Oh," Helen looked to James, creating the illusion that this news somehow impacted upon their plans.
"We don't mean to pry Mrs…"
"Gloyne."
"Mrs Gloyne – Dr James Watson," he offered, holding out his hand to her and shaking it gently, "This is my friend and colleague, Dr Helen Magnus."
"O," she gave a brittle smile, accepting Helen's hand with a little hesitation at the thought of a female doctor, "nice to meet you I'm sure."
"And you Mrs Gloyne."
"Only," James continued, "Mrs Griffin doesn't seem to be answering the door…"
"An' nor will she," Mrs Gloyne responded with a huff, her inner gossip slipping out into the open.
"I'm sorry?"
Mrs Gloyne shook her head slightly, throwing up her hands, "No, no I shan't speak ill of… but…" she caught his eye like some old storyteller, so very pleased to finally have a willing audience for her tales. She leant closer, the smell of menthe wafting towards them as she peered either side of her door, "between you and me… I think she's scarper'd back to where she came from."
Helen couldn't help the slight disapproval creeping into her narrowed eyes, but she did her best to conceal it as confusion, "Back to France?"
"Aye," she nodded as if it were simple.
"Mrs Gloyne…" James hazarded with that charm of his, "perhaps, you might tell us what happened?"
She thought about it for a moment, as if wrestling between the safety of closing her doors on total strangers, or the chance to have some actual, human, company. "Are you… with the police? She in some sort o' trouble?"
The two doctors looked to each other. "Not exactly Mrs Gloyne," Helen responded, trying to avoid out-and-out lies, "it might be best if we explained inside."
"O? I see," she nodded sagely, pressing her lips together excitedly as she started to believe she had pieced this all together, "very well, yes – you can count on my discretion."
They smiled back reassuringly, awaiting her invitation.
"Right you are, yes, best come in – never know who's listenin' in with all those commies about. Careless talk an' all… would you like a cup of tea?"
0
Mrs Gloyne's sitting room was small and snug. Crisp white nets hung in the windows, and pale pristine cushions sat on the thread-bare sofa that remained well tended, despite having seen better years. Her china set was just as delicate as the flowers hand stitched into the throw covering the back of the sofa, and it too caught that bright, West Country light starting to break through the clouds. Like the thin skin of a pixie's wings.
"Such a shame…" she continued eagerly over her freshly poured tea, "for the littl'un most of all. Her mother's a queer one, I must say. Runnin' off no sooner she buried her 'usband…" she scowled, shaking her head in disapproval, "As if she couldn't stand the place. At the time, o' course, I thought to myself, typical French – never good enough for 'em. No matter 'ow nice y'are to 'em. They just don't want to know."
James was eying Helen with renewed vindication – it appeared they had an eyewitness to Jeanette's hasty exit. "Running?" he asked gently, barely raising his own cup to his lips where he stood, half-turned towards the very window he'd caught Mrs Gloyne peeking out of earlier.
"O, ar!" She seemed to shake herself slightly, "Out the door like a shot in the wee hours. I couldn't sleep see, an' then I 'eard this car start up, and I thought – who on Earth's going out at this 'our?" She gazed at them disapprovingly, "They look'd in an awful 'urry. Suitcases an' everythin'… An' then you two doctors show up lookin' for 'em. And you're sure she's not in some sort o' trouble?"
Helen couldn't help glancing up to him from her spot on the sofa: it wasn't a question borne of genuine concern, but of opportunistic venom. She could tell from the old woman's tone: she wanted to be the one in the know, to be at the heart of the gossip network which judged and extradited people like Jeanette – the outsiders – given half the chance. Magnus knew her kind. The sort of viper which everyone mistook for the sweet old biddy on the corner, never suspecting that she was silently cataloguing every social foible, every indicator that perhaps you didn't meet her cookie-cutter expectations of how village life in a Cornish village should be – white-bread and God-fearing, where women and children knew their place. The sort of woman that made her power plays in little, vicious ways – petty village politics that made people's lives a living hell. The very thought made Magnus' skin itch, "Not with us Mrs Gloyne," she reiterated with a short smile, hiding her own sense of harassment.
"And we were the first people to arrive today?" Watson asked, "After they'd left?"
Mrs Gloyne looked back to him, clearly distracted by that nagging unanswered question of who they were, "Aye… as it happens."
"You didn't seem particularly surprised that we were asking after them," James noted, "poking around in the garage."
"Well I figur'd you were the police or... I weren't surprised – way she shot out of there. Guiltily."
"What are you trying to imply Mrs Gloyne?" Helen enquired as neutrally as humanly possible.
Mrs Gloyne frowned as if she could only be implying one thing, "Only that… well… I mean… it's not the first time you types have been 'round 'ere is it?"
They gave her only enquiring expressions, eyebrows deliberately arched to make her second guess herself.
"Secret services… I thought… I mean…" she glanced nervously about, realising just how out of her depth she was paddling, "that they might've been… KGB," she whispered, far too excited by the prospect, "so I've been keepin' an eye on 'em for y'! That's what I thought yer fellow was doin' 'ere the other day."
If this had been about anyone else – anybody – she would've sounded veritably insane. Instead, James' eyes narrowed instantly, "Mrs Gloyne, this is very important." He put his cup down on the table, straightening himself back up and meeting the old lady's eye, watching her closely, "what did you see?"
Mrs Gloyne grew suddenly very anxious, her cup shaking slightly as she realised what she'd just done – admitted to having witnessed a secret operation? Oh goodness. They were going to lock her away… if she was lucky.
"Mrs Gloyne," Helen reassured, noting quickly the panic rising in her wrinkled features, the almost childish expression unique to the old and vulnerable. She reached across and took the woman gently by the wrist, surreptitiously measuring her pulse, the tone of her voice calming and soft, "it's alright. You're a…" she couldn't believe she was going to say this, "a loyal British citizen. We're here to protect you."
God, Magnus thought to herself, if this woman had any idea how the Secret Services actually worked, she wouldn't have been reassured by such platitudes. Luckily, the common preconception of spies at the moment was dominated by the novels of Mr Ian Fleming, and not the classified dossiers of World War Two. It must have been very exciting for Mrs Gloyne, believing she had a foreign agent across the street all this time… and she wasn't too far from the truth either. He had, after all, been employed as such for the larger part of both World Wars.
The old lady nodded, finding the strength to look back at Watson without panicking, "O', of course," she agreed, looking suddenly a lot frailer.
"What did you see?" James cajoled, gentler than before.
"I… well, Mr Griffin was gardenin'," she became more sure of herself as she regaled them, "always kept his garden lookin' lovely he did – one of the reasons I didn't suspect 'em for so long. I'd see 'im out there all the time, minute the sun was out, even in winter. Sometimes his little girl playin' 'opscotch on the lane… only she wasn't this time. Then this man shows up – in a fine suit he was – an' Mr Griffin didn't seem very pleased to see 'im. They started arguin' 'bout somethin'. He was pretty angry, I'm surprised Mr Griffin never broke the man's nose, but they didn't come to blows. Actually," she squinted as if remembering, "it wasn't far off the same spot where the poor man had 'is 'art attack…" there was a slow realisation in the old woman's face, "Say… he wasn't… wasn't bumped off, was he?" The barest hint of delight in her face at the drama unfolding in her imagination was uncomfortable for his oldest friends to swallow, to say the least.
"That's what we're here to find out Mrs Gloyne," Helen ventured sternly, getting her complete attention. "That's why we need your help – why we need you to keep all of this a secret."
"Could you describe the man for us?"
"You mean he weren't one of yours?" she gasped, evidently thrilled at the thought, "O' Lor'."
"We just want to make sure we have our facts Mrs Gloyne," James over-rode before she ran away with any more theories.
"O I see," she nodded, "yes, well… okay, he was… em… maybe five foot nine, five foot ten just like my Reggie… fair 'air – blonde. He looked fit and able, but skinny, y' know, not like a sailor, or farm 'and… more like a... a runner. He was in black, with a winter coat… all very dapper lookin', he weren't lackin' fer money I'm sure."
"And did he have any scars, or distinctive features?"
"No… though. I can say he smoked. He lit up a cigarette right in front of Mr Griffin – threw the butt into the flower bed too when he left, I remember. Mr Griffin was as red as a tomato by that point."
Watson and Magnus looked to each other with the same thought... spies. It was always spies with Nigel – governments ever-hungry for their own invisible thief. With an abnormality like his, it was inevitable that he'd be pulled into the world of espionage. His skills were always in demand, but such employment had never sat easily with Griffin, not even in times of war. He'd often said he'd rather rob a bank than do some shadowy spy-master's dirty work, on the behest of politicians of dubious intent. Hadn't stopped them from trying to use him though, and, from time to time, succeeding.
Question was… what had they wanted with him this time?
Author's Note: Hmm, not entirely happy with this chapter, I feel as if the transition's a bit… rocky. Would appreciate some feedback on this one – maybe it's a symptom of wanting to get to Tesla's bit faster? :D It's kinda what happens when you're trying to lay down the logical foundations of a mystery story, but the mystery itself is not what's really holding your attention in the narrative – it's the characters working through it. I guess.
More cluing for looks next chapter.
AConstanceC – Thanks again for your encouragement :)