Reckoning in Ice Read online

  RECKONING IN

  ICE

  J.R.L. ANDERSON

  CONTENTS

  IA Journey North

  IIThe Newspaper Cuttings

  IIIAn Alliance and A Plan

  IVDiscrepancies

  VThe Black Jaguar

  VILuck

  VIIOur Lead

  VIIICrisis

  IXThe Reckoning

  XA Note to The Accounts

  About the Author

  Copyright

  THE J.R.L. ANDERSON COLLECTION

  The Peter Blair Mysteries

  Death on the Rocks

  Death in the Thames

  Death in the North Sea

  Death in the Desert

  Death in the Caribbean

  Death in the City

  Death in the Greenhouse

  Death in a High Latitude

  The Piet Deventer Investigations

  A Sprig of Sea Lavender

  Festival

  Late Delivery

  Other J.R.L. Anderson Mysteries

  Reckoning in Ice

  The Nine-Spoked Wheel

  Redundancy Pay

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. The geographical settings are real, though I have taken certain liberties with topography. A search for Hee House would, I fear, be unrewarding, and I would not recommend anyone to look for a road beyond Loch Fiag towards Ben Hee, although the mountain and its name are real enough. The derivation of protein from oil is, of course, real, but my extension of the process is wholly imaginary. The characters in my story take their names from our common national stock, but they are not intended to have, and as far as I know do not have, any resemblance to real people, living or dead. Similarly, though I have used real names for national institutions like Euston Station and the Coal Board, the events in my tale concerning them are imaginary.

  I

  A JOURNEY NORTH

  IT WAS NOT yet six o’clock, but in North West Scotland, in the first week of January, it might as well have been midnight. It was snowing slightly – one of those nights when some inimical quality in the darkness seems to absorb the light from headlamps so that you appear to be driving into thin grey blotting paper.

  I had been driving all day from Perth, which I had reached yesterday from London, some 700 miles in two days. I have a respect for the Mini Traveller, but it is not the best of cars for long midwinter journeys. I was tired, and partly lost – not quite lost, for I was confident that I had followed my instructions, and there are so few roads in this wild part of Sutherland that if you are roughly in the right area you are probably on the right road. But I was far from clear where I was on the road. I stopped the Mini, turned on the roof light and had another look at the map.

  ‘Go through Lairg,’ I had been told, ‘to the meeting of the roads to Tongue and Laxford Bridge. Take the Laxford Bridge road along Loch Shin, and after about fifteen miles turn off to the right by a track that follows the Fiag River to Loch Fiag. Skirt the loch, and go on towards another loch under Ben Hee. The drive to the house is on the left as you come to this second loch. You can’t,’ the girl had said, ‘miss it.’

  Couldn’t you – I was by no means sure. I had duly turned off the main road – ‘main’ for these parts, but only single-track, with passing-places – and was now on the rough road or cart-track that seemed to follow a river, more or less. I could hear water running at the bottom of some sort of ravine to my left. Whether this was the Fiag River I had no means of knowing, but I hoped it was. I reckoned that I had six or seven miles still to go. If one went on long enough one would presumably come to Hee House – there was nowhere else to come to. But one might as easily end in the river, or one of the lochs instead. There was nothing to do but to go on. So I put the car in gear and went on.

  I did not get far. Snow had begun to fall more heavily and the track seemed to become excessively steep. The Mini slewed round as one of its wheels failed to grip, and we came to rest almost hanging over the ravine. I took my torch and got out to inspect. The change from the warmth of the car took my breath away. I hate overcoats, and had been warm enough driving in a thick pullover, but outside it was stabbingly cold. We did not seem badly stuck, but I should have to manhandle the front wheels back on to the road. This meant slithering in the snow on the steep bank of the ravine while I heaved at them. I cursed myself for bringing only one suit. I travel light, and my normal luggage is a clean shirt, a pair of pyjamas, a razor and a toothbrush. One is apt to forget what conditions can be like outside the ordered world of London. My trousers were going to lose their respectability.

  But I was better off than I deserved to be. I had not cleared out the car from my last visit to my boat, and with bits of miscellaneous boat-gear at the back I had a suit of oilskins. I put them on with thankfulness and plunged into the snow.

  It had drifted against the bank, and once off the road I sank to my knees, but the oilskin trousers kept me dry. It was tricky work to get any sort of grip on the car, and I was fearful of slipping, and perhaps dragging down the car on top of me. But the back wheels were still more or less on the road, and all I had to do was to heave the front wheels off the edge of the bank. With a bigger car I doubt if I could have managed it, but the Mini was an advantage here. Feeling around in the snow I found a rock a couple of feet below the bank, and this gave me a firm surface to stand on. I got my shoulder to the nearside front wheel and heaved for all I was worth. After a considerable struggle I gained the few inches that I hoped would give the wheel a grip. The offside wheel was better placed. I carry a camping spade among my tools, and with this I dug away snow from behind the wheels to give them more chance.

  The next job was to see if I could reverse back to the middle of the track. I had got the car into a position where I felt fairly safe from going over the edge, but I didn’t like letting off the brake. She responded, however, splendidly, and we were out of our scrape. I backed about another twenty yards to a place where the slope flattened a little, and then put the car at it again with a run.

  She did not like it, but my tyres were good, and although they slithered horribly we managed to keep going and made the summit of the particularly steep bit. From there, the slope was easier and I began to feel happier. When the headlamps picked up the sheen of loch water I felt happier still, for this should be Loch Fiag, the first and larger of the two lochs mentioned in my directions.

  The track, now almost level, skirted the shore. There was some protection from a belt of thin trees, and the going was better. At the northerly end of Loch Fiag the track, which had been running more or less due north, trended a little to the west. It was still following a stream which flowed into Loch Fiag. Somewhere I had to turn left across the stream and I peered into the windscreen looking for a bridge. For what seemed ages there was no sign of a bridge but at last I came to it. It was a better bridge than I expected, of solid railway sleepers laid on stone piers. Hee House, on the western shore of the loch, should be about a mile ahead.

  The track, presumably made as a drive to the house, was now much better. I could see nothing but an edge of snow-covered hillside in the beam of my lamps but I was no longer worried about being lost – if I stuck to the road there was nowhere to be lost. The lighted window of a small lodge appeared suddenly; in that wild landscape it was like reaching a town. A few hundred yards beyond the lodge the road widened to a broad carriageway at the portico of a big house. There were lights in the windows. I stopped by some stone steps, got out and walked up to the door.

  My ring was answered almost at once. A woman opened the door.

  ‘Mr Garston?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do come in quickly. I’m sorry it’s such a wretched ni
ght. I am Paula Villeneuve.’

  We shook hands. In the light of the hall I was suddenly conscious that I was still wearing bright orange oilskins. ‘I’m sorry about the clothes,’ I said. ‘I really am a bit more respectable underneath. I had trouble in the snow and put on the oilies while I was digging out. I ought to have taken them off before presenting myself.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s much more to your credit to have them with you,’ she said. ‘You must have had a dreadful journey. It was good of you to come. Would you like a drink now, or shall I take you to your room?’

  ‘I’d love a drink, but I think I’d like a wash first,’ I said. ‘And can I put the car somewhere under cover?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And you’ll want your luggage. Just get that and don’t worry about the car. If you leave the key in I’ll get Jock to put it in the garage.’

  My belongings were in one small bag. I fetched it from the car and came back into the house.

  The hall was of Victorian-baronial proportions, giving an impression of the concourse of the old Euston station – two shallow grand staircases rising away from each wing looked a little like railway lines. But there was nothing Euston-like about the comfort and obvious taste of the place now. It was warm and beautifully lit. The dark woodwork – the Victorians had quality in their materials, if they did not always know how to use them – shone, and the expanse of pale walls was relieved by half a dozen pictures in frames severely plain. I learned later that they were all originals, Manet and Renoir, worth Heaven knows what.

  Miss Villeneuve led me up the right-hand staircase, which took us to a wide passage, a few yards along which we stopped at a door.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll be all right. You’ll find bathroom and everything next to the bedroom. When you are ready, come down. I’ll meet you in the hall, and we’ll find my father. Now I’ll go to see about your car.’

  I thanked her, and she went off. My ‘room’ was not a room, but a self-contained flat of considerable size –everything about Hee House was big. The door at which Miss Villeneuve had left me opened into a hallway, from which other doors led to bedroom, sitting room and bathroom. There was nothing Victorian about the furniture – it was modern Scandinavian of the best sort, in light wood with clean, pale grey upholstery. What was still slightly Victorian was an open grate in the sitting room, with a bright fire of big logs. There was obviously central heating, too, for the whole place was beautifully warm. The fire added a touch of visual comfort on that harsh January night.

  I took off the oilskins and inspected my suit. It seemed to have suffered no damage. I put on a clean shirt, decided that it would be impolite to hurry down as if I were gasping for a drink and sat by my fireside for a few minutes to reflect on what had brought me to Hee House.

  The whole thing now seemed an improbable adventure. Of course I had been flattered when Mr Villeneuve’s letter had reached me – sent to my home address. What on earth did he want? The letter itself said nothing at all. There was no need to take it out of my pocket for I remembered every word. It was handwritten, as far as I knew in the old man’s own writing, and it went:

  Dear Mr Garston,

  You may recall that we met briefly at the Savoy just before Christmas. I shall be most grateful if you will telephone me at Kinlochbervie 0906 as soon as may be convenient to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Paul Villeneuve

  The letter arrived by the first post after Boxing Day. I duly telephoned, and was agreeably surprised by the efficiency of the remote West Highland telephone service. I had expected to wait at least half an hour, but the call went through in a couple of minutes. I was unable to speak to Mr Villeneuve, but a girl who said that she was his daughter seemed to know all about me. Mr Villeneuve, she said, wanted to see me. Could I make some reason for being away from the office for a few days and come to Hee House? It was important that nobody at the office should know that I had been summoned by the chairman, but she was sure that I could contrive some excuse for being away. Could I come as soon as possible? I said that I would leave on New Year’s Day and reach Hee House on the evening of January 2. She gave me directions for getting there, and that was that.

  There was no difficulty about staying away from the office, particularly as I was not directly employed by the firm. Half the staff had flu, so I had flu. To avoid the possible awkwardness of anyone’s coming round to my flat at Richmond to inquire how I was, I telephoned in a rather croaky voice and said that I had been stricken with flu while spending Christmas with some friends near Oxford and that I feared I should have to stay where I was until my temperature went down. Caroline, the managing director’s secretary, was sympathetic, and I rang off before she had a chance of asking where I was speaking from.

  I thought over what I knew of Paul Villeneuve. I did not know much. He must be, I decided, well into his seventies, but he had been more of a legend than a person for the past twenty years. He had a French name and the family was of French extraction: either his grandfather or his great-grandfather had come to England to work as an engineer with the first Brunel, and the family had lived in England since. Paul had a house in Eaton Square which was kept up for his rare visits to London, but he spent almost all his time at Hee House. He was immensely able, and must be immensely rich.

  He had gone from Winchester to do what were then called mechanical sciences at Cambridge. He got a brilliant First, but he was more a natural philosopher than an engineer – one of the last scientists of the twentieth century who was also a wholly educated man. He could have worked for practically any firm in the world, but on coming down from Cambridge he chose to live on next to nothing to do research for himself in a wooden hut somewhere in Cornwall. His improvement to the linings of blast furnaces for steelmaking made his first fortune. His wartime work was still largely secret, but it had been of real importance. He had formed his company, International Metals, in the early 1930s, to hold and to exploit his patents. He had to go public for tax reasons after the war, but he still controlled the company.

  He had made fortunes for many other people. The Stock Exchange had periods of passionate love for International Metals, and periods of exasperation over it. Every few months somebody would think up a takeover situation for it, but International Metals was neither taken over, nor did it ever take over anybody else. It simply went on making money. From time to time City Editors would decide that it really must come unstuck – management was ageing, the profit figures could not possibly last. But they did. Villeneuve’s genius had devised major improvements in the processes used by a dozen different industries – from the instruments to navigate American rockets to the moon to the extraction of copper from ores of such low grade that it had not previously been worth anybody’s while to work them. There was scarcely a modern industrial process that did not owe something to Paul Villeneuve – and paid its debt in licence fees to International Metals.

  Villeneuve had become chairman of IM on its formation, and was still chairman. He kept, or was believed to keep, a pretty close watch on the company’s affairs, but for at least ten years he had stayed away from the great IM building in Moorgate, one of the first of the City’s post-war office blocks. He attended the company’s annual general meeting in June each year, and a cocktail party for executives and their wives that was always held at the Savoy, a week or so before Christmas. For the rest he lived with his daughter at Hee House. His wife, about whom nobody seemed to know much, was Scottish. She had died just after the war, leaving him with a young daughter.

  I had met Villeneuve for the first and only time at the latest Christmas gathering at the Savoy. International Metals always did things well and the party was an expensive one, with that rare blessing at cocktail parties, an adequate supply of real food. Nevertheless, it was as tedious as such affairs usually are. I had been wondering whether I could decently slip away when the managing director, Gwilym Morgan-Jones (Gwilym, I understand, being Welsh for William: he wa
s normally called Gil) came up to me.

  ‘Ah, Garston,’ he said, ‘you must meet Mr Villeneuve. I believe you were at the same school.’

  So I was introduced to the old man. He was not tall, perhaps 5 feet 8 inches or so, but he held himself very straight, with no trace of paunch or stoop. His hair was white, but he had plenty of it, no thinning or receding from his forehead, which was lined deeply. His eyes held you; they seemed a deep violet in colour, and I thought they were the most arresting eyes I had met.

  Our conversation was banal.

  ‘So you are a Wykehamist too?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What house?’

  ‘College.’

  ‘Ah, so was I. Do you know, I have never been back. Do they still eat off wooden platters?’

  ‘Yes, sir. At least, we did.’

  ‘Aut disce aut discede . . . I can remember, you see.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I don’t suppose you remained to be beaten.’

  ‘No, perhaps not. It was a long time ago.’

  Gil Morgan-Jones came up again. ‘Paul,’ he said to the old man, ‘Sir George looks as if he’s going. I think you’d better have a word with him.’ They nodded at me and went off.

  *

  I owed Winchester to my father’s death. My mother could never have afforded to send me there but my father, who was also a Wykehamist, had been killed in the war, and after the war the school provided a number of extra scholarships for the sons of Old Wykehamists who had died on active service. At bad moments in childhood I used to go and look at his name in the War Memorial cloister. I could barely remember him, but in those beautiful surroundings he felt comfortingly close. I was reasonably bright at school and I could have gone on to Oxford – in fact I won a small exhibition – but my mother had been left wretchedly badly off. She had worked herself as a schoolmistress until my last year at school, but then she fell ill, and although never bed-ridden she was not again fit enough to work. She needed me at home, and we both needed money. A friend of my father’s, by then senior partner in a firm of accountants, offered me a job in which I could be articled, and knowing something of our situation he also offered me a salary that was more generous than I could normally have expected as an articled clerk. He called it an allowance, and I think it came out of his own pocket. Why he was so good to us I never properly understood. My mother scarcely knew him, and his letter inviting me to call to see him to discuss the possibility of my becoming an accountant was sent to me at school. He was a taciturn man and he did not discuss my father. They were together in the Army, and some years after I had begun working for him he muttered something about my father’s having saved his life. He did not enlarge on this and I felt that I could scarcely ask him about it.