The houses were typical homes of the wealthy town dweller, large without being mansions, stone built, and standing in their own grounds. The street turned into a quiet cul-de-sac at the far end, and it was there that he found what he was looking for.
The house seemed somehow dead and neglected, the windows staring blindly down at him, and the garden was unkempt and overgrown. He walked along the gravel drive and mounted broad steps to the front door and tried the bell. He could hear it ringing somewhere in the depths of the house, but no one answered. He tried again, keeping his thumb pressed hard against the button for a full minute, but there was no reply.
He went back down the steps and walked across the lawn. Someone had made an attempt to cut it in front of the stone terrace, and a French window stood ajar, one end of a red velvet curtain billowing out into the rain as a sudden gust of wind lifted it.
He paused at the window, peering uncertainly into the darkness of the room beyond, and said softly, ‘Is anyone there?’
There was no reply, and he had started to turn away when a high-pitched, querulous voice called, ‘Who is it?’
Shane parted the curtains and stepped inside. The room was in half darkness, and it was several moments before his eyes were adjusted to the change of light. He walked forward cautiously, and the voice sounded again, almost at his elbow. ‘Here I am, young man.’
Shane swung round quickly. An old man was sitting in a wing-backed chair beside a small table, on which stood a bottle and a glass. There was a rug over his knees, and an old-fashioned quilted dressing-gown was buttoned high around his scrawny neck. When he spoke, his voice was high and cracked, like an old woman’s.
‘I don’t often get visitors,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
Shane pulled a chair forward and sat down. ‘I’m looking for Mr Henry Faulkner.’ he said.
The old man leaned forward slightly. ‘I’m Henry Faulkner,’ he said. ‘What do you want to see me about? I don’t know you, do I?’
His right cheek twitched convulsively, and his opaque, expressionless eyes seemed to stare blindly into the ashes of life. Shane moistened his lips. ‘My name is Shane,’ he said. ‘Martin Shane. I knew your son in Korea.’
The old man’s hands tightened over the malacca cane he was holding in front of him, and a tremor seemed to move through his entire body. He leaned forward excitedly, and something glowed in his eyes. ‘You knew Simon?’ he said. ‘But that’s wonderful. Wonderful.’ He leaned back in his chair, and nodded his head several times. ‘He was a fine boy. A fine boy. A little wild perhaps, but he never did anyone any harm.’ He sighed heavily. ‘He was killed, you know. Killed in action.’
Shane lit a cigarette, frowning. ‘Is that what they told you?’
The old man nodded vigorously. ‘I’ve got his medals somewhere. I’ll get them for you. He was a hero, you know.’
Before Shane could protest, the old man had thrown back the rug and struggled to his feet. He swayed there uncertainly for a moment or so, and then hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘I’ll only be a moment,’ he said.
The door closed behind him and Shane took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The room was stifling and smelled as if nothing had been dusted for years. He got to his feet and walked slowly round, examining the furniture, and suddenly the old man’s voice cracked sharply from the doorway. ‘Simon? Is that you, Simon?’
Cold fingers seemed to touch Shane on the face, and he shivered and walked forward slowly. ‘Simon’s dead, Mr Faulkner,’ he said gently.
There was a moment of fragile stillness between them and then twin points of light glowed in the opaque eyes, and the old man’s right cheek twitched. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘Simon isn’t dead. He can’t be.’
Shane swallowed, his throat dry. ‘He’s been dead for seven years.’
The old man’s head moved stiffly from side to side like a puppet’s, and he seemed to be choking. He backed away through the open door into the hall outside, and his voice was high-pitched and hysterical. ‘Keep away from me,’ he croaked. ‘Keep away from me.’ He half raised the cane as if to strike, and then a figure appeared behind him and a woman’s voice said calmly, ‘Father, what are you doing out of your chair?’
The old man huddled against her like a small child seeking its mother, and she slipped an arm round his shoulder and turned to Shane with a frown. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she demanded, and there was anger in her voice.
He moved forward out of the darkness of the room into the hall. ‘My name is Martin Shane,’ he said. ‘I was a friend of Simon’s.’
She stiffened suddenly, and her arm seemed to tighten about her father’s shoulders. ‘My brother has been dead a long time, Mr Shane,’ she said.
He nodded calmly. ‘I know. I was with him when he was killed.’
A peculiar expression appeared in her eyes, and she was about to speak when the old man said brokenly, ‘Laura!’ and sagged against her.
Shane moved forward quickly. ‘Can I help?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I can manage. I’m used to this. Please wait for me in the drawing-room. I shan’t be long.’
She walked slowly with the old man to a door on the other side of the hall and opened it. Shane caught a brief glimpse of a bed against the far wall before the door closed.
He went back into the darkness of the drawing-room and sat in a chair by the window, smoking a cigarette and frowning over what had happened. It was like a jig-saw puzzle with the pieces fitted together the wrong way. The decaying house, the crazy old man and the woman – none of it made any sense.
At that moment she came into the room. She moved over to the window and pulled the curtains to one side, flooding the room with light. ‘My father’s eyes are very weak,’ she explained. ‘Too much light is bad for him.’
She took a cigarette from a crumpled packet and Shane gave her a light. ‘I’m sorry about your father,’ he said. ‘I rang the bell and got no answer, and then I noticed the open window.’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s very easily upset these days. He’s had a progressive brain disease for the past eight years. He’s really only a frightened child.’
She leaned against the French window, staring out into the rain, and Shane examined her closely. He judged her to be about twenty-eight or nine. She was wearing tartan trews and a Spanish shirt knotted at the waist. Her dark hair hung loosely about her face, and there were dark circles under her eyes. As she took another cigarette from the packet he noticed paint stains on her slender hands, and wondered idly what she had been doing.
She spoke sharply, breaking into his reverie. ‘And now I think you’d better tell me why you’ve come here, Mr Shane.’
He shrugged. ‘I was Simon’s best friend. We joined up together, we fought together. I simply wanted to talk to your father about him.’
She frowned and there was a touch of impatience in her voice. ‘Simon was killed seven years ago, Mr Shane. You’ve certainly taken your time about calling to offer your condolences.’
He glanced up at her quickly, and his face was completely expressionless. ‘I’m sorry about that, but I’m afraid I’d no choice.’
There was a moment of silence and she frowned. ‘No choice? What on earth are you talking about?’
He got to his feet and moved past her until he was almost standing under the curtain of rain, and his eyes looked out across the garden into the past. ‘I’ve been in an institution for the past six years, Miss Faulkner.