CHAPTER FIVE

Across the square the tall oaks creakingly swayed in the stiff breeze which had recently sprung out of Nature's strange and unpredictable life. It was the sort of breeze which, though not strong enough to wrench the leaves from their moorings on the sturdy branches of the great trees, nevertheless caused a series of violent agitations among them which was somewhat disquieting for Nicholas Webb to behold, and for two reasons. On the one hand, it served to remind him that autumn was just a few weeks away and that, after the autumn, there wouldn't be any more leaves to look at until the late spring of the following year, and, on the other hand, it insidiously contrived to undermine his faith in the goodness of Nature, albeit not, as yet, to any appreciable extent. For it was virtually axiomatic with him that, by comparison with the city, Nature wasn't merely good but almost divine. Nevertheless, there were times when it seemed less good or quasi-divine than formerly. Times, indeed, when one was tempted to use the word 'evil' to describe how one felt about it.... Not that there was any need to think of man-devouring earthquakes or ship-sinking tornadoes or house-flattening hurricanes or village-smothering volcanic eruptions or anything of the like. God, no! It was far wiser to shut-out such diabolical phenomena from one's mind altogether or, if one wasn't permitted that luxury, at least as much as possible. After all, the cult of Nature Worship, like most other cults, demanded a certain imaginative myopia, or myopic imagination, on the part of its humble devotees if they weren't to jeopardize the spiritual benefits accruing to the meticulous cultivation of a faith which could so easily be assailed and, if the worst came to the worst, completely shattered by logical posturings. A few cracks in it, now and again, would not be the worst of outcomes, provided one didn't encourage them to unduly expand. For a chink in the faith would be harder to repair than a few cracks. And after a chink...?

No, Nicholas Webb hadn't developed more than a few tiny cracks since falling under the influence of John Cowper Powys, the prophet of sublimated Nature Worship, or Elementalism, and becoming a humble devotee the year before. They had appeared in the middle of winter at a time when the icy inclemency of January had reduced his worship to the barest minimum, to a degree of dilettantism, one might say, which he subsequently considered deplorable and hastened, with the inception of spring, to atone for as best he could. He had even fallen partly under the confusing influence, during those bitter January weeks, of a dualistic philosopher whose ambivalent attitude towards Nature, more ambivalent by far than anything characterizing John Cowper Powys, further managed to undermine his faith in its goodness.

According to this philosopher, Nature was neither good nor evil but a paradoxical combination of both, the good chiefly manifesting itself in summer and the evil, by contrast, in winter, it being duly inferred that the one couldn't exist without the other. Thus from Webb's ailing devotion to Elementalism there emerged the heresy that, in contrast to those aspects of Nature embodied in inclement weather conditions, the buildings of the square, as indeed the city of which the square was but a tiny component, were alone good at such a time - a heresy which almost served to transform the few cracks into a veritable chink!

But all this had happened, he subsequently reassured himself, at a juncture when his faith hadn't had sufficient time to blossom into what it was in the process of becoming under favourable climatic conditions; when it hadn't had adequate time to put down firm roots, so to speak, and consequently withstand the temptation to err. Next time he would be better prepared for whatever the winter held in store for him! So much so that even the bare branches of the oak trees in the middle of the square would be able to assist him, would encourage him to stand at the window just as often as at more propitious times of year and 'plunge into' the snow or ice or ...

He was on the point of returning to his paper-strewn desk when the blue-stockinged calf muscles of a passing female caught his wandering eye and induced him to plunge into them with even more avidity than he had mustered for the fluttering leaves. A connotation with Deborah Wilke's lust-provoking attire of the previous evening duly came hovering to mind and invoked a complacent smile from his lips. Why, she had looked even more ravishing, if that was possible to believe, than on Tuesday, and so much so that it was as much as he could do to restrain the impulse to indulge his passion before he took her out. And when they were out and seated together at the theatre, his impatience to bring her back to his flat became so acute, at one point, that he lost all interest in the frigging play and felt obliged to mumble something derogatory about it every few minutes. He even wanted to walk out of the theatre before it had finished; though he knew from experience that Deborah liked being seen in public and wouldn't relish missing the rest of a play which she evidently found amusing, not to say socially gratifying. But he had weathered the compromise between taking her out and bringing her back quite successfully in the long run. For she rewarded him most generously, in private, for all the pains to which he had put himself in public. If she looked ravishing with her clothes on, she appeared absolutely irresistible with them off, and he wasted no time in making it perfectly clear to her just how irresistible she was! For the fact that he had kissed her anus was proof enough of the respect she inspired in him. To how many other women had he done that in the past? Only one - the lady who subsequently became his wife and bore him two children. At the height of his passion for her he would have preferred to kiss her arse than to kiss another woman's lips. She was beautiful to him all over, even on the soles of her feet, and he wanted to prove it to her, he needed to prove it to her, in order to testify to the strength and genuineness of his love.

But strong and genuine though his love was at the time, it subsequently became less so, weakened to a point where the prospect of kissing her in relatively unconventional places would have revolted him, made him contemptuous of himself, and disgusted with her for allowing or encouraging him to do so! And then it weakened to a point where he couldn't even bring himself to kiss her in conventional places, where the attempts he made at doing so increasingly began to disgust him and resulted, several unrewarding endeavours later, in his not kissing her at all - resulted, ultimately, in the divorce which brought about their final separation just over two years ago.

Now, however, after a succession of fairly lukewarm relationships with other women, he was beginning to experience something akin to the passion he had felt for Pauline in the early days of their love, some fifteen years previously. A memory of those heightened times was returning to him and, with that memory, one or two of his former habits were also being resuscitated. Could it be that Deborah Wilkes, his twenty-eight-year-old girlfriend, had all the makings of a future wife? He couldn't be sure at this stage but, all the same, it didn't seem implausible, particularly if his enthusiasm for the entirety of her body was anything to judge by - an enthusiasm which she evidently found agreeably flattering! And why not? It wasn't every day or with every man that one could, as a woman, consider oneself desirable all over!

He turned away from his voyeuristic vantage-point by the window and returned to his desk. There were still a few letters to sign and a number to read, as well as some recent journalistic contributions from the outside world to consider. He was grateful that fate had spared him the ignominy of an idle existence, even if the one he normally led, in his editorial capacity, wasn't always to his taste. But even poor contributions and tedious letters were better than nothing; even they sometimes provided him with a couple of hours' agreeable preoccupation. Take that young surrealist poet the other day, for instance. One's peace of mind often depended upon such people. One never quite knew what to expect next! Not to mention the stuff which the regular contributors, the professional employees of 'Arts Monthly' (arse-lickers every one of them), habitually churned out, ostensibly in the service of the magazine. Young Anthony Keating, for instance, with his petty-bourgeois obsession with the decline of the West, an obsession which somehow found its way into just about everything he wrote. Really, there were times when one had to laugh at the earnestness with which the poor fellow set about the uphill task of disillusioning people with the concept of continuous social and moral progress! Spengler couldn't have wished for a better heir to his pessimistic theories, a more ardent disciple than young Keating, who was even more piously Spenglerian than Malcolm Muggeridge, if that were possible to believe! And yet he appeared to have purposely closed his eyes to the things that showed no evidence of decline, including the beauty of the most attractive contemporary women. But how could one think or worry about the decline of Western civilization with a ravishing blonde like Deborah Wilkes in one's arms? Perhaps that was what Keating needed? Something to make him conscious of the way certain things rose in contemporary life!

And then there was Andrew Hunt, with his otherworldly spiritualism, his penchant for speculations about the Afterlife. How many times had one been obliged to read about the survival of consciousness following death in an essay ostensibly treating of, say, contemporary poetry or drama? More times than one could bare or dare to remember! And yet the public appeared to like it, even to delight in the sharp juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated topics as presented by the more scholarly, and possibly schizophrenic, of his two sub-editors. But how could one be expected to believe that consciousness survived death? It didn't make sense, at least not to Nicholas Webb, who was aware that his scepticism would probably have been condemned by Keating, if not by Hunt also, as a further symptom of Western decline. One was expected to believe that consciousness could continue to function in some kind of otherworldly way, without the assistance of a brain and of the blood being pumped through it to keep it alive. But that was tantamount to believing the impossible: that mind, as we understood it, was something that could continue to function without physiological support! And where exactly did this 'mind', this bodiless consciousness of oneself and others, go, following death? Where, exactly, was it to be found? Could you pluck it out of the air around you, this something which couldn't even be seen but which nonetheless continued to dream its own dreams, or did it exist on a higher plane - for instance, somewhere up above the clouds? If so, how overcrowded it must be up there, what with the billions upon billions of 'minds' which had once belonged to prehistoric men, prehistoric reptiles, historic men, fish, birds, animals, insects, etc., and, assuming there was life on other planets throughout the Universe, innumerable aliens of one kind or another as well! And now that there were so many rockets and satellites and other technological marvels being sent out into space by the Earth, not to mention what other hypothetically habitable planets were probably dispatching, how these 'minds' must have been jostled about and generally disturbed by the technological brainchilds of the lesser minds still attached to bodies! Really, it was as much as one could do to keep a straight face at the thought of what life must be like in the other world - assuming it was as one imagined it to be! Everything that had ever lived and possessed a mind from the year dot to the current second on any planet capable of sustaining autonomous life in any part of the Universe would be 'living', as contemporaneous neighbours, on the higher plane! It didn't bear thinking about! And yet, if Andrew Hunt was any authority on the subject, it had been thought about, in various ways, since the dawn of thought, and would doubtless continue to be pondered until such time as thinking minds ceased to exist. But would Hunt think about this world in the other one - assuming he wasn't already effectively in it? Nicholas Webb smiled ironically and proceeded to apply his stylish signature to the letters in front of him. At least he had no doubt as to which world he inhabited. The other one could wait until he died, so far as he was concerned.

A gentle rap on the door momentarily aroused him from the development of his signature and induced him to glance in its direction, where the oval face of Judith Pegg was now to be seen. He smiled his acknowledgement of her secretarial function and motioned her to enter. "Had a nice lunch?" he asked, glad of an opportunity to speak to someone so unequivocally down-to-earth.

"Very nice, thanks!" she replied, taking her customary seat in front of his paper-strewn desk. "A Madras curry."

He raised his brows in a show of admiring surprise and continued to apply his signature to the letters still requiring it. "Not very much dictation this afternoon," he murmured while writing, "so you needn't worry about having to work too hard. Just one or two things left over from yesterday."

She smiled deferentially and glanced over the contents of his desk. The pile of letters that constituted the morning's post was still resting where she had left it at 9.30, which of course meant that he hadn't got round to reading any of them and therefore wouldn't have formulated any kind of appropriate response to their proposals. He never read and dictated simultaneously. The process of assimilation had to take place in solitude, where there would be no-one to distract his attention or impair his powers of concentration. Only after the contents of a letter requiring a reply had been thoroughly digested could they be regurgitated, a number of hours later, in an appropriately pertinent manner. It was as though he planned his dictation in advance, like a military campaign, and secretly flattered himself over his ability to remember, at a later time, what he had earlier decided upon, since the letters subsequently required only the slightest attention. The greater part of his attention appeared to be focused on his secretary, whom he enjoyed watching, and in whose person he still had a vaguely amorous interest, despite the passage of time.

"Now then!" he gently exclaimed, having dispensed with his signature-cum-autograph and pulled a small pile of letters out of a drawer to the left of his desk. "Three of these can have the same reply, since they relate to an identical subject." He briefly scanned the letters in question and commenced dictation with: "We are most grateful for your inquiry regarding the advisability of submitting an essay on the novelist Hillary Parker for the October edition of our periodical, but regret to say that the edition in question has already been planned and could not now be rearranged STOP We would however be willing to consider such an essay for the November edition if circumstances permit STOP Your interest in the magazine is much appreciated and we look forward to receiving your contribution STOP". He read out the names and addresses of the people concerned and cast their letters to one side. Not often, he mused, that potential contributors bothered to sound one out beforehand. Most of them just sent things, and pretty unsuitable things, too! But these three must have had some raw experiences in consequence of former optimism, and accordingly become more cautious. And rightly so, since Hillary Parker's latest book hadn't received the most flattering of critical introductions to the general public in certain other influential periodicals.

Nicholas Webb frowned down at the remaining letters in his hands, all of which could be covered by the same response - one relating to the superfluous nature of the many articles received on Howard Tonks from contributors, or potential contributors, who had previously been of use to him. Thus: "Whilst we are must grateful to you for offering us your article on Mr Tonks ... we regret to say that we have already decided to publish an interview with him in the September edition ... which has precluded us from considering any further material STOP Nevertheless ..."

The ringing of the external telephone suddenly interrupted his rather florid dictation, the product in part of a slight inebriation. With an expression of annoyance on his ruddy face, he snatched up the receiver and briskly announced his name, as though to a subordinate.

"Good afternoon, Mr Webb! This is Howard Tonks speaking, and I regret to inform you that I wish to lodge a serious complaint."

"Mr Tonks!?" Webb's expression immediately changed from annoyance at being interrupted to apprehension at the words 'serious complaint'. "What appears to be the, er, trouble, sir?" he asked.

"The trouble, Mr Webb, is that my daughter appears to have been raped, yesterday afternoon, by one of your correspondents whilst I was detained in Birmingham an extra day," came the blunt rejoinder from an irate composer. "I received a letter this morning from my elderly housekeeper, informing me that she has decided to resign her post in consequence of the deplorable spectacle she was obliged to witness in my study, of all places, at the time in question - a spectacle, apparently, in which your young correspondent had availed himself of Rebecca's generosity for purposes which common decency prevent me from enlarging upon. At her age, it was more than she could bear to witness such a scene! I have no notion of how she is at present, but I can only suspect the worst. And the same, alas, applies to my daughter, whom I haven't seen today. Whether she's dead or alive I cannot tell, for she's certainly not at home. I hunted through all the rooms in my house after reading the letter from my housekeeper - or perhaps I should say ex-housekeeper - earlier today, but she was nowhere to be found. And her bed hadn't been slept in the previous night. Not the slightest indication of where she had gone or been taken.... You can't imagine how upset my poor wife is over this." The note of anger in his voice could not be sustained beyond these words, but faltered into one of grief. He seemed on the verge of tears, as though on behalf of Beverly Tonks. "I haven't yet ... contacted the police," he went on falteringly, "but will have to do so ... if no news of Rebecca's whereabouts reaches me ... within the next couple of days."

At the mention of police, Webb flinched and blanched perceptibly. The possibility of 'Arts Monthly' being involved in a scandal of such magnitude positively horrified him. "Are you absolutely certain it was one of our correspondents whom your housekeeper discovered, er, having improper relations with your daughter?" he hastened to query. For he simply couldn't believe that Anthony Keating would involve himself in such disgraceful behaviour. It sounded altogether too preposterous.

"Not absolutely certain," the composer admitted, in a slightly trembling voice, "because Mrs Marchbanks hadn't seen your correspondent before."

"You mean, Mr Keating?"

"Yes, he was the one who came on Monday to interview me, wasn't he?" Mr Tonks recalled. "Mind you, he didn't actually succeed in doing so, because he was more interested in hearing me play the piano and talking about irrelevant issues."

"But I understood from him that you had a sore throat, sir, and was unable, in consequence, to take part in the interview as arranged."

"Not at all, Mr Webb!" the composer hastened to correct. "I was as fit as a fiddle. I could have talked all afternoon and was perfectly prepared to do so. But Mr Keating was more interested in hearing my music, and even went so far as to record me playing Schumann."

Webb frowned gravely. It was evident that young Keating had lied to him on Tuesday morning!

"However, all that is really beside the point," continued Mr Tonks, his voice regaining a hint of its former anger. "The fact is that I agreed to give the interview on Thursday afternoon, as soon as I got back from certain last-minute professional engagements in Birmingham, so your correspondent was scheduled to return then. Unfortunately, as I remarked earlier, I was detained there on the day in question and, not having your office number with me, could only telephone home in the morning to instruct my daughter, who has not yet returned to college from her summer recess, to get in touch with you and cancel the interview on my behalf. Whether she did or not, I don't know."

"I didn't hear about any such call," Webb impulsively responded, in the teeth of a temptation to say the contrary and thereby acquire a pretext for asserting that Keating had been instructed to go elsewhere in the afternoon. But that might have led to further complications.

"Well, it appears someone visited my house yesterday afternoon," Mr Tonks rejoined, "since there is no reason for me to assume my housekeeper was simply imagining things. And the way things stand, Mr Keating seems to be the most likely suspect. There is, however, one other possibility, so far as your employees are concerned, and that's a young man by name of Wilder."

"Neil Wilder?" ejaculated Webb, hardly able to believe his ears. "But he has been off work all week with influenza."

"Really?" exclaimed Mr Tonks in some perplexity. "Well, he was well enough to turn-up at my door for a few minutes this afternoon, Mr Webb, with the express intention of conducting the interview in Keating's stead. He knew, curiously, that I had been away the day before, and he knew, too, that I'd agreed to give the interview this afternoon - two factors which led me to assume that my daughter could have seen him on Thursday and passed on the information I'd imparted to her by phone. As it happens, he denied having visited my house the previous afternoon, but claimed that Mr Keating had informed him of my change of circumstances the same evening. In other words, he induced me to assume that Mr Keating had visited the house on Thursday. But when I asked him point-blank as to exactly when Mr Keating had last visited it, he immediately replied: 'Monday'. There was no mention of anyone coming here yesterday."

Nicholas Webb was flabbergasted. "But that's impossible!" he asseverated, directing a look of horrified amazement at his baffled secretary. "Someone must have gone to your house yesterday to discover that you were postponing the interview an extra day, since Mr Keating was under no doubt, when I spoke to him on Tuesday morning, that you had only postponed it until Thursday."

"Yes, I fully appreciate that fact, Mr Webb," responded the composer. "It would seem that one of your two correspondents is lying, and, until I know which of them to blame, I'm afraid I shall have to postpone the interview indefinitely. And if I don't hear from my daughter over the weekend, I'm afraid I shall have to notify the police in the hope that they can trace her. In the meantime, I suggest you question your correspondents as to what they were up to, and then take appropriate measures to ensure that it doesn't happen again! I look forward to hearing from you at the earliest possible opportunity, Mr Webb. Good day!"

A sigh of despair escaped from between Nicholas Webb's parted lips, as he gently returned the receiver to its customary position on the body of the telephone.

"What was all that about?" asked Mrs Pegg, with an air of bewilderment.

"Something pretty serious!" he replied, furrowing his brows to a degree that left his secretary in no doubt of the matter. "Something that may well concern the future of our magazine." Then, realizing that there was little time to be lost, he asked Mrs Pegg, in dismissing her, to send Osbourne in to see him. The senior sub-editor, he knew, held Thursday-evening gatherings at his flat to which several of the correspondents and other members of staff were often invited. Perhaps it would be possible to elicit some relevant information concerning the whereabouts, yesterday evening, of either Keating or Wilder from him? Unfortunately, there was no way he could see them in person that afternoon, since the one was out reviewing the new art exhibition at the Merlin Gallery, and would probably remain out for the rest of the day, while the other was officially still off work with flu. But he would certainly see them both first thing Monday morning. There could be no doubt about that!

Before long the door opened again and in walked Martin Osbourne with an anxious expression on his thin face. "Is anything wrong?" he asked.

"You bet there is!" Webb affirmed in a gruff voice, before motioning him to sit down. "I have just heard from ..." Realizing it would probably be more tactful to keep quiet about the telephone conversation with Howard Tonks for the time being, he cut himself short on that score, and continued: "I take it you still hold your Thursday-evening, er, gatherings?"

Osbourne felt inclined to smile at his superior's tactful formality in spite of the solemnity of the occasion. "Why yes, I held one last night in fact," he calmly admitted.

"And was Keating there?"

"Only just, for he arrived over an hour-and-a-half late, excusing himself on the basis of his interview engagement with Howard Tonks," revealed the senior sub-editor.

Webb could barely conceal his anger and frustration. Nevertheless he just about contrived to hold himself in check, as he asked: "And did he say anything about it?"

"Only that the composer had kept him to dinner and talked about himself a great deal."

Here Webb felt obliged to give minimum vent to his pent-up feelings in the form of a protracted sigh, the negative breath of which Osbourne must have felt across the other side of the desk, for he shifted uneasily in his chair. There could be no doubt that Keating had lied! It was his word against Mr Tonks'. But what of Wilder? How did he come to get involved, unless he happened to be at Osbourne's little gathering, too? It seemed the most likely explanation, and yet it was difficult to put the question point-blank to Osbourne, difficult because he would feel decidedly uncomfortable at the prospect of revealing that someone who was ostensibly ill, and off work in consequence, was nevertheless well enough to attend his little soiree. But there remained a more subtle approach, and Webb was all for trying it. "I take it Keating was the only member of staff present at your party last night," he commented.

The senior sub-editor's face appreciably darkened at the memory of what Wilder had said to him about keeping his attendance confidential. It simply wouldn't have been fair on him to disclose his presence there, and thereby enable Webb to infer that he ought to have been well enough to return to work today, assuming he had really been sick in the first place. So, after a moment's painful hesitation, he simply said: "No, Andrew was also there."

"Only Andrew Hunt?" queried the editor in what, to Osbourne, seemed like an impertinently sceptical tone.

"Yes." The temptation to mention Neil momentarily presented itself to Osbourne again but was instantly quashed. "But what is all this about?" he cried, unable to restrain his pique at being interrogated in such fashion.

"I'll tell you what it's all about!" exploded Webb and, throwing caution to the wind, he proceeded to divulge the information which Howard Tonks had imparted to his worry-strained mind only a few minutes before.

"Oh, I see," murmured Osbourne, as the implications of the affair began to register with him. "And Wilder turned-up on the composer's doorstep this afternoon?"

"He did indeed! confirmed Webb. "Which leads one to assume that Keating must have phoned him or visited his flat either before or after he visited yours," he added, "and thus got Wilder to stand-in for him."

Martin Osbourne bit his lip in a panic of guilt. All-of-a-sudden it was perfectly obvious to him what had happened. They must have come to some such arrangement while he was in the toilet and talked about it behind his back, the deceitful bastards! Even Keating's desire to listen to music must have had some ulterior motive, like ensuring they wouldn't be easily overheard. For when he returned from the toilet, Osbourne remembered, the music was louder than before, and, partly because of this, he had gone across to the far corner of the room and left the two correspondents to groove, ostensibly, to the other side of the Jeff Beck instead of attempting to get into conversation with either or both of them, as he had initially intended. But how could he now admit that Wilder had been at his party? How could he go back on what he had just said? He bit his lip again in the throes of this quandary.

"Yes, it's quite a problem," admitted Webb, misinterpreting his colleague's pained expression. "We can't afford a scandal of this magnitude and, what's more, we can't tolerate it! One if not both of them will have to go. We cannot continue to employ people who betray our trust in them in such a blatantly underhand and frankly criminal fashion!"

"But I can't believe that Anthony Keating would actually rape anyone," objected Osbourne on an incredulous note. "He's much too civilized."

"Too devious would be nearer the mark!" declared Webb aggressively. "Yet if what Howard Tonks' housekeeper apparently wrote in her letter of resignation is true, then we have no choice but to believe it. Besides, the fact of the old woman's resignation is bad enough. It may cost us the interview." He frowned angrily and leant back in his chair. As if there wasn't enough to worry about already!

"Well, now that you've told me, what are we to do?" asked Osbourne nervously.

"Nothing until Monday morning," replied Webb, frowning. "Then we'll get to the bottom of the matter. In the meantime, I suggest you carry on as normal and pretend, for everybody else's benefit, that nothing has happened."

The senior sub-editor nodded acquiescently and, with some relief, took his leave of Webb's office. But he returned to his own office via Andrew Hunt's one. For he had no desire that the editor should subsequently find out, via Hunt, that his own account of what had happened on Thursday evening was less than totally true!