The Ghost(英文版)-第25部分

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o　told　the　police　about　the　lights。”

　　“The　lights？”

　　“The　lights　on　the　beach　on　the　night　the　body　was　washed　up。　Nothing　happens　round　here　that　she　doesn’t　see。　Kay　used　to　say　she　was　always　happy　leaving　Mohu　in　the　fall；　knowing　she　could　be　sure　Annabeth　would　keep　an　eye　on　things　all　winter。”

　　“What　kind　of　lights　were　these？”

　　“Flashlights；　I　guess。”

　　“Why　wasn’t　this　reported　in　the　media？”

　　“In　the　media？”　He　gave　another　of　his　grating　chuckles。　“Annabeth’s　never　spoken　to　a　reporter　in　her　life！　Except　maybe　an　editor　from　theWorld　of　Interiors。　It　took　her　a　decade　even　to　trust　Kay；　because　of　thePost　。”

　　That　started　him　off　talking　about　Kay’s　big　old　place　up　on　Lambert’s　Cove　Road　that　Bill　and　Hillary　used　to　like　so　much；　and　where　Princess　Diana　had　stayed；　of　which　only　the　chimneys　now　remained；　but　by　then　I　had　stopped　listening。　It　seemed　to　me　the　rain　had　eased　somewhat　and　I　was　eager　to　get　away。　I　interrupted。

　　“Do　you　think　you　could　point　me　in　the　direction　of　Mrs。　Wurmbrand’s　house？”

　　“Sure；　but　there’s　not　much　point　in　going　there。”

　　“Why　not？”

　　“She　fell　downstairs　two　weeks　ago。　Been　in　a　coma　ever　since。　Poor　Annabeth。　Ted　says　she’s　never　going　to　regain　consciousness。　So　that’s　another　one　gone。　Hey！”　he　shouted；　but　by　then　I　was　halfway　down　the　steps　from　the　veranda。

　　“Thanks　for　the　shelter；”　I　called　over　my　shoulder；　“and　the　talk。　I’ve　got　to　get　going。”

　　He　looked　so　forlorn；　standing　there　alone　under　his　dripping　roof；　with　the　Stars　and　Stripes　hanging　like　a　dishrag　from　its　slick　pole；　that　I　almost　turned　back。

　　“Well；　tell　your　Mr。　Lang　to　keep　his　spirits　up！”　He　gave　me　a　trembling　military　salute　and　turned　it　into　a　wave。　“You　take　care　now。”

　　I　righted　my　bike　and　set　off　down　the　track。　I　wasn’t　even　noticing　the　rain　anymore。　About　a　quarter　of　a　mile　down　the　slope；　in　a　clearing　close　to　the　dunes　and　the　pond；　was　a　big；　low　house　surrounded　by　a　wire　fence　and　discreet　signs　announcing　it　was　private　property。　There　were　no　lamps　lit；　despite　the　darkness　of　the　storm。　That；　I　surmised；　must　be　the　residence　of　the　comatose　widow。　Could　it　be　true？　She　had　seenlights　？　Well；　it　was　certainly　the　case　that　from　the　upstairs　windows　one　would　have　a　good　view　of　the　beach。　I　leaned　the　bike　against　a　bush　and　scrambled　up　the　little　path；　through　sickly；　yellowish　vegetation　and　lacy　green　ferns；　and　as　I　came　to　the　crest　of　the　dune　the　wind　seemed　to　push　me　away；　as　if　this　too　were　a　private　domain　and　I　had　no　business　trespassing。

　　I’d　already　glimpsed　what　lay　beyond　the　dunes　from　the　old　guy’s　house；　and　as　I’d　cycled　down　the　track；　I’d　heard　the　boom　of　the　surf　getting　progressively　louder。　But　it　was　still　a　shock　to　clamber　up　and　suddenly　be　confronted　by　that　vista—that　seamless　gray　hemisphere　of　scudding　clouds　and　heaving　ocean；　the　waves　hurtling　in　and　smashing　against　the　beach　in　a　continuous；　furious　detonation。

　　The　low；　sandy　coast　ran　away　in　a　curve　to　my　right　for　about　a　mile　and　ended　in　the　jutting　outcrop　of　Makonikey　Head；　misty　through　the　spray。　I　wiped　the　rain　out　of　my　eyes　to　try　to　see　better；　and　I　thought　of　McAra　alone　on　this　immense　shore—facedown；　glutted　with　salt　water；　his　cheap　winter　clothes　stiff　with　brine　and　cold。　I　imagined　him　emerging　out　of　the　bleak　dawn；　carried　in　on　the　tide　from　Vineyard　Sound；　scraping　the　sand　with　his　big　feet；　being　washed　out　again；　and　then　returning；　slowly　creeping　higher　up　the　beach　until　at　last　he　grounded。　And　then　I　imagined　him　dumped　over　the　side　of　a　dinghy　and　dragged　ashore　by　men　with　flashlights；　who’d　come　back　a　few　days　later　and　thrown　a　garrulous　old　witness　down　her　architect…designed　stairs。

　　A　few　hundred　yards　along　the　beach　a　pair　of　figures　emerged　from　the　dunes　and　started　walking　toward　me；　dark　and　tiny　and　frail　amid　all　that　raging　nature。　I　glanced　in　the　other　direction。　The　wind　was　whipping　spouts　of　water　from　the　surface　of　the　waves　and　flinging　them　ashore；　like　the　outlines　of　some　amphibious　invasion　force：　they　made　it　halfway　up　the　beach　and　then　dissolved。

　　What　I　ought　to　do；　I　thought；　staggering　slightly　in　the　wind；　is　give　all　this　to　a　journalist；　some　tenacious　reporter　from　theWashington　Post　；　some　noble　heir　to　the　tradition　of　Woodward　and　Bernstein。　I　could　see　the　headline。　I　could　write　the　story　in　my　mind。

　　WASHINGTON—The　death　of　Michael　McAra；　aide　to　former　British　prime　minister　Adam　Lang；　was　a　covert　operation　that　went　tragically　wrong；　according　to　sources　within　the　intelligence　community。

　　Was　that　so　implausible？　I　took　another　look　at　the　figures　on　the　beach。　It　seemed　to　me　they　had　quickened　their　pace　and　were　heading　toward　me。　The　wind　slashed　rain　in　my　face　and　I　had　to　wipe　it　away。　I　ought　to　get　going；　I　thought。　By　the　time　I　looked　again　they　were　closer　still；　stumbling　determinedly　up　the　expanse　of　sand。　One　was　short；　the　other　tall。　The　tall　one　was　a　man；　the　short　one　a　woman。

　　The　short　one　was　Ruth　Lang。

　　I　WAS　AMAZED　THATshe　should　have　turned　up。　I　waited　until　I　was　sure　it　was　her；　then　I　went　halfway　down　the　beach　to　meet　her。　The　noise　of　the　wind　and　the　sea　wiped　out　our　first　exchanges。　She　had　to　take　my　arm　and　pull　me　down　slightly；　so　that　she　could　shout　in　my　ear。“I　said；”　she　repeated；　and　her　breath　was　almost　shockingly　hot　against　my　freezing　skin；“Dep　told　me　you　were　here！”　The　wind　whipped　her　blue　nylon　hood　away　from　her　face　and　she　tried　to　fumble　for　it　at　the　nape　of　her　neck；　then　gave　up。　She　shouted　something；　but　just　at　that　moment　a　wave　exploded　against　the　shore　behind　her。　She　smiled　helplessly；　waited　until　the　noise　had　subsided；　then　cupped　her　hands　and　shouted；　“What　are　you　doing？”

　　“Oh；　just　taking　the　air。”

　　“No—really。”

　　“I　wanted　to　see　where　Mike　McAra　was　found。”

　　“Why？”

　　I　shrugged。　“Curiosity。”

　　“But　you　didn’t　even　know　him。”

　　“I’m　starting　to　feel　as　if　I　did。”

　　“Where’s　your　bike？”

　　“Just　behind　the　dunes。”

　　“We　came　to　fetch　you　back　before　the　storm　started。”　She　beckoned　to　the　policeman。　He　was　standing　about　five　yards　away；　watching　us—soaked；　bored；　disgruntled。　“Barry；”　she　shouted　to　him；　“bring　the　car　round；　will　you；　and　meet　us　on　the　road？　We’ll　wheel　the　bike　up　and　find　you。”　She　spoke　to　him　as　if　he　were　a　servant。

　　“Can’t　do　that；　Mrs。　Lang；　I’m　afraid；”　he　yelled　back。　“Regulations　say　I　have　to　stay　with　you　at　all　times。”

　　“Oh；　for　God’s　sake！”　she　said　scornfully。　“Do　you　seriously　think　there’s　a　terrorist　cell　at　Uncle　Seth’s　Pond？　Go　and　get　the　car　before　you　catch　pneumonia。”

　　I　watched　in　his　square；　unhappy　face；　as　his　sense　of　duty　warred　with　his　desire　for　dryness。　“All　right；”　he　said　eventually。　“I’ll　meet　you　in　ten　minutes。　But　please　don’t　leave　the　path　or　speak　to　anyone。”

　　“We　won’t；　officer；”　she　said　with　mock　humility。　“I　promise。”

　　He　hesitated；　then　began　jogging　back　the　way　he’d　come。

　　“They　treat　us　like　children；”　complained　Ruth；　as　we　climbed　up　the　beach。　“I　sometimes　think　their　orders　aren’t　to　protect　us　so　much　as　to　spy　on　us。”

　　We　reached　the　top　of　the　dune　and　automatically　we　both　turned　round　to　stare　at　the　sea。　After　a　second　or　two；　I　risked　a　quick　glance　at　her。　Her　pale　skin　was　shiny　with　rain；　her　short　dark　hair　flattened　and　glistening　like　a　swimmer’s　cap。　Her　flesh　looked　hard；　like　alabaster　in　the　cold。　People　used　to　say　they　couldn’t　understand　what　her　husband　saw　in　her；　but　at　that　moment　I　could。　There　was　a　tautness　about　her；　a　quick；　nervous　energy：　she　was　a　force。

　　“To　be　honest；　I’ve　come　back　here　a　couple　of　times　myself；”　she　said。　“Usually　I　bring　a　few　flowers　and　wedge　them　under　a　stone。　Poor　Mike。　He　hated　to　be　away　from　the　city。　He　hated　country　walks。　He　couldn’t　even　swim。”

　　She　quickly　brushed　her　cheeks　with　her　hand。　Her　face　was　too　wet　for　me　to　tell　whether　she　was　crying　or　not。

　　“It’s　a　hell　of　a　place　to　end　up；”　I　said。

　　“Oh；　no。　No　it’s　not。　When　it’s　sunny；　it’s　rather　wonderful。　It　reminds　me　of　Cornwall。”

　　She　scrambled　down　the　little　footpath　to　the　bike；　and　I　followed　her。　To　my　surprise；　she　suddenly　mounted　it　and　pedaled　away；　coming　to　a　stop　about　a　hundred　yards　up　the　track；　at　the　edge　of　the　wood。　When　I　reached　her；　she　gazed　intently　at　me；　her　dark　brown　eyes　almost　black　in　the　fading　afternoon　light。　“Do　you　think　his　death　was　suspicious？”

　　The　directness　of　the　question　took　me　unawares。　“I’m　not　sure；”　I　said。　It　was　all　I　could　do　to　stop　myself　telling　her　right　then　what　I’d　heard　from　the　old　man。　But　I　sensed　this　was　neither　the　time　nor　the　place。　I　wasn’t　sufficiently　sure　of　my　facts；　and　it　seemed　crass；　somehow；　to　pass　unverified　gossip　on　to　a　grieving　friend。　Besides；　I　was　a　little　scared　of　her：　I　didn’t　want　to　be　on　the　receiving　end　of　one　of　her　scathing　cross…examinations。　So　all　I　said　was；　“I　don’t　know　enough　about　it；　to　be　honest。　Presumably　the　police　have　investigated　the　whole　thing　pretty　thoroughly。”

　　“Yes。　Of　course。”

　　She　got　off　the　bike　and　handed　it　to　me　and　we　started　ascending　through　the　scrub　oak　toward　the　road。　It　was　much　calmer　away　from　the　sea。　The　downpour　had　almost　stopped　and　the　rain　had　released　rich；　cold　smells　of　earth　and　wood　and　herbs。　I　could　hear　the　ticking　of　the　rear　wheel　as　we　walked。

　　“The　police　were　very　active　at　first；”　she　said；　“but　it’s　all　gone　quiet　lately。　I　think　the　inquest　was　adjourned。　Anyway；　they　can’t　be　that　concerned—they　released　Mike’s　body　last　week　and　the　embassy　have　flown　it　back　to　the　UK。”

　　“Oh？”　I　tried　not　to　sound　too　surprised。　“That　seems　very　quick。”

　　“Not　really。　It’s　been　three　weeks。　They　did　an　autopsy。　He　was　drunk　and　he　drowned。　End　of　story。”

　　“But　what　was　he　doing　on　the　ferry　in　the　first　place？”

　　She　gave　me　a　sharp　look。　“That　I　don’t　know。　He　was　a　grown　man。　He　didn’t　have　to　account　for　his　every　move。”

　　We　walked　on　in　silence　and　the　thought　occurred　to　me　that　McAra　could　easily　have　left　the　island　for　the　weekend　to　visit　Richard　Rycart　in　New　York。　That　would　explain　why　he’d　written　down　Rycart’s　number　and　also　why　he　hadn’t　told　the　Langs　where　he　was　going。　How　could　he？“So　long；　guys。　I’m　just　off　to　the　United　Nations　to　see　your　bitterest　political　enemy…”

　　We　passed　the　house　where　I’d　sought　shelter　from　the　downpour。　I　kept　an　eye　out　for　the　old　man；　but　the　white　clapboard　property　appeared　as　deserted　as　when　I’d　first　seen　it—so　freezing；　locked；　and　abandoned；　in　fact；　that　I　half　wondered　if　I　might　not　have　imagined　the　whole　encounter。

　　Ruth　said；　“The　funeral’s　in　London　on　Monday。　He’s　being　buried　in　Streatham。　His　mother’s　too　ill　to　attend。　I’ve　been　thinking　that　perhaps　I　ought　to　go。　One　of　us　should　put　in　an　appearance；　and　it　doesn’t　seem　likely　to