Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

Suddenly, the telephone rang, making me jump with surprise. As I moved towards it, the answering machine cut in and I heard Sarah’s recorded voice addressing the caller. “ This is Bristol 847269. I’m afraid I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Please speak after the tone .”

It was the secretary I’d talked to at Anstey’s. I recognized her at once. “ This is Dorothy Gibbons here, Sarah. Mr. Anstey’s most anxious to speak to you. Please contact him the minute you return. You can phone him at home if necessary. Thank you .”

The machine clicked off and silence resumed. Then I pressed the replay button, waited for the tape to wind back and listened as the accumulated messages replayed themselves in sequence. A girl called Fiona, inviting Sarah to a New Year’s Eve party. A bookshop, reporting the arrival of some paperback she’d ordered. Bella, sounding suitably urgent. Bella again, after drawing a blank at Anstey’s. Then, something odd.

“Katy Travers here, Miss Paxton. Hewitson Residential. I’m sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Simpson-I think you’ve met her-keeps badgering me about her mail. She seems to think some of it may have gone astray. Perhaps you could give her a call on 071 624-8488. I’d have phoned you at Braybourne Court, but apparently the line’s been disconnected and I didn’t think you’d want me to give her your Bristol number. I’d be most grateful if you could have a word with her. I’m sure there’s been some simple misunderstanding. Thanks a lot. ’Bye.”

There were a few more messages after that, including a third from Bella, but I paid them little attention. Instead, I rewound the tape and listened to Katy Travers again. What the devil was she talking about? Who was Mrs. Simpson? Where-and what-was Braybourne Court?

I switched off the tape, picked up the telephone and dialled Mrs. Simpson’s number.

“Hello?” She sounded well-bred, elderly and potentially tetchy.

“Mrs. Simpson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a friend of Sarah Paxton’s. I-”

“Oh, good. I want to speak to Miss Paxton. I’ve been trying to contact her for several days, but she seems distinctly elusive. The agency refused to give me her telephone number, you know. Extraordinary behaviour.”

“Yes. That’s why-”

“I have friends and relatives all over the world. Many of them will have sent me a Christmas card. But to my old address. That’s the point. A substantial quantity must have arrived, but I’ve seen nothing of them. It really is too bad. It was distressing enough to have to leave my lovely flat without this. After that exorbitant rent increase, it’s adding insult to injury to find that my successor can’t even take the trouble to forward my mail. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I-”

“I called round the other day, which I found a most upsetting experience in view of all the happy times my late husband and I enjoyed there, but Miss Paxton wasn’t in. Of course, I suppose she uses the flat merely as a pied-à-terre . And very agreeable too. But for those of us on fixed incomes-”

“Mrs. Simpson!” I shouted.

“Yes?” she responded, briefly cowed.

“Are you saying Sarah’s taken over the lease of a flat you used to occupy?”

“I don’t understand. Surely you must know she has. Ah, Braybourne Court.” Her tone became wistful. “Such a charming corner of Chelsea.”

“Chelsea, you say?”

“Certainly.”

“Where exactly in Chelsea?”

“What an extraordinary question. Surely Miss Paxton’s told you.”

“No. As a matter of fact, she hasn’t. She, er, neglected to give me the address. Which is awkward, since I’ve promised to visit her there. So, could you enlighten me?”

She didn’t reply at once. I could almost feel her suspicion coursing down the line. “How did you say you got my number, Mr…?”

“Timariot. Robin Timariot. I’d be happy to discuss your forwarding problems with Sarah, Mrs. Simpson. More than happy. I’m sure I could sort something out on your behalf. I can also give you her Bristol address and telephone number, which you might find helpful.”

“Hmm. Miss Paxton doesn’t seem to be a very well-organized young lady, I must say.”

“Quite so.”

“Very well, Mr… er… Marriott. Braybourne Court is an apartment block in Old Brompton Road. My flat-Miss Paxton’s, that is-is number two hundred and twenty-eight. Though what kind of a friend you count her as if she can’t be bothered to supply you with such information herself I really can’t imagine.”

“No, Mrs. Simpson. Neither can I.”

The rain was unceasing, drifting in sheets across the dank green fields of Wiltshire and Berkshire as I drove towards London. I cursed the traffic and spray that slowed my progress, watched the clock tick round and the meagre light drain from the louring sky… and wondered. What would I find at 228 Braybourne Court? Why the secrecy? Why the cunning manipulation of events? What was it leading to? They’d been so clever I still couldn’t see beyond the ruse itself. But for Sir Keith’s death, of course, they’d still be safe from detection. And but for Mrs. Simpson’s obsession with some allegedly missing mail that could just as easily be caught up in the Christmas rush, there’d be no trail to follow. Only bad luck-only the unforeseeable intervention of the unpredictable-had defeated their precautions. Or had given me the chance of defeating them. For that’s all it was. An outside chance. One I had to take.

It was the last full shopping day before Christmas and London was at its clogged and crowded worst. Wearying of the crawl in from the M4 that had stretched the journey from Clifton to nearly four hours, I abandoned the car near Baron’s Court tube station and started walking through the deepening twilight. Red lights bleared at me from winding rows of cars and glimmered on Christmas trees in drawing-room windows. Danger winked out its warning as darkness gathered its strength. But I hurried on, following Louise into the forest even as night began to fall.

Braybourne Court was a large red-brick Edwardian mansion block near Brompton Cemetery, with separate security-locked entrances, each serving a dozen or so flats, spaced around its four sides. The entrance leading to flats numbered between 225 and 237 was in a quiet side-street. All I could see through the double glass doors was a plushly carpeted hallway, dividing discreetly after twenty feet or so. If I moved back to the steps spanning the basement area, I could catch a glimpse through the lofty ground-floor windows of corniced ceilings and flock-papered walls. An entry-phone system was in place to ensure this was as much of a view as unwelcome visitors ever got of the interior. Braybourne Court evidently placed a premium on privacy. And charged accordingly, I had no doubt. Sarah could easily be paying seven or eight hundred pounds a week for a pied-à-terre here. Which would have seemed absurdly extravagant-if that’s what I’d believed she wanted it for.

But it wasn’t, as the blank name-panel next to the buzzer for flat 228 somehow confirmed. Privacy wasn’t the point. Secrecy was nearer the mark. Absolute secrecy. Which I was about to penetrate.

I pressed the buzzer, got no response and pressed it again with the same result. I waited a few moments, then tried three short sharp rings. Still nothing. But somehow I wasn’t discouraged. She was there. And so was Paul. Why I didn’t know and couldn’t guess, but the intricacy of their deception convinced me of their presence. They might hope I’d give up and go away, but they’d be hoping in vain.

I pressed the buzzer again and this time kept my finger on it, counting the seconds under my breath. Before I’d reached forty, there was a click from the speaking grille and a voice I recognized with a surge of relief said: “Yes?”