Enigma

for Wigram, because from his point of view, that confession neatly tied up everything. Puck was dead. Raposo would soon be dead. Why not leave “Claire” to rest at the bottom of the lake as well? All that he needed to do to round the story off was to pretend that it was me who led him to the traitor.
    'So to say that she's still alive is not an act of faith, but merely logical. She is alive, isn't she?'
    A long pause. Somewhere a trapped fly barged against a window pane.
    Yes, said Romilly, hopelessly. Yes, he understood that to be the case.
    What was it Hardy had written? That a mathematical proof, like a chess problem, to be aesthetically satisfying, must possess three qualities: inevitability, unexpectedness and economy; that it should 'resemble a simple and clear-cut constellation, not a scattered cluster in the Milky Way'.
    Well, Claire, thought Jericho, here is my proof.
    Here is my clear-cut constellation.
    *
    Poor Romilly, he didn't want Jericho to leave. He had bought some food, he said, on his way home from the office. They could have supper together. Jericho could stay the night—God knew, he had enough room . . .
    But Jericho, looking around at the furniture dressed as ghosts, the dirty plates, the empty whisky bottle, the photographs, was suddenly desperate to get away.
    'Thank you, but I'm late.' He managed to push himself to his feet. 'I was due back in Cambridge hours ago.'
    Disappointment settled like a shadow across Romilly's long face. 'If you're sure I can't persuade you ...' His words were slightly slurred. He was drunk. On the landing he bumped against a table and switched on a tasselled lamp, then conducted Jericho, unsteadily, down the stairs to the hall.
    'Will you try and find her?'
    'I don't know,' said Jericho. 'Perhaps.'
    The death certificate was still lying on the letter-stand in the hall. 'Then you'll need this,' said Romilly, picking it up. 'You must show it to Wigram. If you like, you can tell him you've seen me. In case he tries to deny everything. I'm sure he'll have to let you see her then. If you insist.'
    'Won't that get you into trouble?'
    'Trouble?' Romilly gave a laugh. He gestured behind him, at his mausoleum of a house. 'D'you think I care about trouble? Come on, Mr Jericho. Take it.'
    Jericho hesitated, and in that moment he had a vision of himself—a few years older, another Romilly, struggling vainly to breathe life into a ghost. 'No,' he said at last. 'You are very kind. But I think I ought to leave it.here.'
    He left the silent street with relief and walked towards the sound of traffic. On Cromwell Road he hailed a cab.
    The spring evening had brought out the crowds. Along the wide pavements of Knightsbridge and in Hyde Park it was almost like a festival: a profusion of uniforms, American and British, Commonwealth and exile—dark blue, khaki, grey—with everywhere the splashes of colour from the summer dresses.
    She was probably here, he thought, tonight, somewhere in the city. Or perhaps that would have been considered too risky, and she had been sent abroad by now, to lie low until the whole business had been forgotten. It occurred to him that a lot of what she had told him might actually be true, that she could well be a diplomat's daughter.
    On Regent Street, a blonde-haired woman on the arm of an American major came out of the Cafe1 Royal.
    He made a conscious effort to look away.

    ALLIED SUCCESS IN NORTH ATLANTIC read a newspaper placard on the opposite side of the street. NAZI U-BOATS SUNK.
    He pulled down the window and felt the warm night air on his face.
    And here was something very odd. Staring out at the teeming streets he began to experience a definite sense of—well, he could not call it happiness, exactly. Release, perhaps, would be a better word.
    He remembered their last night together. Lying beside her as she wept. What had that been? Remorse, was it? In which case, perhaps she had felt something for him.
    'She never talked about you,' Hester had said.
    'I'm flattered.'
    'Given the way she used to talk about the others, you should be. . .'
    And then there had been that birthday card: 'Dearest Tom ... always see you as a friend ... perhaps in the future . . . Sorry to hear about... in haste . . . Much love.'
    It was a solution, of a sort. As good a solution, at any rate, as he was likely to get.
    At King's Cross Station he bought a postcard and a book of stamps and sent a message to Hester asking her to visit him in Cambridge as soon as she