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you back so soon.
Anyway, there’s fresh digs for you in town, so at least it’ll be
more convenient. No more long cycle rides late at night.”
    “I rather like long cycle rides late at night. They clear the
mind.” Jericho closed the lids on the suitcases and snapped the
locks.
    “I say, you are up to this, old love? Nobody wants to force you
into anything.”
    “I’m a damn sight fitter than you are, by the look of you.”
    “Only I’d hate you to feel pressured…”
    “Oh do shut up, Guy.”
    “Right-ho. I suppose we haven’t left you with much choice, have
we? Can I help you with those?”
    “If I’m well enough to go back to Bletchley, I’m well enough to
manage a couple of suitcases.”
    He carried them to the door and turned off the light. In the
sitting room he extinguished the gas fire and took a last look
around. The overstuffed sofa. The scratched chairs. The bare
mantelpiece. This was his life, he thought, a succession of cheaply
furnished rooms provided by English institutions: school, college,
government. He wondered what the next room would be like. Logie
opened the doors and Jericho turned off the desk light.
    The staircase was in darkness. The bulb had long since died.
Logie got them down the stone steps by striking a series of
matches. At the bottom, they could just make out the shape of
Leveret, standing guard, his silhouette framed against the black
mass of the chapel. He turned round. His hand went to his
pocket.
    “All right, Mr Leveret,” said Logie. “It’s only me. Mr Jericho’s
coming with us.”
    Leveret had a blackout torch, a cheap thing swathed in tissue
paper. By its pale beam, and by the faint residue of light still
left in the sky, they made their way through the college. As they
walked alongside the Hall they could hear the clatter of cutlery
and the sound of the diners’ voices, and Jericho felt a pang of
regret. They passed the Porter’s Lodge and stepped through the
man-sized gate cut in the big oak door. A crack of light appeared
in one of the lodge’s windows as someone inside pulled back the
curtain a fraction. With Leveret in front of him and Logie behind,
Jericho had a curious sensation of being under arrest.
    The deputy director’s Rover was pulled up on the cobbled
pavement. Leveret carefully unlocked it and ushered them into the
back seat. The interior was cold and smelled of old leather and
cigarette ash. As Leveret was stowing the suitcases in the boot
Logie said suddenly: “Who’s Claire, by the way?”
    “Claire?” Jericho heard his voice in the darkness, guilty and
defensive.
    “When you came up the staircase I thought I heard you shouting
“Claire”. Claire?” Logie gave a low whistle. “I say, she’s not the
arctic blonde in Hut 3, is she? I bet she is. You lucky
bugger…”
    Leveret started the engine. It stuttered and backfired. He let
out the brake and the big car rocked over the cobbles on to King’s
Parade. The long street was deserted in both directions. A wisp of
mist shone in the shaded headlamps. Logie was still chuckling to
himself as they swung left.
    “I bet she jolly well is. You lucky, lucky bugger…”
    ♦
    Kite stayed at his post by the window, watching the red
tail-lights until they vanished past the corner of Gonville and
Caius. He, let the curtain drop.
    Well, well…
    This would give them something to talk about the next morning.
Listen to this, Dottie. Mr Jericho was taken away at dead of
night—oh, all right then, eight o’clock—by two men, one a tall
fellow and the other very obviously a plain clothes copper.
Escorted from the premises and not a word to anyone. The tall chap
and the copper had arrived about five o’clock while the young
master was still out walking and the big one—the detective,
presumably—had asked Kite all sorts of questions: “Has he seen
anyone since he’s been here? Has he written to anyone? Has anyone
written to him? What’s he been doing?” Then they’d taken his keys
and