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Jem stared at him, incredulous. ‘Are you implying I’m unbalanced?’
‘It’s what happened before, isn’t it? You thought too much about all this—about Toby, and his murder, and that business with Nicky—and it was too much for you. Nervous collapse, wasn’t that what you called it?’
‘I am not having a nervous collapse.’
Hugo ignored him. ‘People do odd things under stress. Ten years ago, it was hurling unwarranted recriminations and the kind of things that were said that night. Now you’re telling me someone’s tried to harm you, and we’re all guilty and goodness knows what?—’
‘Someone did try!’ Jem snapped.
‘I’m not trying to insult you. I am trying tohelpyou, before you at best make a damned fool of yourself, and at worst cause serious harm. You are developing some kind of complex about this, believing God knows what?—’
‘You don’t know what I believe.’
‘Well, I hope you believe that I am your friend,’ Hugo said. ‘And as such, I would be very happy to provide you with a bit of peace and quiet. We’ve a little place in the country, with an excellent doctor who could take a look at your foot. You could come and stay, get away from it all for a while. And if after, say, a month of rest and good feeding, you still think there is substance to your fears, you’d be in a much better position to make your case. Because, I fear, you’re not giving the impression of a reliable witness at the moment. What do you say, old fellow?’
Jem had to take a minute to calm himself. He wanted to shout, and knew very well that wouldn’t help, and he also had a horrible sneaking feeling that Hugo had a point. He’d been hungry for weeks, desperate for years, and the conversations and contradictions of the last days were a simmering brew in his mind. He probably looked like a man at the end of his tether, because he was.
‘It’s very decent of you to offer,’ he said as levelly as he could. ‘But there is nothing wrong with me. And I am not going to walk away from this.’
‘I didn’t say walk away, just take a breather. Will you at least think about it? I’m worried for you.’
‘You don’t need to be.’
‘I think I do,’ Hugo said. ‘Either somebody tore up your things and poured oil on the stairs in a deliberate attempt to threaten and hurt you—and if that’s the case, there’s someone dangerous and ruthless out there who wants you to stop. Or?—’
‘Or what?’
‘Or that didn’t happen,’ Hugo said steadily. ‘And if it didn’t, I am even more worried.’
Jem felt himself going scarlet. ‘Of course it happened. Ask Nicky, or the porter who saw the room.’
‘I don’t doubt the damage was done.’
‘Are you suggesting I did it myself?’
‘Did you?’
‘No!’
Hugo let his exclamation hang in the air for a long moment, then gave a tiny shrug. ‘So someone else did, which brings me back to my first point: you are in danger. Potentially serious danger from someone who wants you to stop what you’re up to. And, not to put too fine a point on it, you aren’t a great hand at self-defence. It would be sensible to pull back and regroup, old chap. At least think about it?’
‘You’re very kind,’ Jem said. ‘But I don’t need to think about it. I know what I have to do, and I won’t be warned off or bought off. I’ve had enough of being quiet, Hugo. I’ve been quiet for ten years, and I’m not the only one. It’s time for us to speak.’
Hugo stared at him, face unreadable. The silence stretched for a few moments, then he rose.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘The offer stands if you come to your senses. I just ask that you consider it.’
When Hugo had gone, Jem went to stare in the mirror, looking at what other people saw. Prematurely lined eyes ringed with exhaustion, hollow cheeks, greying hair that needed a cut. Shaving had helped, but nothing could hide the expression of fear and desperation, from himself at least. He’d been afraid for so long. It had left its mark.
He couldn’t shake off Hugo’s words. He knew he wasn’t being irrational, or at least that he had good reason for his suspicions, and he knew what nervous collapse felt like. But to hear someone doubt one’s sanity in such a calm, kind voice was enough to make a man sick.
Therehadbeen oil on the stairs. His notebookhadgone. Nickyhadhidden his clothes. Or put them tidily away, of course, and Jem had simply, fearfully assumed they were hidden…
No. He wasn’t inventing this, and he wasn’t collapsing again. He was almost sure of that.
He tried to focus onThe Club of Queer Trades, but its whimsy couldn’t hold his attention. He wished more than anything he could go for a long walk. Stride out in the cold and fog, defy the weather, because he had a good greatcoat and money in his pockets to stop for a pint in some pub with a blazing fire.
He thought of that, sitting on the bed with a blanket doubled over his feet in the small, chilly room, and then startedThe Four Just Menagain. Anything to let time pass; anything rather than think about what he was going to do, what he should do, what other people might do in response.
