the present, after all. It would be invaluable in the present investigation of the German barber. I could, for instance, set up a concealed camera outside the barbershop and film everyone who comes and goes.â
âLet us get the camera first,â said Quinn. âAnd then we will decide what to do with it.â
To Quinnâs relief, further discussion was cut off by the arrival of the post boy with the latest bundle of internal mail. There was a note from Sir Edward:
Quinn,
Have arranged for you to talk to a chap at the Admiralty for background and guidance. Present yourself to Lord Dunwich, at the Admiralty Extension, 1500 hours today.
Quinn consulted his pocket watch. He had ten minutes to spare.
EIGHT
L ord Dunwich peered over the screen that separated his desk from the civil servants in his department. He couldnât shake off the feeling that he was being watched. Even here, inside the Admiralty.
He knew that it was absurd, to think like this. But receiving that preposterous object at the club had shaken him.
He sat down at his desk again, opened the drawer where the object was confined, still in its box. He stared at the box for several minutes, as if gazing at it could help him understand it. Then he closed the drawer. He took the further precaution of locking it and pocketing the key.
Thankfully, that day in the club, he had not called for help or drawn any attention to the object itself. There had been that initial involuntary cry, which had brought one or two disapproving glances from over the tops of newspapers. But he had kept his wits about him enough to clear his throat loudly and mutter something about a kipper bone.
The august members had gone back to their papers. And, rearranging his armchair so that he was shielded from further view, he had lowered himself down on to his hands and knees and confronted the object.
He had stared at it for a long time, wondering whether it really could be what it appeared to be.
And it had stared back at him.
He had been reluctant to touch it. The very idea repulsed him. But he knew he had to get rid of it somehow. And so he took a fountain pen from the writing table and prodded the object with that. It did not respond in the way he might have expected an enucleated eye to respond. It was hard, for one thing. The pen made a tapping sound against it and caused the thing to roll.
Is this what happens to eyes when they are removed from their sockets? he wondered. They toughen up?
Also, it was too perfect. Too perfectly spherical, and the surface utterly unblemished. Surely a real eye would have lost its shape a little? Become wrinkled, pitted or deflated. And he might have expected the lustre to have faded from it. And where were the tendrils of nerves trailing from the back of it, the loose attachments of gristle and fibre, the specks of gore? The flaws in the surface?
It was immaculate. Gleaming. Polished.
Then he thought back to the way it had bounced and rolled across the floor.
No, it wasnât what he had first thought it to be. It was not an eye, certainly not a human eye. Not even a pigâs eye, or an oxâs eye.
It was a billiard ball. A white billiard ball, with a blue iris painted on to it.
After the first half-laugh of incredulity and relief, he had to admit he had felt a little disappointed. Cheated, almost. And then, slightly ashamed. He had been taken in. He was the butt of a ridiculous prank. The visceral horror he had felt had been duped out of him, a wasted emotion.
If it was a practical joke, what was the point of it? What was the joke? He simply didnât get it. And he couldnât for the life of him think of anyone who might have perpetrated it. His set didnât really go in for this sort of thing. The odd bit of mild ribbing at his expense, perhaps, but nothing as elaborate, or grotesque, as this. It was a question of taste, as well as style. Admittedly in his youth, at Oxford, he had taken part in the usual
âLet us get the camera first,â said Quinn. âAnd then we will decide what to do with it.â
To Quinnâs relief, further discussion was cut off by the arrival of the post boy with the latest bundle of internal mail. There was a note from Sir Edward:
Quinn,
Have arranged for you to talk to a chap at the Admiralty for background and guidance. Present yourself to Lord Dunwich, at the Admiralty Extension, 1500 hours today.
Quinn consulted his pocket watch. He had ten minutes to spare.
EIGHT
L ord Dunwich peered over the screen that separated his desk from the civil servants in his department. He couldnât shake off the feeling that he was being watched. Even here, inside the Admiralty.
He knew that it was absurd, to think like this. But receiving that preposterous object at the club had shaken him.
He sat down at his desk again, opened the drawer where the object was confined, still in its box. He stared at the box for several minutes, as if gazing at it could help him understand it. Then he closed the drawer. He took the further precaution of locking it and pocketing the key.
Thankfully, that day in the club, he had not called for help or drawn any attention to the object itself. There had been that initial involuntary cry, which had brought one or two disapproving glances from over the tops of newspapers. But he had kept his wits about him enough to clear his throat loudly and mutter something about a kipper bone.
The august members had gone back to their papers. And, rearranging his armchair so that he was shielded from further view, he had lowered himself down on to his hands and knees and confronted the object.
He had stared at it for a long time, wondering whether it really could be what it appeared to be.
And it had stared back at him.
He had been reluctant to touch it. The very idea repulsed him. But he knew he had to get rid of it somehow. And so he took a fountain pen from the writing table and prodded the object with that. It did not respond in the way he might have expected an enucleated eye to respond. It was hard, for one thing. The pen made a tapping sound against it and caused the thing to roll.
Is this what happens to eyes when they are removed from their sockets? he wondered. They toughen up?
Also, it was too perfect. Too perfectly spherical, and the surface utterly unblemished. Surely a real eye would have lost its shape a little? Become wrinkled, pitted or deflated. And he might have expected the lustre to have faded from it. And where were the tendrils of nerves trailing from the back of it, the loose attachments of gristle and fibre, the specks of gore? The flaws in the surface?
It was immaculate. Gleaming. Polished.
Then he thought back to the way it had bounced and rolled across the floor.
No, it wasnât what he had first thought it to be. It was not an eye, certainly not a human eye. Not even a pigâs eye, or an oxâs eye.
It was a billiard ball. A white billiard ball, with a blue iris painted on to it.
After the first half-laugh of incredulity and relief, he had to admit he had felt a little disappointed. Cheated, almost. And then, slightly ashamed. He had been taken in. He was the butt of a ridiculous prank. The visceral horror he had felt had been duped out of him, a wasted emotion.
If it was a practical joke, what was the point of it? What was the joke? He simply didnât get it. And he couldnât for the life of him think of anyone who might have perpetrated it. His set didnât really go in for this sort of thing. The odd bit of mild ribbing at his expense, perhaps, but nothing as elaborate, or grotesque, as this. It was a question of taste, as well as style. Admittedly in his youth, at Oxford, he had taken part in the usual