The Prestige Read Free Page B

starting to stonewall me, which was the last thing I
     had expected. “Have you been in touch with our Press Office?”
    “Are they here?”
    “We have an office in London. All press interviews are arranged through them.”
    “I was told to come here.”
    “By our Press Officer?”
    “No… I understood a request was sent to the
    
    
     Chronicle
    
    
     , after Father Franklin made an appearance. Are you denying that that happened?”
    “Do you mean the sending of the request? No one here has been in contact with your
     newspaper. If you mean am I denying the appearance of Father Franklin, the answer is yes.”
    We stared at each other. I was torn between irritation with her and frustration at myself.
     Whenever incidents like this did not go smoothly, I blamed my lack of experience and
     motivation. The other writers on the paper always seemed to know how to handle people like
     Mrs Holloway.
    “Can I see whoever is in charge here?” I said.
    “I am the head of administration. Everyone else is involved with the teaching.”
    I was about to give up, but I said, “Does my name mean anything at all to you?”
    “Should it?”
    “Someone requested me by name.”
    “That would have come from the Press Office, not from here.”
    “Hold on,” I said.
    I walked back to the car to collect the notes I had been given by Wickham the day before.
     Mrs Holloway was still standing by the bottom of the stairs when I returned, but she had
     put down her bundle of files somewhere.
    I stood beside her while I turned to the page Wickham had been sent. It was a fax message.
     It said, “To Mr L. Wickham, Features Editor,
    
    
     Chronicle
    
    
     . The necessary written details you requested are as follows: Rapturous Church of Christ
     Jesus, Caldlow, Derbyshire. Half a mile outside Caldlow village, to the north, on A623.
     Parking at main gate, or in the grounds. Mrs Holloway, administrator, will provide your
     reporter Mr Andrew Westley with information. K. Angier.”
    “This is nothing to do with us,” Mrs Holloway said. “I'm sorry.”
    “Who is K. Angier?” I said. “Mr? Mrs?”
    “
    
    
     She
    
    
     is the resident of the private wing on the east side of this building, and has no
     connection with the Church. Thank you.”
    She had placed her hand on my elbow and was propelling me politely towards the door. She
     indicated that the continuation of the gravel path would take me to a gate, where the
     entrance to the private wing would be found.
    I said, “I'm sorry if there's been a misunderstanding. I don't know how it happened.”
    “If you want any more information about the Church, I'd be grateful if you'd speak to the
     Press Office. That is its function, you know.”
    “Yes, all right.” It was raining more heavily than before, and I had brought no coat. I
     said, “May I ask you just one thing? Is everybody away at present?”
    “No, we have full attendance. There are more than two hundred people in training this
     week.”
    “It feels as if the whole place is empty.”
    “We are a group whose rapture is silent. I am the only person permitted to speak during
     the hours of daylight. Good day to you.”
    She retreated into the building, and closed the door behind her.
    #############
    I decided to refer back to the office, since it was clear the story I had been sent to
     cover was no longer live. Standing under the dripping ivy, watching the heavy drizzle
     drifting across the valley, I rang Len Wickham's direct line, full of foreboding. He
     answered after a delay. I told him what had happened.
    “Have you seen the informant yet?” he said. “Someone called Angier.”
    “I'm right outside their place now,” I said, and explained what I understood was the setup
     here. “I don't think it's a story. I'm thinking it might just be a dispute between
     neighbours. You know, complaining about something or other.” But not about the noise, I
     thought as soon as I had