On Saturday morning Langham woke late with a throbbing head and a sand-pit mouth. He told himself that he should never have indulged in the Double Diamond on top of yesterday’s lunchtime session. He washed down a couple of slices of toast with three mugs of strong tea, then ran himself a hot bath.
That morning’s post brought a pleasant surprise, which occasionally – very occasionally, he thought – befell the freelance writer. The proprietor of a hotel near Felixstowe was an avid reader of the Sam Brooke books. His late wife, he wrote, had also enjoyed the novels, and the last six months of her life had been ‘brightened by your expert storytelling’. In acknowledgement of the pleasure Langham had brought to her last months, the proprietor – he glanced at the letter heading – a Mr Sellings, would be honoured if he would accept an expenses-paid weekend for two at the hotel. Enclosed with the letter was a leaflet showing a white-painted Victorian building overlooking a picturesque cove.
The unexpected rewards of pounding the keys, he thought.
He set the letter aside as an idea formed. Perhaps in a few weeks, if his relationship with Maria developed as he hoped it might, he would suggest a quiet break on the Suffolk coast. He would write to Mr Sellings on Monday morning, thanking him for his kindness and gratefully accepting the offer.
A second letter proved to be the official invitation for the annual spring London Crime Club dinner at the Albemarle Club, Pall Mall, next Wednesday. He hadn’t missed a meeting since the war, and he made a mental note to reply to the invitation.
He packed a suitcase in excellent spirits, remembered to pick up the envelope containing the reviews, and headed into the city.
He found a parking space just along the road from the Herald, left the engine turning over and ran up the steps into the building. The newsroom was as hectic as usual and there was no sign of Grenville at the review’s desk. Langham left the envelope propped against a telephone and got out fast, before Grenville appeared and chastised him for late delivery.
He motored to Kensington, whistling a dance band tune he’d heard on the wireless and which seemed to be lodged in his head like a virus. Rain had fallen during the night, but now the sun was shining and the forecast for the rest of the weekend was good: sun over the east of England with temperatures in the low seventies.
He left the car outside Maria’s apartment and took the steps two at a time. Still whistling, he rang the bell and waited. A minute later the door opened and Maria stood framed in the entrance, stunning in a flowing red gingham dress.
She laughed at his mute reaction. ‘You like, Donald? Papa bought it for me.’
‘You look wonderful.’
‘Good. Now please stop gawping and help me with this case, would you?’
He obliged, and a minute later they were motoring north. ‘This is exciting, Donald. To be leaving London and heading into the country.’
‘I’ll say. I’ve known Charles for twenty years, Maria, and I’ve never once seen his country pile.’
‘Never? I have been only once, when he held a party and invited me and my father. It’s a rather nice place, I think Georgian, in beautiful grounds. Did you know that it’s the Elders’ family seat, and has been in the family for almost three hundred years?’
‘Someone once did tell me that Charles’s forbears were minor aristocracy. He certainly acts the part.’
‘Charles is a dear. Oh—’ She laid confiding fingers on his arm. ‘I haven’t told you. Charles came back to the office from the service at five o’clock yesterday and he was rather merry. He said he went back to the publishers for drinks afterwards.’
‘Hubert and Shale were hosting a do. I ducked out.’
‘Well, Charles didn’t, and he was in such a good mood when he returned that he made me an offer.’
Langham put on a mock-horrified expression. ‘Not of marriage?’
She hit him. ‘Silly! Of course not. He made a long speech, as only Charles can, about how indispensable I was to the running of the agency and how, as he would soon no longer be around to oversee the business, he wanted to do more than just leave it in my hands. So he said that now was the time to make me a business partner. He said he’d have Mr Winstanley draw up the papers.’
Langham slapped the steering wheel. ‘That’s magnificent, Maria. Well done.’
She was beaming to herself. ‘The strange thing is, just a few days ago I was wondering where my life was going. I liked working for Charles, but a part of me wanted to move on … and yet I felt reluctant to let him down. And then, pfff! All this happened, and …’ She stopped suddenly.
He felt his mouth go dry. He stared ahead, gripping the wheel. ‘Yes?’
She was silent. They were barrelling along a quiet stretch of road through Epping Forest. He turned to look at her.
She was regarding her impeccably manicured fingernails, pressed against the material of her dress, and said in a soft voice, ‘And then you became more than just a face, more than just one among many of Charles’s authors. You became someone … real. Oh, that sounds silly, but you know what I mean. You became someone who showed that he cared for Charles and would stand by him whatever, someone who was brave and …’
He said, ‘Go on, I’m rather liking this.’
She laughed. ‘What I’m trying to say is, how could I leave the agency now that all this has happened …?’
He was unable to find the appropriate words in response, so he just reached out and squeezed her fingers.
She sighed happily and said at the top of her voice, ‘Oh, I want to take long walks in the countryside and then eat wonderful meals – and maybe even beat you at tennis!’
‘Charles has a court?’
She nodded. ‘I played with my father when we came up last year.’
‘Then we’ll have a game, and you’ll no doubt beat me because I’m rubbish.’
‘How about croquet?’
‘Never played. The only game I could play with any skill was cricket.’
‘Oh, what a silly English game!’ she laughed.
He wound down the window, now that the city was behind them, and admitted the fragrance of the countryside.
One hour later they arrived at the sleepy town of Bury St Edmunds, and Langham pulled into the car park of the Midland Hotel. He’d read somewhere that they did decent lunches.
‘Hungry?’ he asked.
‘I could eat a horse.’
‘I doubt cheval is on the menu, my dear. You’ll have to make do with ham salad.’
They ate in the plush dining room overlooking the cathedral, and Maria did opt for a cold meat salad while Langham ordered whiting with chips and peas.
He smiled as he recalled something she’d said the other day, and he decided that now was as good a time as any to broach the matter. He pointed a fork at her. ‘Last week you asked me if I’d ever written anything other than mystery stories, with the implication that I could do better.’
She assumed an expression of prim innocence. ‘The implication? Non. That is entirely your presumption. Perhaps, Donald, you think you should be writing something better than mysteries?’
He had to laugh at her arch expression. ‘You’re playing psychological games with me, Maria.’
She leaned forward, lodged her chin on the back of her hand, and said, ‘Why do you write only mysteries?’
He finished the whiting and pushed the plate aside. ‘Well, there are a number of reasons. The first is that I enjoy writing them. The second is that that’s what I’m known for, and changing horse midstream in this game is always a bit risky. And third … third … I’m not a literary snob. I put a lot of work into the novels and I think they’re as good as I can make them.’ He shrugged. ‘I grew up in a family which wasn’t at all bookish. I discovered novels late, when I was around fifteen – picked up a Bulldog Drummond in the public library … and the rest, as they say, is history.’
She pulled a face. ‘Bulldog Drummond?’
He laughed. ‘Well, I wasn’t politically aware back then. I just wanted a rattling good yarn.’
‘But you’ve never thought of writing a real novel?’
‘Never. I’m happy doing what I do.’
She finished her salad. ‘Do you know, I think you should write a literary novel about … about a young man who falls in love.’
He stared into her eyes, something preventing the glib reply that sprang to his lips. He just stared at her, and she returned his gaze, smiling to herself, and he had never felt more like kissing anyone than he did at that moment.
The magic was broken by the waiter enquiring, ‘Will that be all, sir? Dessert?’
‘Oh …’ Langham said. ‘No, not for me. Maria?’
‘Nor for me either, thank you.’
‘Just the bill, please.’
As they were leaving the hotel she slipped her hand into his, and the gesture felt like the most intimate he had experienced in a long, long time.
They set off on the last leg of the journey, and Langham indicated a road map in the passenger footwell. Maria retrieved it and found the relevant page. ‘Where are we now?’ she asked.
‘Coming out of Bury St Edmunds and heading towards Thetford.’
‘Ah, oui. Here we are. And Charles’s house is just outside a village called … here it is. Meadford. We are about five miles away.’ She gave him directions. ‘The house is set back from the lane and hidden behind lots of trees.’
Fifteen minutes later they passed through the chocolate-box village of Meadford and Langham turned right after the church. He slowed down as Maria placed a hand on his arm and said, ‘Somewhere around here, to the left. Ah, there …’ She pointed.
He braked quickly and turned into a wide driveway. It had evidently rained here during the night as the drive was patched with silver puddles, reflecting the sunlight. He splashed through the rainwater and followed the drive as it swung around a stand of rhododendron.
Charles’s Bentley stood before the brilliant white façade of the Georgian mansion.
Langham whistled. ‘I never realized it would be quite this grand.’
‘Fifteen bedrooms, a ballroom, and a library you will love, Donald.’
‘I should be appalled.’
She looked at him. ‘And are you?’
He laughed. ‘I would be if it belonged to anyone other than Charles. So much for my political credentials.’
‘Come on, let’s go and see the Englishman in his castle.’
They climbed out of the car and Langham carried their cases to the imposing front door. He rang the bell. ‘I wonder what they make of Charles in the village?’ he mused.
‘I think they see him as a rather loveable uncle. He’s forever opening church fêtes and flower shows.’
‘The bigwig London agent playing the squire.’
Maria regarded him shrewdly. ‘You’re so very different from Charles, but you like him a lot, don’t you?’
‘I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s always been kind and supportive to me. And he’s the soul of generosity. How could I not like him?’
‘Even though he represents minor aristocracy and privilege?’
Langham shrugged. ‘He can’t help what he is … on many levels.’ He peered through the etched glass at the chessboard-tiled hallway and rang the bell again. ‘Come on, Charles!’
A minute later he said, ‘I’ll take a wander … try the tradesman’s entrance.’
He left the plinth of steps and walked along the front of the building, peering into the house; he must have passed four sets of rooms before arriving at the corner. In London, Charles lived in his rather modest Pimlico apartment, but this was an order of luxury on an altogether different scale.
He turned the corner and walked until he came to a door beside the kitchen window. He peered through, but the room was empty. He knocked on the door, then tried the handle. The door was locked.
He returned to Maria, who was still kicking her heels before the main entrance.
‘No luck?’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t think Charles has forgotten that he invited us, do you?’
She bit her lip worriedly. ‘That would be quite unlike Charles,’ she said. ‘Perhaps if we try the door, yes?’
‘Right-ho.’ He approached the imposing door and turned the big brass handle, and to his surprise the door opened. ‘Well, what do you know?’
He stepped into a big hallway, deposited the cases by a hatstand, and followed Maria along the corridor, marvelling at the sumptuous decorations as he went. Carved marble figures and swelling Chinese vases occupied alcoves set into the wall, which was hung with oil paintings depicting rural scenes.
‘He might be in the conservatory,’ Maria said. ‘This way.’
They came to a pair of double doors at the end of the corridor. Maria opened them and peered in. A riot of potted palms and assorted vines gave the room an incongruous jungle aspect. ‘Charles!’ she called out.
Langham made out a wicker armchair next to a small table bearing a tray of drinks; a second table was loaded with bound manuscripts. He imagined his agent enjoying a sundowner while reading and imagining himself in Africa.
‘We could try the library,’ Maria suggested. ‘It’s the next room.’
They retraced their steps along the corridor to the next door. Langham was about to knock when he heard a sound from within the room.
Maria cocked her head. ‘There is someone in the library, Donald.’
The voices were faint at first, but as they listened the conversation became louder.
‘If you think …’ Charles’s unmistakable tones declared.
He was cut off by someone replying in a low, gruff voice.
‘Absurd!’ Charles cried.
Alarmed, Langham rapped on the door. ‘Charles?’ He reached out and turned the handle, and to his frustration found the door locked.
He knocked again, this time with urgency. ‘Charles!’
Maria clutched his arm, staring at him with massive eyes.
Langham heard Charles’s cry from within the library, quickly followed by a curse from whoever was in there with him.
He turned to Maria. ‘Stand back …’
He backed across the room, took a run at the door and hit it with his shoulder. He felt the lock give a little, backed up and tried again. A second before he impacted with the door, a startlingly loud gunshot rang out. Maria screamed. Langham hit the oak panel with his shoulder and the lock gave way. The momentum of his charge carried him staggering into the library.
He saw two things at once: Charles, lying in a quickly expanding pool of blood before the hearth, and a mackintoshed figure fleeing through the French windows and racing across the rear lawn.
He dashed across the room and knelt beside Charles, stifling a cry of rage. His agent lay on his back, eyes closed, a great red mark staining the front of his waistcoat. Langham felt for his pulse and found the faint suggestion of one in Charles’s padded wrist.
He looked up at Maria, advancing into the room with her fingers to her lips. ‘Call an ambulance and the police!’ he called. ‘Quickly!’
She was sobbing. ‘There’s a phone in the hall …’ She stumbled away in shock.
As soon as she was gone, Langham looked around in desperation and snatched an antimacassar from a nearby chair. Anything, he thought, to staunch the flow of blood. He wadded the material and pressed it to the wound.
Maria appeared a minute later. ‘They’re on their way.’
‘Come here and take over,’ Langham ordered. ‘There’s nothing we can do but try to stem the bleeding.’ As Maria knelt beside him and took the rapidly soaking material, he rushed across to a small bar in the corner of the room and found what he was looking for. He returned to the hearth with a handful of bar towels and dropped them beside Maria.
She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. ‘Donald?’
He moved to the French windows and peered out. The gunman was at the far end of the vast lawn, disappearing into the shrubbery. Without a thought as to the possible danger Langham gave chase, sprinting from the library and across the lawn and ignoring Maria’s faint cry behind him. With luck he would have surprise on his side, and might even succeed in running the gunman to ground in the woods.
He came to the border of shrubbery and dived through. He stopped and listened intently, making out the crash of someone running through the undergrowth to his right. He set off, following the sound and wishing that he was still armed with Ralph Ryland’s revolver. Failing that, he should have thought to pick up a poker from beside the hearth. Though, on second thoughts, a poker would be little use against a killer armed with a pistol.
He was beginning to flag, his breath ragged and painful. Twenty yards further on the wood was bisected by a muddy lane. Langham remained in the cover of a laurel tree and peered out. Fifty yards to his left the gunman was mounting a motorbike. As Langham watched, impotent, the man kicked the bike into life and skidded off down the lane. Seconds later he passed from sight around a bend and Langham felt an odd sense of relief and frustration that he had been unable to apprehend the gunman.
He turned and ran through the woods, fearing that when he returned to the library he would find Charles Elder dead and Maria beside herself with grief.
A minute later he came to the French windows and stepped inside. Maria was still on the floor beside Charles’s body, and when Langham entered she looked up with vast brown eyes veneered by tears. She pressed down on Charles’s massive chest, holding one of the bar towels which was quickly turning red as it blotted the blood. The pathetic sight of it, and Maria’s desperate efforts to save his agent’s life, brought tears to his eyes.
He took up another towel and knelt beside her. She removed her sodden one and instantly blood pooled. He applied the second towel and pressed, knowing in his heart of hearts that the gesture was futile.
He stared down at Charles’s waxy face. His agent seemed unconscious, unaware of what had happened and hopefully in no pain.
‘It was the same gunman,’ Langham murmured. ‘He got away on a motorbike.’
Maria stared at him. Big tears tracked down her cheeks. She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand,’ she sobbed. ‘Why would he do this?’
Langham stared down at Maria’s hands, which appeared to be wearing gloves of dripping crimson. He glanced at his own hands, feeling the heat of Charles’s lifeblood.
He experienced a succession of very intense, rapid emotions: sorrow and anger, visceral repulsion at the physical effect of one small bullet, followed by a numbing sense of shock which seemed to crash through him, rendering him speechless.
He found himself thinking: no more grandiloquent monologues, no more expansive, trademark stories of his younger days; no more heartfelt soliloquies praising the finer things of life; no more wonderful, frivolous, generous queer old Charles Elder.
He had the sudden vision of Charles at breakfast a few days ago, singing the praises of the humble kidney …
He felt a sensation in his throat like acid and tears stung his eyes. His hands otherwise occupied, he was unable to do anything other than let the tears flow.
It seemed like an hour later, though it might have been just minutes, when he heard the sound of vehicles crunching gravel in the drive.
He looked at Maria. ‘The ambulance, with luck. Hurry and tell them where we are.’
She nodded and dashed off, and he turned the towel in order to find a dry section with which to soak up the blood. It was still pumping out, which he supposed was a good sign as it signalled that Charles was hanging on to life.
Two ambulance men, followed by Maria, a sergeant and a constable, hurried into the library. The ambulance men crossed to Langham and knelt beside Charles. One of them swore pithily and the other told Langham, in unceremonious terms, to give them room.
Langham stood and backed away, looking down at his blood-soaked hands. Maria passed him a towel, already stained with blood from her own hands. They crossed to a chaise longue and sat down while, across the room, the ambulance men cut away Charles’s waistcoat and worked on the wound.
The next ten minutes passed in a blur. He was aware of recounting what had happened to the sergeant, who took down his statement in a tiny notebook. The ambulance men loaded Charles on to a stretcher and manoeuvred him – with difficulty – from the library. As they passed, Maria stood hesitantly and approached them. ‘Do you think …?’ she began.
The leading ambulance man didn’t spare her a glance as he eased the stretcher through the door, but said, ‘Never can tell, love. But I’d pray, if I were you.’
She returned to Langham’s side, clutched his hand and asked the sergeant if they would be allowed to follow the ambulance to the hospital.
‘I’m sorry, miss. I’ve called in an Inspector Bryce from Bury St Edmunds. He should be here in five minutes. By all means, after he’s taken your statements …’
Maria nodded and dried her eyes on a small lace kerchief.
The sergeant moved to the door, where he stationed himself next to the constable.
Maria said in barely a whisper, ‘But, Donald …’ She pressed her fingers to her temples and screwed her eyes shut. She opened them and stared at him. ‘It doesn’t make sense!’
Numb, he said, ‘What doesn’t?’
‘Why would the motorcyclist – the very same man who blackmailed Charles … why would he murder him? It just doesn’t make sense!’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s the same question we asked ourselves earlier, when we wondered why the blackmailer sent the incriminating photographs to the police. Why would he terminate a potentially lucrative source of income? Now we’re asking ourselves why would the blackmailer want to kill Charles?’
Maria shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know!’
Langham thought about it. He had the inkling of an idea, and said tentatively, ‘Perhaps we’ve been looking at it from the wrong angle.’
She pouted her lips at him in a typically French gesture. ‘We are?’
‘Perhaps the blackmail was just a ruse. Perhaps the blackmailer designed the entire charade, the photos, the blackmail, to …’
She was watching him with big eyes as he formulated his thoughts. ‘OK,’ he went on. ‘I’m thinking aloud here … But what if the gunman never planned to shoot Charles in this way?’
She shrugged. ‘I do not understand.’
‘We interrupted the gunman, didn’t we? How about this – the gunman shot Charles in panic because we’d arrived on the scene and I was battering the door down. But he never intended to shoot him like that.’
Maria said, ‘So … what did he intend to do?’
Langham stared at the blood-soaked rug and murmured, ‘He intended to kill Charles, but stage the killing so that it appeared to be a suicide. He’d rig it so that the police, and everyone else, would take it as the suicide of a man depressed about the fact that he would soon be sent to jail.’
Maria stared at him. ‘But who would do that, Donald?’
‘Someone who had such a grudge against Charles that they wanted him dead, but dead in such a way as to make it appear at first glance like suicide. Then the killer would not be implicated in the death.’
She was silent for a while, then said, ‘Poor, poor Charles.’
‘What I’d like to know,’ Langham went on, ‘is who might bear Charles such a grudge that they would want to kill him? He doesn’t have an enemy in the world, does he? You work with him – you know his contacts in publishing.’
‘Charles is well liked. I’ve never met anyone who has a bad word to say about him. I know this is a cliché, but he was – is – a good man.’
Five minutes later Inspector Bryce from Bury St Edmunds arrived, a thin, dour-faced Lancastrian in his forties. He questioned Langham and Maria in much greater detail than the sergeant had, and Langham gave him the background details concerning the blackmail and the motorbike-riding gunman.
Bryce looked up from his notebook. ‘But why would the blackmailer resort to murder?’
Langham repeated what he’d told Maria about his suicide theory.
‘Well, it’s a possibility, I suppose,’ Bryce said grudgingly. ‘I’ll liaise with my London colleagues on the matter. I’d like you to accompany me to the station where I’ll take a more formal statement, if you don’t mind.’
Langham glanced across the room at the blood-soaked rug on which Charles had lain.
Inspector Bryce said, ‘Do you know if Mr Elder had next of kin who need informing, miss?’
‘He had no one,’ Maria said.
They left the house and followed Inspector Bryce and his colleague back to the station at Bury St Edmunds.
It was getting on for eight later that evening when Bryce concluded that he had all the necessary information and allowed them to go. The inspector gave Langham the directions to the hospital to which Charles had been admitted, and the sun was going down in a gorgeous laminate of tangerine and pewter as they left the police station and made the short drive to the infirmary.
Five minutes later, after giving their names at reception, a matron told them that due to the severity of his wounds Charles had been transferred by ambulance to the Chelsea Royal Hospital in London, where he was due to undergo an emergency operation upon arrival.
‘We’ll go straight to the hospital,’ Langham said as they returned to the car. ‘I’d rather be there, for all the good it’ll do, than go straight home.’
Maria nodded. ‘I agree, Donald.’
They set off on the long drive south to London.
They were silent for what seemed like an age, in contrast to earlier in the day when they had talked non-stop. At last Maria said quietly, ‘I’m not sure, Donald, that I want to spend the night alone in my flat.’
He nodded. ‘I have a spare bedroom at my place, if you’d care to …?’
She smiled at him. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’
‘Of course not.’
Another, longer silence settled between them.
They drove through Epping Forest, with dark and encroaching trees on either side. Oddly the lights of London, when they drove through Walthamstow thirty minutes later, seemed equally as threatening, as if their gaudy brightness did nothing but emphasize the surrounding darkness.
One hour later they were back at Langham’s flat, having stopped at the Chelsea Royal only to be told that Charles had just gone into the operating theatre and would be under the knife for a couple of hours – and then would be in no fit state to receive visitors. They had decided to go home and return first thing in the morning.
Langham made a pot of Earl Grey and carried the tray into the front room overlooking the quiet street.
Maria stood and, cup and saucer in hand, moved to the hearth. He watched her as she examined the photographs lined up on the mantelshelf: sepia prints of his mother and father in their younger days, one or two of himself as a child, and wartime photographs taken by colleagues in Madagascar and India.
She placed her cup on the mantelshelf and picked up the photograph of Langham and his wife, taken shortly after their wedding in ’thirty-seven.
‘Who is this, Donald?’
He said, ‘Susan, my wife.’
She looked him. ‘Charles told me that …’
Langham moved to her side. ‘She died, back in ’forty-one.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was stationed up in Fife. On exercises with field security. I had a telegram from her sister. Susan had collapsed at work – the sorting office at Hackney post office. Apparently she died instantly. Cerebral haemorrhage.’
He would never forget the train journey south from Edinburgh, the intolerable delays at every station between there and King’s Cross. He would never forget the pain of knowing that Susan was dead, nor the guilt that underlay the sadness: guilt at the fact that he could not help but feel an incredible sense of being freed from a terrible incarceration.
A guilt that resurfaced still, from time to time, and kept him awake at night.
‘Things hadn’t been well between us for years,’ he said. ‘Looking back, I realize it wasn’t a successful marriage.’ He smiled. ‘She was my very first girlfriend, and Susan wasn’t much more experienced. My father advised against it, but I was only twenty-one when we met.’
He often wondered what might have happened had Susan not died back in ’forty-one, if their marriage would have stumbled on, each of them too weak and hidebound by convention to suggest separation; if they would have remained together in the mutually, emotionally injurious union … The thought appalled him, and only increased his guilt at the sense of liberation he felt then and still felt to this day.
‘She was very pretty.’
He found himself saying, ‘I can’t really see that. All I recall when I look at the picture is the argument we had immediately after it was taken … and I can’t even remember what we argued about.’
‘And yet you still keep her picture?’
He shrugged. The guilt, he thought. One day, he hoped, he would know Maria well enough to explain how he felt. ‘More tea?’
She returned to the settee and he refilled her cup. She looked at him. ‘Donald, I want you just to hold me, OK?’
He set down his tea cup and stroked a tress of jet-black hair from her cheek.