That evening at dinner Langham made the acquaintance of Edward Marling and his wife, Cynthia.
Marling sat at the head of the table, Cynthia the other end where she regaled the film people with anecdotes of her childhood in India. She was a handsome, upright, grey-haired woman in her early fifties, older than her husband whom Langham took to be in his mid-forties.
To Langham’s right was the somewhat inebriated Terrence Ambler who slurped his consommé and listened to what Douglas Dennison was muttering – something about yet another rewrite – with the occasional taciturn nod.
Maria sat across from Langham; Desmond Haggerston was seated between her and Sir Humphrey, who occasionally leaned past Haggerston and tried to engage Maria in conversation.
The dining room was long and low, boxed in by blackened beams and ancient mahogany panels. Oil paintings of glum-looking Marling patriarchs, dating back to the sixteenth century, stared down on proceedings with the pinched, peevish expressions of Puritans at a bacchanalia.
Edward Marling noted Langham’s interest, and said, ‘My great-great-etcetera grandfather onwards, with an uncle or two thrown in for good measure. That sly-looking cove, there, ended up in the tower for treason during the reign of Elizabeth.’
‘And …?’
Edward brought his hand down on the back of his neck. ‘And it’s been downhill for the family ever since. It’s a miracle we managed to hold on to the hall until now.’
Edward Marling was a big, heavy man imprisoned in a glistening chromium-framed wheelchair. He had a fleshy, sallow face – clearly inherited from the male line of the family, if the oils were any indication – and receding hair turning to grey. Despite his disability, and bouts of pain which evinced wincing expressions from time to time, he was affable and easy-going. Langham found himself warming to the man – all the more so when he said, ‘It’s good to meet you, Donald. I’ve enjoyed a few of your novels over the years.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
‘I love a good crime yarn. I’ve plenty of time on my hands, these days. Cyn—’ the way he contracted his wife’s name, as he stared at her down the length of the table, made him sound like an archbishop about to expound upon the Ten Commandments – ‘calls them rubbish and upbraids me for wasting my time. I see nothing wrong with a good detective novel, so long as it is good, well-written and well-characterized.’
‘I’m with you there,’ Langham said.
‘Cyn has a thing about “self-improvement”,’ Edward went on. ‘She seems to think that education, especially in the arts, fosters good morals and ethics in the individual and society at large.’
‘And you contest that?’
Edward reached out and adjusted his wine glass. He had the odd habit of arranging everything before him – his cutlery, plates, and glass – with minute precision. ‘Some of the most highly educated men in Europe,’ he said, ‘scions of the “finest” families and the product of the best universities, were responsible for the most outrageous acts of barbarism the world has ever known. I speak, of course, of the Nazis.’
Before Langham could object that Hitler and Goering were not exactly scholars, and that several of Hitler’s opponents had been members of great German families, Edward went on, ‘And did you know that there’s a tribe of pygmies – in the Congo, I think – who have no god, no concept of the arts, and it goes without saying aren’t at all “educated”, and yet they enjoy a society in which theft and murder and such crimes are unknown? Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
From the far end of the table, Cynthia called out, ‘Don’t let Edward browbeat you with his ridiculous pet theories, Mr Langham. If it were down to my husband, we’d all be living in the jungle wearing grass skirts and eating monkeys.’
Suzie piped up, ‘I wore a grass skirt, once. In Aloha Hawaii, remember, Dougy? All I recall is that it was mighty itchy.’
Sir Humphrey raised his glass. ‘And I’ll wager you were a veritable vision, my dear. There’s nothing, in my opinion, like a grass skirt for displaying a gal’s derrière to its best advantage.’
Cynthia murmured, ‘Would someone please be good enough to move the claret from Sir Humphrey’s reach?’
Varla Cartier obliged, and refilled her own glass.
Edward eyed Langham, and murmured, ‘What I experienced in the war opened my eyes, Donald. I saw supposedly civilized men behave like beasts – on both sides, I hasten to add.’ He refilled his glass, then topped up Langham’s. ‘Saw service yourself, did you?’
‘Field Security, Madagascar and India.’
‘So you were spared the front line?’
‘For the most part, though I did end up in a skirmish or two against the Vichy French in Madagascar.’ He refrained from mentioning that in one bloody battle, to take the town of Diego-Suarez, he’d shot a French soldier who had been about to lob a grenade at Ralph Ryland.
He said, ‘You were in France, I understand?’
Edward nodded. ‘Special Operations. My French was fluent and I could pass as a native. Dropped into Brittany in ’forty-two. I was there for six months before things became a tad hairy. Managed to get out by the skin of my teeth. I went back in ’forty-four, this time to the Cévennes.’
He stopped, eyeing his glass with a far away expression. ‘Wasn’t so lucky, then.’
Despite his curiosity, Langham remained silent.
‘To cut a long story short, I was captured by the Gestapo. The officer in charge of trying to extract names from me was a charming chappie, one of Cyn’s highly educated sophisticates. He quoted Rilke and Goethe between ordering his henchman to slip burning brands under my fingernails.’
Langham winced. ‘And you survived …’
‘Without spilling the proverbial beans, too. Though God knows how long I could have held out. Three days after I was captured, the local resistance raided the Gestapo headquarters, shooting the verse-quoting officer and his henchman in the process, and managed to get me out in one piece. Smuggled me over the border into Spain, and the rest is history.’
‘What a story.’ Langham smiled. ‘Makes my war seem like a walk in the park.’
‘I’m writing my memoirs at the moment. There’s a lot I can’t go into, of course. I’ll be looking for a publisher pretty soon.’
‘If there’s any way I can help …’ Langham said. ‘War memoirs are popular these days.’
‘If you’re doing nothing tomorrow afternoon, pop along to my study and I’ll show you the manuscript, see if it’s up to scratch.’
‘I’m sure it will be,’ Langham said.
Across from him, Maria had been attempting to engage Desmond Haggerston in conversation, but had succeeded only in eliciting the occasional grunted monosyllable. Haggerston seemed interested only in competing with Sir Humphrey in seeing who could imbibe the greater quantity of red wine. So far, if the former’s taciturnity and the latter’s suggestive garrulousness was any indication, it was neck-and-neck.
Maria leaned forward, and said to Edward, ‘As it happens, my agency has just taken on the manuscript of an officer who escaped from one of the Stalags. As Donald says, war memoirs are popular at the moment.’
‘There you go,’ Langham said, ‘an interested agent already.’
‘We’ll certainly take a look,’ Maria said.
‘That’s kind of you,’ Edward murmured.
Cynthia’s crystal-cut falsetto rang out along the table, ‘Is that sort of thing really popular, these days? I would have thought the market was flooded with accounts of bravado in the face of the Hun.’
Langham glanced at Edward, who pursed his lips and positioned his fork with fussy exactitude on the table before him.
Maria smiled at Cynthia. ‘There is always a market for well-written accounts of war exploits.’
Chuck Banning paused with a forkful of venison before his mouth. ‘Say, weren’t you and Doug together in France, Mr Marling?’
‘That’s correct, Chuck,’ Edward said.
Dennison laughed. ‘I was hiding in a hayrick, a day after being dropped. Only, you see, the navigator got his co-ordinates haywire and I came down ten miles east of where I should have. Place was swarming with Jerries. I was lucky. Ed’s people came and rescued me in the nick of time. Boy, I’d never been so grateful to see a friendly face.’
‘As I recall, Douglas, you were more concerned about a cut on your face than being captured.’
Dennison smiled. ‘Gotta keep up appearances, Ed. Truth was, I was scared shitless – excuse my French.’
Suzie laid a hand on Dennison’s arm. ‘Dougy’s French is excellent, isn’t it? You see, his mom was French.’
‘And I spent a lot of my childhood in the country north of Marseilles,’ Dennison said. ‘So, when I’d completed twenty-odd tours of duty with my squadron, a good word from Edward got me into Special Ops.’
Cynthia asked, ‘And have you ever been tempted to write your memoirs, Douglas?’
Dennison grunted. ‘Don’t like ploughing old ground, Cynthia. The war’s over. I’m looking ahead.’
Chuck Banning said, ‘I might have been called up to fight in Korea, if the war had gone on longer.’
To Langham’s right, Edward muttered, ‘As if we haven’t learned a lesson from the last one …’
Douglas Dennison heard him, and said, ‘But the Korean War was necessary, Ed. You heard of the domino effect? We had to get in there and stop the reds, or they would’ve just kept on coming. They had to be stopped.’
Cynthia said, ‘Isn’t Douglas right, my dear?’
‘That depends on how much of an economic threat you deem a communist Asia to be,’ Edward said. ‘Myself, I can’t see the Soviet Union or their cronies posing much of a danger to the West, in the long run.’
Dennison pointed a fork at his host. ‘And that’s just where liberals like you are plain wrong, Ed.’
A heated, if reasonably good-natured, political debate followed, with Langham, Maria and Varla Cartier coming down on Edward’s side, and Douglas Dennison, Cynthia and Chuck Banning speaking up for the opposition of communism wherever it might raise its ugly head. Suzie remained silent, and Sir Humphrey and Desmond Haggerston were too inebriated to contribute anything coherent to the debate.
A little later Cynthia suggested that coffee and port should be taken in the billiard room, and the guests drifted from the table in ones and twos.
While the women moved to the end of the room and conversed amongst themselves, Edward suggested a game of billiards. Douglas Dennison and Chuck Banning were paired against Langham and Edward – the latter, to Langham’s surprise, managed to haul himself from his wheelchair and stand for long enough to complete his shot. He proved a more competent player than any of the other three.
Sir Humphrey and Desmond Haggerston sank into a leather sofa and passed the port between themselves for the remainder of the evening. The french windows were open to admit a warm evening breeze freighted with the scent of honeysuckle.
An hour later, the billiards contest completed with a British rout of the Americans – thanks to Edward’s steady eye and calm potting – the men joined the women and sat around in desultory conversation. Langham noticed that Cynthia had seated herself on the sofa next to Chuck Banning, and while not openly flirting with the young American, her interest was obvious. Varla Cartier sat alone, her legs crossed, sipping brandy and eyeing the gathering with what looked like superior amusement.
Towards midnight the company broke up as the guests retired; Cynthia yawned and excused herself, followed by Chuck Banning. Dennison went next, with Suzie following him a few minutes later. Edward Marling said how pleasant it had been chatting to Langham and wheeled himself from the room.
Langham caught Maria’s eye, and murmured, ‘I don’t know about you, but I think a turn in the garden would be just the ticket.’
Maria finished her coffee and linked her arm through his; they said their goodnights to the remaining guests and stepped out into the scented night.
‘I needed to get away from there,’ Maria said as they crossed the greensward behind the house.
‘Too smoky for you?’ he asked.
She pushed him. ‘No, silly. I mean I couldn’t bear the atmosphere in there for another second.’
‘You mean the animosity between Edward and Cynthia?’
‘Yes, but didn’t you notice all the other ill-feeling?’
A full moon was out, silvering the grass and lighting their way. Langham heard far off birdsong and wondered if it were a nightingale.
‘Go on …’
‘Sometimes, Donald, for a writer I think you’re very unobservant.’
He smiled. ‘Just not as eagle-eyed as you, my sweet.’
‘For one, Chuck ignored Suzie all night – miffed that she’s rebuffed his advances, I think. Two, Varla Cartier was staring at Dennison as if she wanted to shoot him dead. Three, Desmond Haggerston was derisive to Dennison about one of his films. And did you hear him badgering Dennison about his current project?’
‘I must admit I didn’t.’
‘You were talking to Edward,’ she said.
‘Whom I rather like,’ Langham said. ‘He’s obviously long-suffering, with a wife like Cynthia.’
Maria frowned in the moonlight. ‘I must admit that I didn’t take to her,’ she said. ‘But then again we don’t know the full story. We don’t know why Cynthia might resent Edward so much.’
‘I can pretty much guess,’ he said.
She stopped and looked at him. ‘Go on.’
‘What if, and I’m speculating here, what if Edward’s condition prevents him from, ah fulfilling his conjugal duties?’
Maria pulled a face. ‘You’re right.’
Surprised, he said, ‘I am?’
‘About the fact that you’re speculating.’
‘Oh.’
‘There might be many reasons that Cynthia is so cutting to her husband,’ she said.
They walked on in silence for a while, then Langham said, ‘What do you make of Varla?’
‘Mmm,’ Maria said, contemplating. ‘She is a dark horse, Donald. I think she has a secret past, and is hiding something, and is plotting terr-ible deeds.’ She hung on his arm and laughed, almost pulling him off his feet, and belatedly Langham realized that she was jesting.
He said, ‘No, seriously, she is a bit odd, don’t you agree?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s hard to tell, until I know her better.’
They veered left and approached the side of the house where the maze and Dennison’s caravan were situated.
‘Do you think Chuck Banning and Cynthia are doing anything more than some innocent flirting?’ she asked a little later.
He found the idea, if it were so, a little disturbing.
Maria went on, ‘Because I think we might soon find out, Donald.’
‘What makes you think that?’
She pointed. ‘About fifteen seconds ago, Cynthia disappeared into the maze. Shhh!’ she hissed.
Abruptly she pulled him behind the trunk of a monkey puzzle tree and peered out. A hundred yards away, a figure appeared around the corner of the hall. In the inky shadow cast by the building, it was impossible to make out who it might be.
Then the figure stepped from the shadows, into the light of the moon, and Langham saw that it was Chuck Banning. He hurried across from the house and disappeared into the maze.
‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered. ‘Why doesn’t Cynthia simply go along to his room, if she wants to—?’
‘Because,’ Maria hissed into his ear, ‘Banning’s room is right next to Edward’s.’ She stifled a laugh.
‘What?’
‘Bad planning on Cynthia’s part when she was allocating the rooms, I think!’
‘You’re terrible,’ he said.
‘Come on.’
They hurried from the cover of the monkey puzzle tree. To reach the house, they had to pass the maze. Langham increased his pace, unwilling to eavesdrop on what might be taking place between the older woman and the young actor.
As they were creeping across the grass, Maria stumbled. Langham took her arm, and the sound of voices issued from behind the high hedge of the maze.
‘Have you told him?’ the American said.
Cynthia’s reply was too low to hear.
‘Dammit! You know you’ve got to …’ The remainder of the sentence became indistinct as Banning lowered his voice.
‘Very well, I will,’ Cynthia replied. ‘But give me a little time.’
‘How do you think he’ll take it?’ Banning asked.
‘I … I don’t know,’ Cynthia said. ‘It might …’ The rest was lost, and a silence ensued.
Langham whispered, ‘Let’s get going.’
Maria nodded and they crept away from the maze like cat burglars.
They rounded the house and approached the steps, and Langham said, ‘What on earth was all that about?’
‘It sounded to me as if Banning wanted Cynthia to tell her husband about their affair.’
‘Poor Edward,’ Langham muttered.
They entered the hallway, where a low night-light shone, and hurried up the staircase.
Another surprise awaited them before they reached their room. At the top of the stairs Langham made out a shadowy figure on the floor, propped up between two suits of armour.
‘Who is it?’ Maria asked.
Langham stepped forward. The slumped figure was issuing a series of stertorous snores like those of a stranded walrus.
‘Haggerston,’ he said. ‘We can’t leave the old duffer out here. Isn’t his room next to ours? Come on, we’ll take an arm each.’
Between them they managed to manhandle Haggerston upright – the old man still only half-awake – and steer him along the corridor to his room. They tipped him onto his bed, turned him onto his side, and left him snoring fit to wake the dead.
Sleep was a long time coming for Langham. He’d had a little too much coffee in the billiard room, and the events of the evening, and the various conversations, were swirling around in his head. It didn’t help that Haggerston’s snores cut through the wall like a buzz saw.
He awoke in the middle of the night to find that Maria was sitting at the far end of the room, reading a manuscript by lamplight. The snoring from next door continued unabated.
On the way to the bathroom, he asked, ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost four. I cannot sleep.’ She thumbed at the wall in disgust.
On his way back to bed he kissed her forehead. ‘Don’t stay up too long.’
‘I won’t, mon cher.’
He was dead to the world almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, despite the best efforts of their neighbour to deny sleep to the entire household.
Later, much later, something dragged him from his dreams. He awoke, startled, and sat upright. Someone was rapping on the door.
Beside him, Maria was fast asleep, oblivious to the frantic summons. The snoring from Haggerston, he noted, had ceased. He rolled out of bed and moved to the door, wondering if he might find a hysterical Suzie Reynard in need of consolation.
He pulled open the door and stood back.
Douglas Dennison leaned against the door frame, wild-eyed. ‘Thank Christ!’ he cried. ‘You gotta come, Langham!’
‘What?’ he said, still dazed with sleep.
‘She’s dead …’ the director said.
‘Who’s dead?’ Langham asked – but Dennison had already turned and was reeling off along the corridor.
Langham dressed quickly, careful not to wake Maria, then left the room and hurried after the director.