Langham sat with his feet lodged on the corner of the desk and his chair tipped back against the wall. He was going over a short story he’d written earlier that week and trying to work out how it could be improved. No doubt Maria would tell him when she’d cast a critical eye over the manuscript.
It was five o’clock on Friday afternoon, less than a week since the events at Marling Hall – and in three weeks from now he would be married. The idea still seemed a little unreal.
The telephone bell rang and he dislodged his feet from the desk. ‘Hello, Ryland and Langham—’
‘Donald, Donald! And how does this fine day find you, my boy?’
‘Never better, Charles. And you?’
‘Tip-top, Donald. Absolutely tip-top!’ His agent’s fruity tones boomed down the line from Pimlico as if he were in the next room. ‘Now, are you sitting comfortably, Donald?’
‘Uh-oh, bad news?’
‘Far from it. Far, far from it! In fact, quite the reverse. Possibly the finest news I’ve ever had to impart in my many years of navigating the perfidious depths of the literary ocean! Are you seated?’
‘I am, and I’m all ears,’ Langham said, smiling to himself and wondering what all this was about.
‘Very well. Now, I know that your dealings with the film world have been somewhat fraught of late—’
‘That’s something of an understatement,’ Langham said. ‘I’ll be happy never to see another thesp for as long as I live.’
‘Well, my boy, this little piece of news might cast Tinseltown in a far more favourable light.’ Charles paused, as if for effect.
‘Out with it, you old ham!’ Langham said.
‘Very well – I’ve just put the phone down on an agent from Hollywood who, a week ago, expressed an interest in purchasing the film rights of your novel Murder at the Mews. For the past few days I’ve been in exhaustive negotiations with the fellow, and the upshot is that he’s ready to make an offer of two thousand pounds sterling for the film rights. I would advise you, dear boy, to accept.’
Langham opened his mouth, only to find himself speechless.
‘Donald? Donald, my boy? Are you still there?’
‘Still here, but finding it hard to think straight, never mind speak … Two thousand?’
‘For the initial film rights. What with residuals, and potential publishing tie-ins, I think it might be a good deal more, in the long run.’
‘Good heavens … I mean, bloody hell! Well, I don’t know what to say. Is Maria there?’
‘She left just half an hour ago,’ Charles said.
‘I’ll ring her at home and share the good news.’
‘I think this calls for a little celebration, Donald. What say I take you out for drink this evening, and then on to the Ivy for dinner, just the four of us: yourself and Maria, Albert and myself?’
‘That would be wonderful, yes.’
‘Excellent. What say we meet at the Salisbury at eight?’
‘Eight it is.’
‘And congratulations, my boy, I’m more than delighted – it couldn’t happen to a finer fellow.’
Langham thanked him and, a little light-headed, rang off and replaced the receiver.
After staring into space for two minutes, and no doubt grinning fatuously, he picked up the phone and rang Maria’s Kensington number.
‘Hello.’
‘Maria! Are you sitting down?’
‘I am.’
‘Charles rang a minute ago. You’ll never guess? Hollywood has made an offer for one of the early Sam Brooke’s …’
Maria’s trilling laughter sounded down the line. ‘So you’ll certainly be able to buy me a cottage in the country, Donald!’
He sat up. ‘Just a sec … You knew? At the Seven Sleepers the other day …’
‘Oh, Donald … Charles mentioned the film interest last Friday, but swore me to secrecy. I so wanted to tell you, but what if it all went wrong?’
‘Two thousand,’ he said. ‘And that’s for starters. Charles is taking us out tonight, to celebrate.’ He heard footsteps on the stairs, and Ryland’s familiar chirpy whistle. ‘I’d better dash, Maria. That’s Ralph.’
‘See you tonight, mon cher,’ Maria said, and replaced the receiver.
Ryland entered the office and looked at Langham. ‘Hope you don’t mind me saying, Don, but you look like the cat that’s got the cream. You got a promise on for tonight?’
‘You might say that, Ralph,’ Langham said, and told Ryland about the Hollywood offer.
‘Bingo!’ the detective said. ‘The next round’s on you, matey.’
‘Oh, and that isn’t the only good news,’ Langham said, picking up a letter from the desk and flipping it across to Ryland. ‘Read this.’
Ryland lit a Woodbine. ‘Who’s it from?’ He pulled a sheet of notepaper from the envelope, along with a cheque. ‘Hey …’ He grinned across at Langham and whistled. ‘Two hundred guineas.’
‘It’s from Chuck Banning,’ Langham said. ‘Read on, and all will be revealed.’
Ryland dropped into the spindle-backed chair and read the letter, his lips moving as he did so.
‘Well, what do you know? Chuck’s set to inherit Marling Hall – and “in a gesture of gratitude for bringing the murderer to justice, here is a cheque …”’ Ryland laughed. ‘Fifty-fifty, eh?’
‘No, Ralph. You keep it. Buy something for Annie, OK?’
‘I’ll do that, Don. And thanks. She’ll be tickled pink. What say we close up the shop and have a celebratory pint or three?’
‘You’ve read my mind,’ Langham said. ‘Lead the way.’
He took his jacket from the peg on the wall, locked the door behind him, and followed Ryland down the stairs and around the corner to the Grapes.