The soldier appeared briefly on the ridge, silhouetted against the bloody Madagascan sunrise. He raised a hand, and Langham made out the distinct shape of a grenade poised to be lobbed into the ditch where Ralph Ryland lay, pinned down by gunfire. Instinctively Langham raised his sub-machine gun and fired. He heard a sharp cry and the Vichy French soldier fell back. Seconds later the grenade, unpinned and primed, exploded.
Langham came awake with a cry and sat up.
He was breathing hard, drenched in sweat. He knew from experience that the panic would subside in time and be replaced with a constant sense of gnawing guilt.
He had killed a man, and no amount of retroactive rationalization would alter the fact. It was all very well to say that he had saved a comrade’s life – and very likely his own – by shooting the Frenchman dead, and while his rational mind acknowledged this, on some primal level what he had done still felt wrong. He had killed a fellow human being and he would live with this until his dying day.
He wished Maria were with him, sharing his bed, sharing every minute of his life. With her he forgot everything unpleasant and could lose himself in his love for the young woman. Once or twice during the past couple of weeks, since his discharge from hospital, he had almost brought himself to ask Maria if she would care to spend the night with him – but something, some innate reserve or lack of confidence, had stayed his tongue. He wondered now at his hesitation. It had been so long since he’d been intimate with another, and to escalate the terms of their relationship might, he thought, spoil everything. He knew that this was ridiculous, but even so he was reluctant to ask in case Maria should think that all he wanted from her was physical intimacy.
Cursing himself, he jumped out of bed, bathed and then dried himself before the two-bar electric fire in the bedroom. For all that it was high summer, it was still nippy in the early mornings. Maria had laughed and called him soft when she saw the fire, and now he smiled at the recollection. Even her gentle admonitions pleased him.
He ate a slice of toast and marmalade washed down with a mug of Earl Grey. This afternoon he was meeting Maria for a stroll across Hampstead Heath and tea at the café there, and tomorrow morning they would motor down to Suffolk.
After breakfast he tried to finish off a short story he’d begun in hospital. He wrote five hundred words on his Underwood typewriter and then halted, struck by a thought. Why wait until they were in Suffolk to ask Maria if she would marry him? That would make the next few days, as he tried to manufacture the perfect moment, an excruciating period of anticipation that would spoil his enjoyment of their holiday. Why not, he thought, relighting his pipe and puffing away, take the bull by the horns and ask her outright this afternoon? By Jove, he would do just that. No shilly-shallying; he’d wait until they were quite alone on the heath, tell her that he loved her madly and ask if she would consent to marry him.
He smiled at the idea and fell to tapping away at the keyboard.
At twelve he jumped into his Austin Healey and motored from Notting Hill through the Sunday-quiet streets to Kensington.
Outside Maria’s apartment he tooted the horn a couple of times. A minute later she tapped down the steps, slid into the passenger seat and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Her perfume engulfed him.
‘Donald! And how was your night? No dreams, I hope?’
He pulled into the road and accelerated north. ‘’Fraid so. Same one. Always the same one.’
Her hand found his arm and squeezed. ‘I’m sorry, Donald. How do you feel now?’
‘All the better for seeing you. It’s strange …’ he began.
She tipped her head. ‘What is strange?’
‘Over the past ten years I’ve had the dream about three times. Yet since the shooting, it’s been every other night.’
‘Well, there you are. The shooting is responsible, no? It brought all the memories flooding back.’
‘Well, I damn well wish they’d return to where they came from.’
She was silent for a time, staring at him. He felt her eyes on him and turned to smile at her. ‘What?’
‘They say that sharing past events always helps, Donald.’
‘I must have gone over what happened with you a dozen times. You must be sick of the whole story.’
‘I never get sick of listening to you talk about the past. You know that.’
‘Thank you. That means a lot.’
‘But when I said you should share past events, I meant—’
He interrupted. ‘I’m not seeing a quack, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
She laughed prettily. ‘Of course not, Donald. What I meant is that you should write about what happened, no? Incorporate the incident, and your feelings, into a story or novel. That way you can exorcise your feelings, your guilt.’
He rocked his head, considering the idea. ‘I don’t know. Does that kind of thing work?’
‘Oh, you are so old fashioned and English. Have you never read Jung?’
‘Daniel Young, the crime writer?’
She hit his shoulder with the heel of her hand. ‘Be serious! Carl Gustav Jung,’ she said. ‘And of course writing about it will help. You shouldn’t keep these things bottled up.’
‘But I don’t. I talk to you about them.’
‘Yes, but if you were to write them down, you would perhaps delve deeper into your feelings, I think.’
‘Well, I could incorporate the incident into the next Sam Brooke novel, have a character who was in the war.’
‘Voilà! Do that, Donald.’
They arrived at Hampstead Heath, left the car on Highgate Road and strolled along hand in hand. It was another sweltering summer’s day, and Langham rolled up his shirtsleeves and took a deep breath.
‘How is your chest, Donald?’
‘Getting better every day. And you should see the scar. It’s an absolute corker.’
‘And your leg?’
The gunman, before shooting him in the chest, had grazed his calf with a bullet. Langham kicked out his right leg. ‘Oh, it’s fine. Not even a limp to show for it.’
‘You’re collecting battle scars.’ She reached up and traced the scar on his forehead, courtesy of a bullet in 1942.
‘Well, it’s the quiet life for me from now on.’
The heath was busy with strolling couples and dog-walkers. They passed the pond, where boys and girls sailed model boats and ducks noisily demanded bread from passers-by.
‘Do you know something, Donald – I think we should get a dog.’
He looked at her, his heart kicking. Such talk of shared possessions fostered in him thoughts of domesticity and intimacy. ‘A dog?’
She smiled. ‘I would like … I think a poodle, Donald.’
‘A poodle? Horrid little things.’
She twisted her lips. ‘Well, what kind of dog would you like?’
‘Never really thought about it, Maria. They’re lots of work. I don’t know. How about a red setter? They’re good-looking animals.’
‘Yes, I like red setters, too. Maybe one day.’
He smiled and wondered if a little later, perhaps – after they’d had tea and were sitting on a quiet hill overlooking London – he should broach the subject of their future.
They headed through a copse towards the café. ‘What did you make of Alasdair Endicott yesterday?’ Langham asked.
‘Alasdair? What made you mention him?’
‘He just popped into my mind. I know – his father, Edward, has a red setter.’
She considered the question. ‘I think he was reluctant to tell us much about his experiences, Donald. He turned the conversation towards his father, no?’
‘What’s his novel like?’
She shivered. ‘The strange thing about it is that its subject is so fantastical – hauntings and possessions and so on – and yet he makes you believe in it because he writes with such naturalism, and his characters feel real. I believed in what he was writing about.’
‘I’ll have to read it.’ He steered Maria through the picket gate of the café and found a vacant table.
They ordered egg and cress sandwiches and Darjeeling tea, and Maria said, ‘Tell me about the story you’re working on, Donald.’
So he told her the plot of the story, and for the next hour they chatted about his work and Maria’s, and the novels she’d read recently, both for pleasure and for the agency. She told him about an old schoolfriend she’d bumped into recently, and the latest gossip from literary London. Langham listened, enthralled; he was sure that he could spend hours like this, listening to her mellifluous French accent and staring at her big caramel eyes and full lips.
They finished their lunch, left the café and strolled up the hill. Langham felt replete, contented. They came to the crest of the hill and gazed around them. All London lay at their feet, coruscating in the heat haze. He realized, suddenly, that they were quite alone.
‘Stop,’ he said.
She turned to face him. By God, she was beautiful. ‘Come here.’
They embraced. The weight of her against him, her perfume, the scent of her skin … He wanted to laugh out loud like a maniac and tell her that he loved her wildly and would she marry him there and then, on the spot, with the sun as their witness …
‘Maria.’
She stared at him with moist eyes. ‘Oh, Donald, I’m so happy.’
He knew that now was the moment, that everything conspired to make these seconds propitious: he would ask her to marry him and she would melt into his arms and say yes, yes.
The sudden yapping of a dog shattered his thoughts. A furry black creature danced around the couple, pawing at Langham’s trousers with intemperate canine urgency.
A plummy voice, almost as loud as the dog’s barks, called out, ‘What a happy coincidence, my dears! Fancy happening upon my favourite couple on this wonderful afternoon!’
Maria manufactured a smile. ‘Why, Dame Amelia. How lovely.’
Dame Amelia Hampstead bore down on them, her large face rather red with the exertion of climbing the hill. She wore a voluminous grey dress the shade of a storm cloud, and – Langham thought uncharitably – almost as vast. She called to her mutt to stop pestering the couple, and the hyperactive Belgian Schipperke – Poirot, by name – obeyed instantly and came to heel.
‘You’re looking well, Dame Amelia,’ Langham said politely.
‘Never better, young man.’ She beamed from him to Maria and said conspiratorially, ‘I don’t mind sharing this with you, my children – I’m in love.’
Langham was startled by the pronouncement. ‘You are?’
‘Indeed. And I know what you’re thinking – that a turkey so old should hardly be indulging in affairs of the heart.’
‘Nothing of the sort!’ he protested.
‘And who is the lucky man?’ Maria asked.
‘My new editor at Collins. No spring chicken himself. Widower, ex-RAF. And such a gentleman. We hit it off from the word go.’
She gestured with her walking stick, and all three set off down the hill. ‘In fact,’ Dame Amelia went on, ‘I’m late for our little assignation. I wonder if you would be so good as to assist me down to the café? I always find walking up hills no trouble at all, but walking downhill plays havoc with one’s knees.’
‘My pleasure,’ Langham said, taking her arm and raising his eyebrows at Maria.
They proceeded down the incline at a snail’s pace and Dame Amelia said, ‘I do hope I didn’t interrupt anything, Donald.’
He managed a winning smile and said, ‘Not at all, Dame Amelia.’
They came to the café and said their farewells. ‘I think I’m a little early, but not to worry. Here, Poirot! Come here and we’ll wait for your favourite uncle.’ She moved off, vast and sedate, like the storm cloud she so resembled.
The simile, Langham thought, as they took the path back to the road, was apposite. He kicked a stone.
Maria took his hand and tugged at him. ‘Don’t be so glum, Donald. I have an idea. Do you still have the wine I bought you for your birthday?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Well, perhaps we should go back to your flat, snuggle down on the settee, listen to the wireless and share the wine, no?’
He brightened. ‘Capital idea,’ he said, and led the way back to the car.
The wine was like velvet.
Maria curled up next to him on his ancient, spavined sofa. Dance band music played softly on the wireless, interspersed occasionally with the announcer’s mellow tones. She laid a hand on top of his and they spoke almost in whispers.
‘Charles seemed in good form yesterday,’ he said.
‘He’s bearing up well.’
‘Lost a bit of weight, too.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, you should have heard him complain about the hospital’s food. Anyone would think he had been lodged at the Ritz and was expecting a cordon bleu menu!’
‘He hasn’t said anything to you about the trial?’
She pursed her lips around a mouthful of wine, swallowed and shook her head. ‘Not a word. He must be apprehensive, of course.’
‘Well, we’ll visit him regularly.’
Charles Elder was due to be tried, in one month, for the crime of homosexual indecency. His lawyer expected him to receive up to six months in gaol, which struck Langham as an outrage. He only hoped that his agent would bear the travail with his usual high spirits and optimism.
Langham finished his wine and Maria poured him another. He felt a little tipsy, and not a little elated. His usual tipple was beer, but since meeting Maria he’d developed a taste for French red wine – only fitting, he thought, in the circumstances.
He turned to her and stroked a stray strand of dark hair from her cheek. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes shining. He kissed her, and she responded, working a hand around his neck and pulling him to her. He stroked her flank, feeling the corrugation of her ribs beneath her silk blouse.
Across the room, the telephone bell shrilled.
‘Dammit!’ He stared at the hunched, bakelite monstrosity with loathing. ‘Who the hell can that be?’
‘Tell them to go away, Donald, and never to ring again!’
‘I’ll jolly well do that,’ he said and crossed to the phone.
‘Yes,’ he snapped, snatching up the receiver. ‘Who is it?’
A hesitant voice enquired, ‘Is that Donald Langham?’
‘Speaking. Who is it?’
He looked back at Maria. She reposed on the settee like Venus, smiling at him. The caller said his name, but Langham failed to catch it. ‘I’m sorry. Who is it?’
‘This is Alasdair Endicott. We met yesterday, at Charles Elder’s garden party. I’m awfully sorry to bother you like this, but …’
The young man’s tone was so apologetic that Langham immediately regretted his peremptory tone. He sat down on the arm of a chair and lodged the phone on his lap. ‘That’s all right. How can I help you?’
He looked across at Maria. Her broad brow was furrowed in a who-is-it expression.
‘Well … I have read a number of your books, Mr Langham,’ Alasdair began. He fell silent, and Langham prompted, ‘Yes?’
‘And I read, in the biographical information at the back of one of them, that you ran a detective agency.’
Langham sighed. That line had been the poetic licence of someone at Worley and Greenwood who had gilded the lily in the hope of increased publicity.
‘Well, I didn’t exactly run the agency, Alasdair,’ he said – and caught Maria’s quizzical expression. ‘I worked at a friend’s agency part time for a couple of years. But I don’t see …’
‘The thing is, Mr Langham, I don’t quite know what to do.’
‘About what?’
‘Well, I arrived here this afternoon – at my father’s place in Humble Barton. I come up every month or so for dinner, and have done for a number of years. Only this time …’ Silence again, which stretched, until Langham said, ‘Yes?’
‘Well, when I arrived, my father wasn’t here. He’s always in his study – always, without fail, working on a book.’
‘What time was this, Alasdair?’
‘A little before one o’clock.’
‘Perhaps he had to pop out unexpectedly—’
‘No. He wouldn’t do that. At least, not without leaving a note. And also …’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s very strange, and I know you’ll find it hard to believe what I’m about to tell you.’
Langham sighed, exasperated. ‘Try me.’
‘He is always in his study, always, without fail. And he was this time, before he vanished.’
Langham rubbed his eyes, uncomprehending. He wondered if it had been Alasdair Endicott who’d been hitting the wine. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he asked.
Maria was sitting upright now, leaning forward with her knees pressed together and frowning as she followed the one-sided conversation.
Alasdair said, ‘You see, the study door was locked from the inside, and there was no other way he could have left the room. I had to break down the door. But … but you see, he wasn’t in there.’
‘Well, perhaps he was never in the room, Alasdair?’
‘But he was! Otherwise, how was it that the door was locked from the inside!’
Langham considered what the young man had told him. ‘Have you informed the police?’
‘Of course. The local constable lives just down the lane. I reported my father’s disappearance to him and explained the situation.’
‘And?’
‘And he said that there was little he could do until my father had been missing for a number of days.’ A silence, followed by a nervous, ‘So that’s why I rang you, Mr Langham. I found your number in my father’s address book.’
‘I see.’
‘I was wondering … That is, I was hoping that I’d be able to hire your services. I mean … if you’re free at the moment.’
Langham sighed and slipped from the arm of the chair and on to the cushion. ‘Well, I was just about to go on holiday.’
‘Oh, I say. I’m awfully sorry.’
Langham thought about it. ‘Just a tick. Where did you say your father lived?’
‘A small village called Humble Barton, Suffolk. It’s ten miles north of Bury St Edmunds.’
‘Hold on a minute, would you?’
He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and said to Maria, ‘Could you be a sweetheart and fetch the map-book from the study? It’s on top of the pile of manuscripts next to the desk.’
She hurried from the room and returned seconds later with the gazetteer. She mouthed: What is it?
Still cupping the mouthpiece, he said, ‘Alasdair’s father’s gone AWOL. He’s in a bit of a flap.’
He opened the map-book to Suffolk and found the relevant page. He located the market town of Bury St Edmunds, ran a finger due north and found the village of Humble Barton.
Five miles south of the village was Brampton Friars, where he’d booked the hotel.
He said into the phone, ‘Alasdair?’
‘Hello?’
‘You’re in luck. We’re actually staying not too far away from you for a couple of days. Look, I could drop in to see you later tonight. I can’t promise anything. If your father fails to show up, then it’ll be a police matter. But I do know someone who might be able to help if Edward doesn’t turn up soonish.’
‘You don’t know how grateful I am, Mr Langham.’
‘If I can take your address …’
He found a notepad and pencil and scribbled down the address and phone number, then reassured the young man that in all probability Edward would turn up, hale and hearty, sooner rather than later.
Alasdair thanked him again and rang off.
‘What was all that about?’ Maria asked when he returned to the settee.
He shook his head. ‘Probably something or nothing.’ He recounted the details, then added, ‘The odd thing was he was convinced that Edward had vanished from inside his locked study.’ He reported what Alasdair had said, word for word, and smiled at Maria’s increasingly incredulous expression.
‘Perhaps,’ she said at last, ‘the young man has gone around the bend, as you say.’
‘Perhaps he has at that,’ Langham said. ‘Hell, I feel quite sober now.’
‘And me too.’ She looked at the tiny watch on her wrist and said, ‘I have to pop around and see my father before we set off. I will ring for a taxi.’
‘Don’t bother, I’ll drive you home.’
‘Donald.’ She hoisted the empty wine bottle. ‘You might feel sober, but I’d rather take a taxi.’
He rang for a cab and, five minutes later, cursing his luck for the second time that day, escorted her outside. They kissed in the late afternoon sun.
‘I’ll pick you up at seven,’ he said as she slipped into the back of the taxi. She kissed her fingers and waved as the taxi pulled from the kerb.
Langham retraced his steps up to his flat and sat down on the sofa, inhaling Maria’s perfume and looking forward to the break in leafy Suffolk. He said her name aloud, and smiled at what a love-sick fool he was.
Then he fetched a bottle of Fuller’s bitter from the larder, returned to the settee, and wondered what might have happened to Edward Endicott.