‘I’m knackered.’ Amiss collapsed into Pooley’s armchair.
‘What do you think I am? I only had two hours in bed last night.’
‘Yes, but you’re spending your time with Jim. I’m spending mine with the Lady Troutbeck, who has just deposited me here after a sixteen-hour day and gone roaring into the night in high good humour, promising to beat her record of forty-five minutes to Cambridge. Her apparently inexhaustible supply of energy wears me out.’
‘I take your point. Jim had the grace to admit to being too tired to come here tonight. Do you want a drink?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Whisky?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Vast breakfast, huge lunch, don’t need any more.’
‘Well, forgive me if I get myself something. We were running around so much today we didn’t have time for anything.’
Amiss was asleep by the time Pooley returned from the kitchen bearing a tray with two apples, a piece of cheese, and a glass of milk. He awoke as a glass of whisky was put beside him.
‘What an admirably healthy meal. Doubt if it would go down well with Jack. It’s a bit austere, and besides, she thinks milk is for babies and cats.’
‘Well, from what I’ve seen of her—’ Pooley placed a piece of cheddar tidily on a brown cracker ‘—she’s the exception that proves every rule. Now, while I’m eating, tell me anything I should know that you’ve picked up today.’
‘Well, most of today has been squiring Jack around television and radio studios as she delivered variations on her “we-shall-not-be-moved” routine. She had a pretty clear run. Hear any of it?’
‘No.’
‘It was good stuff. She even managed a graceful tribute to Parsons. Jack prides herself on her ability to outdo the opposition when it comes to hypocrisy, so she came up with much about the sterling work of her fellow baroness and how tragic it was that this life of public service had been cut short by the action of insane supporters of hers in a cause both misplaced and ill-founded.’
‘Any opposition to this line?’
‘A couple of interviewers suggested the prohunting lobby might be behind this, but Jack brushed that aside as an absurd reflection on the stout-hearted people who kept our heritage alive in the British countryside. One of Jerry Dolamore’s sidekicks ranted a bit about those who murdered foxes being obvious murderers of people, but he wasn’t very convincing. And Brother Francis was too preoccupied with sharing with the listeners his new poem to get into the whodunit controversy.’
Pooley finished his cheese. ‘What’s the poem like?’
‘All I can remember is
That noble dame, so pure of soul
With pity for the slave
Is mourned tonight by every mole
And fox and vixen brave.
‘Deliciously inappropriate for an apparatchik like the said Parsons, don’t you think?’
Pooley laughed so much that he almost choked on his apple. ‘Thanks, Robert. I enjoyed that. There hasn’t been much to laugh at today.’
‘What’s the state of play with Dolamore?’
‘He’s being held under antiterrorist legislation, so in theory Charlie Friel could hold on to him for another five days, but honestly, from what I’ve heard, he’s going to get nowhere. Dolamore put up a very convincing show of shock/horror over the bombs and seemed genuinely upset about Parsons. Otherwise he’s full of self-righteousness and oratorical flourishes, and even Charlie’s coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t organize his way out of a paperbag, let alone into the Lords to murder its inmates. And the Commissioner’s getting twitchy about the protests outside the Yard demanding the release of Saint Jerry. My guess is he’ll be out any time now.’
‘So you write him off?’
‘If you ask me, he’s the sort of man who would be dangerous if he had a different calibre of supporter. But the activists don’t seem to be throwing up any military talents. They’re more like a gaggle of unruly street urchins.’
‘So another cul-de-sac?’
‘So it seems. How are things with you?’
‘Well, I can’t say our meeting at Bertie Stormerod’s was too cheery. A lot of the poor old boys have lost people they were fond of in one or another of those massacres, and a few of them are downright frightened, though rallied by a combination of Jack, Bertie, and Tommy Beesley, who now that he actually has a proper enemy in his sights is behaving just like an old cavalry officer.’
‘So is there a plan?’
‘Just to carry on with business as usual, with all the hard core having the job of rallying the troops and me continuing the back-room stuff and helping them make their case in committee. We’ve had one boost with today’s opinion polls showing that support for the abolition of fox-hunting has slumped from ninety-one per cent to sixty-four per cent. Stormerod gave most of the credit for this to Jack, though she said it should go to the Avengers for offending the English sense of fair play. It’s probably a mixture of both.’
He drained his glass and waved it at Pooley. ‘So what gives on your side?’
Pooley finished his apple, drank his milk, refilled Amiss’ glass, and poured himself a small measure of whisky to which he added an equal measure of water.
‘Well, it’s all so extraordinary and unprecedented it’s very hard to get a grip on. Take the bombs, for instance. The Bomb Squad are pretty certain that what happened was that the members of the Committee trickled in a few minutes before the meeting was due to start, sat down, chatted, and were joined by their chairman, Lady Parsons, precisely on time at 4.30. As soon as she sat down, the bomb under her cushion exploded. Naturally, everyone leaped up, and the bombs under each of their cushions exploded in turn.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Two different types of antipersonnel mine. One kind explodes on contact, the other explodes when you release contact.’
Amiss grimaced. ‘How very unpleasant.’
‘Horribly ingenious and sick at the same time.’
‘But what would have happened if the chairman had come in first?’
Pooley shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe the murderer didn’t want to kill everybody. He might have been content with one or a few. That might even be why he didn’t use a bigger bomb. Though, of course, these mines are easier to transport.’
‘How big are they?’
‘About the size of a compact disk.’
‘Difficult to get?’
‘Unfortunately not. There were thousands of them sloshing around after the Gulf War, and they’re even easier to get from crooked arms dealers than the stun-gun.’
‘Still, there’s specialist knowledge involved, isn’t there? Presumably we’re looking for someone with a military background?’
‘If by military you mean paramilitary, yes, probably. But there’s no shortage of such people around these days.’
‘So who’s the hot favourite for perpetrator?’
‘Well, quite apart from the matter of Dolamore, the antiterrorist boys are still going hell for leather after the animal activists; they’re working steadily through the shortlist of particularly dangerous groups. We’re still plodding through the list of individuals murdered to see if by any chance all these people were murdered as a cosmetic device to cover up an attempt on the life of one of them.’
‘Surely in the light of the second lot of murders, that’s outrageously far-fetched?’
‘Come on. Don’t you remember the guy in America years ago who blew up a whole passenger plane so he could collect the life insurance on his mother? These things happen. Still, I admit it’s not likely, and Jim—because he’s thorough he’s going through the motions—thinks it’s hardly worth entertaining. Having gone through last week’s victims, we haven’t found a soul whom anyone would have wished to murder except for poor old Poulteney. And since we talked to the ghastly Vanessa, we really don’t rate her as a prospect. And of course, if any of those killed the first time round were specifically targeted, why were those others murdered yesterday?’
‘Well, exactly. If we’re to believe in the notion of murdering many to dispose of one, yesterday’s bombs would mean that they were aiming, a couple of weeks ago, for someone they missed, so all the ones they got then were irrelevant. So you should really only be investigating those they didn’t kill.’ He took a meditative sip. ‘It’s making my head swim.’
‘We haven’t quite reached that stage. At present we’re now focusing on who might have wanted to kill any of the unfortunates blown up yesterday as well as everyone in your group who would have been expected to turn up in committee room 4.’
‘So you must be talking about perhaps twenty-five individuals.’
‘Yes. But talk about needles in haystacks! We’ve got a team of CID people investigating everyone, but it’s an enormous job and God knows what the chances are of turning up motives unless they’re absolutely staring one in the face. And what’s more, as you can imagine, the security implications are an absolute nightmare. We’re going to have to bring in the SAS. We’re under ferocious criticism for having let yesterday happen. And since the media are screaming for his resignation, the Home Secretary’s hopping mad and is taking it out on the police. Yet how could we have stopped it? You could have fitted twenty of those bombs into a small briefcase and hidden them anywhere. We did as thorough a search as we could, but inevitably it just wasn’t good enough.’
‘Calm down, Ellis. You’re sounding very defensive. Now, I’m not attacking you and your stout colleagues, but—if I may be just a touch self-centred for a moment—how likely do you think I am to get knocked off in the service of the humble fox?’
‘Less than before, I think. You won’t be allowed to meet all together again without security clearance and high-grade protection. Even the mighty Duke of Stormerod got a flea in his ear this morning for having organized that meeting with all of you without telling us first.’
‘Where can we meet that’s safe?’
‘Well, not in the duke’s pad for a start. Jim and I have been there to see him and I observed—as no doubt you did—that it’s a five-storey house crammed with thousands of objets which would probably take us three days to search.’
‘I suppose the duke could ask the PM for his bunker.’
Pooley rubbed his eyes. ‘Finish up your whisky and go home, Robert. We both badly need sleep. And if you see a dark form behind you when you’re waiting for a taxi, don’t worry. It’ll be one of ours. At least, it should be one of ours.’
‘Thanks, Ellis. You make me feel so safe.’
***
‘Why didn’t you ring? I was frantic with worry.’
‘I did! I left a message last night with Ravi that I was OK and gave a number where I could be reached. And I tried your office phone several times but it just rang and rang.’
‘It’s out of order,’ she said wearily. ‘And remind me to kill Ravi.’
‘Don’t kill him. Just sack him.’
‘Killing him would be a lot simpler. The dependants would get his life-insurance policy and you could come out and replace him. That would keep you out of harm’s way and also console me in my exile. Now, what the hell’s going on?’
Ten minutes later he said, ‘That’s it. I don’t think there are any more salient details.’ There was a silence. ‘Rachel, are you there?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m here.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘With me? Nothing. With you it seems to me rather a lot.’
‘You don’t like what I’m doing because it’s dangerous?’
‘Parachuting is dangerous. Bareback riding cross-country is dangerous. Walking across a motorway is dangerous. What you’re doing is suicidal.’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’
‘Exaggerate!’ she exploded. ‘Exaggerate! Nineteen corpses, half of them in smithereens, and you tell me I’m exaggerating? And now you and that lunatic Jack Troutbeck are proffering yourselves for target practice next time round.’
‘Oh, now…’
‘Don’t “Oh, now” me. What are you doing this for? To enable people you don’t even like to have the right to continue pursuing foxes around the countryside? Yes, that’s clearly a wonderful cause to die for. I’m sure your parents, like me, will see that the sacrifice was not in vain. We can club together to provide a fitting memorial. A stuffed fox, perhaps? Placed tastefully in a glass cabinet with a silver plaque engraved with “Robert Amiss 1964–1995. He died for this”.’
‘It would be more accurate, wouldn’t it,’ said Amiss tentatively, ‘to make it a stuffed hunter?’
‘It depends on how you interpret the word “stuffed”.’ Her tone was icy. ‘Why are you going on with this?’
‘On the fox-hunting front, because I hate leaving anything half finished. And on the murder investigatory front, just curiosity, I suppose.’
‘Wouldn’t your curiosity be satisfied if you let the police sort things out, and you were left alive to read about it in the newspapers?’
‘It’s not the same as being involved. And maybe even helping. Come on, Rachel. We’ve had this conversation several times before.’
‘Normally when we do, there are no more than a couple of bodies on the scene and nobody seems much interested in rubbing you out. This time is different.’
‘The curiosity isn’t different.’
‘You know what you remind me of? Hunters. In fact, everyone involved in this crazy business is a hunter. The prohunting ones are the simplest kind. All they want is to career around in pursuit of their foxes. The antihunting lot want, metaphorically, to hunt down the hunters. And you now want to hunt down whichever of them is the murderer even if, in the process, you break your neck or have it broken for you.’
Amiss couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Do you know what?’ she said. ‘I admire your tenacity. I admire your intelligence. God help me, I admire your courage. But I would really rather see it employed in making a living and, as your father would put it, bettering yourself, rather than playing Sancho Panza to Jack Troutbeck’s Don Quixote.’
‘I would prefer Ellis’ view that I’m Archie Goodwin to her Nero Wolfe.’ He heard an impatient intake of breath and added hastily, ‘I’ll be careful. Honestly. And cross my heart and hope to die, I’ll get a real job when this is over, even if that means going back to the civil service. Is it a deal?’
‘There isn’t really another one on offer, is there?’
‘No.’
‘One of the fascinating things about you, Robert, is that you are obliging at times to a point of wimpishness and yet completely stubborn at others. Anyone with a grain of sense would accept the advice to quit now.’
‘That’s the package, I’m afraid. I can’t defend it, but it’s how I am.’
‘I know. And since I love you as you are, I suppose I don’t want you to change. But you know that periodically I’ll shout at you in the hope that you will.’
‘And I wouldn’t really want you to stop being a shrew. It would remove some of the spice from the mixture.’
‘What a romantic pair we are.’ She laughed. ‘Right. Now let me read you the letter I’ve just sent to Personnel. I hope it will prove shrewish enough to shake them up a bit.’
***
‘Have the cops been round?’
‘I had a Detective Constable Caudwell waiting for me when I got home last night striving to determine if someone so much wants to murder me that they are prepared to go to all this trouble and expense.’
‘What did you tell him? Something inventive, I hope.’ The baroness laughed merrily.
‘I don’t want to add to my troubles by being arrested for wasting police time. So I explained that I had no money except for perhaps ten thousand pounds of capital in the flat, and that neither my parents nor my girlfriend was likely to murder me for such a small sum. I did, however, suggest that you might conceivably murder me in order to gain possession of my cat.’
‘Did that interest him?’
‘He wrote it down so earnestly that I hastily explained that it was a joke, and that if he saw the cat he would understand why. I explained as best I could the nature of the business relationship between you and me and he left, I hope, satisfied. Anyway, since I don’t have a pacemaker, I’m pretty well ruled out of the reckoning.’
‘Ah, good. That should confuse them.’
‘What? How?’
There was silence on the line. Clearly, her attention had wandered.
‘Jack! What were you talking about?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Have they been to see you?’
‘Certainly. Late last night also.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, nothing important,’ she said impatiently. ‘Don’t fuss. Now, about Plutarch. I’m going to have to return her to you for a while.’
‘What’s she done?’
‘Nothing reprehensible in my book, but what one might call a couple of incidents yesterday in my absence. You remember Greasy Joan?’
‘How could I forget? But I thought she’d left you long ago.’
‘She came back. We couldn’t refuse her a job, poor old thing. Got her cleaned up a bit and gave her a decent uniform, so she’s a bit less greasy these days. But still a bit prone to hysteria.’
‘What brought it on?’
‘Since Plutarch refuses to give her side of the story, I can’t be sure, but the gist is—as I followed it through the sobs—that Plutarch’s insistence on wresting from Greasy Joan a capon which she was bearing to High Table caused said Grease to proclaim her possessed by satanic forces. So, since I don’t want a posse of mad incestuous Fen-dwellers arriving to burn her at the stake, with reluctance I’ve decided it’s at present unsafe to leave her at St Martha’s when I’m away so much. Myles, I’m sorry to say, has put his foot down and refuses to give her B & B at his place.’
‘What a man! You mean he says no to you?’
‘On certain matters, Myles is proof even against the most feminine of my wiles and one such is any question putting his rather fine collection of eighteenth-century glass at the mercy of what I am forced to admit is a tendency to clumsiness on Plutarch’s part.’
‘Put her back in the cattery.’
‘No, no, we can’t have that. It would upset her. I’ll hand her over tomorrow after lunch. See you in the Peers’ Guest Room at twelve-thirty. Round up Bertie and Sid.’
‘You’re not coming up today?’
‘Can’t. I’ve a few dragons to slay at the College Council and Jennifer Poulteney’s coming over to lunch. I must cheer the poor child up. She’s very upset about Reggie.’
‘You’re not…?’ He couldn’t bring himself to ask the question.
‘No, I’m not. You have a dirty mind, Robert.’
‘Which is frequently proved to be right.’
‘Not this time. My motives are entirely honourable. Besides, she’s an unregenerate heterosexual.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I asked her. Life is too short for shilly-shallying round these topics. You need to know where you stand from the outset. It’s amazing how many people give straight answers if you ask straight questions. Bye.’
Amiss sank back on to his pillows wondering how he would summon up the energy to get up. What with Caudwell not leaving till midnight, the row with Rachel at three a.m. and the baroness’ breezy wake-up call at seven, he felt exhausted. He fell into a sound and blessedly dreamless sleep and could have cried with frustration when after only a few minutes the telephone rang again.
‘Sorry to wake you up so early, son, but I was afraid I might miss you if you had an early interview or anything.’
‘That’s all right, Dad. Good to hear you. How are things?’
‘Fine, fine. In fact, Mum and I were thinking we might come down to London for a day or two to see you. It’s been a couple of months now.’
Amiss tried to keep his voice level. ‘That would be lovely, Dad. When were you thinking of?’
‘How would this weekend be?’
‘Terribly sorry.’ He summoned his scattered wits. ‘Unfortunately I’ve agreed to visit an old university friend in…Devon.’
‘What about the weekend after?’
‘Not quite sure. Could we make it the one after? I think that’d be safer.’
‘Fair enough, son.’ Amiss felt the familiar rush of affection for a father who never stooped to emotional blackmail. ‘We’ll settle on that. Now, how’s the job-hunting going?’