Frances represented many things for Charles, amongst them a kind of fixed moral standard in his life. To ring her the following morning seemed, therefore, not just a good, but even a right idea. Like going to confession (though he had no intention of confessing anything), a bracing moral scour-out.
‘Charles. Well, are you coming or not? You’ve left it late enough.’
‘Left what late enough?’
‘Charles, you remember — Juliet and Miles invited you down for lunch.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’
‘Oh no, I. . er. . um.’
‘Well, are you going to come or not?’
‘Um. I hadn’t really thought. I. . er. .’
‘I will be leaving in an hour, Charles. If you’re here when I go, you will be coming. If you’re not, I will be going on my own.’
‘Yes, well, of course I — ’
‘Goodbye, Charles.’
Yes, he would go. After the moral squalor of the night before, he needed the redemption of playing at being the respectable husband, father and grandfather. A nice, straight day with the family — that seemed morally appropriate. Though a day with his son-in-law, Miles, could take on certain qualities of a penance.
‘Thing is, Pop, you see, that when Mums sells the house, she’s going to have a bit of cash in hand.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Good God, at what point had Frances lapsed low enough to let Miles call her ‘Mums’?
And this is where she’s really going to feel the benefit of having someone in the family who knows about insurance.’ Miles took his mother-in-law’s hand confidently. ‘Aren’t you, Mums?’ To Charles’s amazement, she didn’t flinch. ‘Now, I’ve got a really exciting little annuity scheme worked out which I think will be just the ticket.’
Charles looked across at Miles Taylerson with his customary disbelief. Anyone who could get excited by an annuity scheme must belong to a different species from his own. And yet Miles appeared to have the same complement of arms and legs as he did, the same disposition of eyes, nose and mouth. Maybe, Charles reflected, his son-in-law was the result of some cloning experiment, by which creatures from another planet had created something that looked like a human being, but lacked the essential circuitry of humanity. Maybe one day Miles’s head would flip open like a kitchen bin to reveal a tangle of wires and transistors.
‘You haven’t thought any more about insurance, have you, Pop?’
‘No, I think I can honestly say that I haven’t.’ And come to that, what’s this ‘more’? his mind continued silently. It is one of my proudest boasts that I have never thought about insurance and I am convinced that, even under torture, I could resist the temptation.
‘I was just thinking that now’s a good time. Now you’re getting regular money from this West End show, it’d be a good opportunity to put a little aside each week — it needn’t be much, but you’d be amazed how it accumulates.’
‘Thank you. I’m sure if ever the occasion arises when I want advice on insurance, you’re the first person I’ll come to.’ Charles thought that wasn’t bad. It was the nearest he had ever got to saying something to his son-in-law that was neither untrue nor offensive.
Miles seemed to appreciate it, too. He sat back with a satisfied grin and looked contentedly around the open-plan hygienic nonentity of his executive sitting room in his executive house on an executive estate in Pangbourne.
His wife seemed to recognise some signal and took up the conversational baton for the next lap. ‘Incidentally, Daddy, I haven’t said how delighted we all are about this West End play. We really hope to get to see it soon, but, you know, things are pretty busy, what with this and that, and the boys.’
‘Of course.’ He couldn’t help feeling affection for Juliet whenever he looked at her. There was something about the set of her eyes which hadn’t changed since she was three years old, when she had been all hugs and trust for her father. He often wondered what it was that had brought about such a change in their relationship. Maybe his walking out on Frances.
He looked across at his wife. She was unaware of his scrutiny, gazing with fondness at the two blond-headed little boys who were shovelling gravy-sodden potato into their mouths, an exercise — and apparently the only one — that kept them silent.
At such moments he knew that he loved Frances, and he could feel the seductions of a conventional marriage, of meals such as this happening every Sunday, of knowing each other’s daily news, not always having to catch up on a few months’ worth of events. There was a kind of peace about it.
And maybe that peace was not completely beyond his grasp. If he really made an effort, perhaps something could be salvaged.
‘No,’ Juliet continued, ‘I mean this West End thing is something I can really tell my friends about. It was like when you had that part in Z-Cars. Something sort of. . respectable.’
‘Thank you,’ he muttered. Good God, what had happened to Juliet? Her mind had set irrevocably into middle age when she was about ten. Marriage to Miles had only hardened her mental arteries further. The pair of them had just quietly fossilised together.
Julian finished his potatoes and looked gravely round the family gathering. ‘My penis,’ he announced, ‘is as big as the Empire State Building.’
His four-year-old twin, Damian, not to be outdone, immediately responded. ‘Mine penis,’ he proclaimed, ‘mine penis is as big as the World Trade Centre.’
In the confusion of scolding that followed, Charles reflected that maybe there was hope for the family after all.
Closer acquaintance did nothing to dispel his good impression of his grandsons. After lunch, Juliet, looking peaky and feeling grim, as she had done in the early months of her previous pregnancy, went upstairs to lie down. Frances and Miles went off to the kitchen to do the washing-up (and, no doubt, to talk annuities), leaving Charles to entertain the children.
He found that this was a two-way process. The two little boys were full of ideas for games and, even if most of them ended rather predictably in throwing the sofa cushions at their grandfather, they showed considerable powers of invention.
They were also at the stage when they still found funny voices funny, and Charles had his best audience in years for his Welsh, developed for Under Milk Wood (‘A production which demonstrated everything the theatre can offer, except talent’ — Nottingham Evening Post), his Cornish, as used in Love’s Labour’s Lost (‘Charles Paris’s Costard was about as funny as an obituary notice’ — New Statesman) and the voice he had used as a Chinese Broker’s Man in Aladdin (‘My watch said that the show only lasted two and a half hours, so I’ve taken it to be repaired’ — Glasgow Herald).
Somehow they got into a game of Prisoners. Charles would capture one of the boys and only release him if he said the magic word. The secret of the game was to keep changing the magic word, making it longer and longer and sillier and sillier, in the hope (always realised) that the prisoner would be giggling too much to repeat it. Since, while the prisoner struggled to escape, the unfettered twin would be bombarding his grandfather with cushions, the game was not without hilarity.
Charles clasped his hands round Julian.
‘What’s the magic word?’ Julian gasped.
Woomph, went a cushion from Damian into Charles’s face.
‘The magic word is — Ongle-bongle-boodle-boodle-boodle.’
‘Ongle-bongle-boodle-giggle-giggle,’ Julian repeated, wriggling free.
Damian rushed into the imprisoning arms.
‘What’s the magic word?’
Woomph, went a cushion from Julian into the back of Charles’s neck.
‘Nick-picky-wickety-pingle-pang.’
‘Nicky-picky-diddle-poo-poo.’ Damian snickered at his daring.
But it wasn’t good enough to secure his release.
‘No, you have to repeat exactly what I say,’ insisted Charles.
‘No, you have to repeat exactly what I say,’ repeated Julian, who was catching on. As he said it, he threw a cushion, which went woomph into the side of Charles’s head.
‘But it’s nonsense,’ objected Damian.
‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine.’
‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine,’ crowed Julian.
‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine,’ agreed Damian.
‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’
‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’
‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’
Like a light switched on, Charles’s mind was suddenly clear. He knew what it was that had struck him as odd about Michael Banks’s death. And he knew that Alex Household had not committed the murder.
‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ he shouted.
‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ shouted Julian.
‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ shouted Damian.
He was dialling when Miles and Frances came in from the kitchen.
‘Sorry. Hope you don’t mind my using the phone.’
‘Feel free.’ But Miles didn’t look very pleased.
It rang for a long time, and he thought he was going to be out of luck, but eventually the receiver was picked up the other end.
‘Hello.’ Her voice was rather woolly.
‘Lesley-Jane, it’s me — Charles.’
‘Charles?’
‘Charles Paris.’
‘Oh.’ She didn’t say what on earth are you ringing for; she put it all into the oh. ‘Sorry, I was asleep.’
‘I was glad to find you in. I thought you might be away for the weekend.’
‘Yes, I was going to my parents, but I. . I decided not to.’
‘Listen, I’ve just thought of something important.’
‘Oh yes.’ She sounded belligerent and slightly resentful. Was he going to give her some note on performance, some idea he’d had for a new bit of business in the play? Surely it could wait till tomorrow.
‘It’s about Alex.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve just remembered something he said to me in Taunton.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘He said that one should always sort out a bolt-hole for oneself.’
‘Well, what does that mean?’
‘I thought you might know.’
‘No idea.’
‘What I mean is. . when you were in Taunton, you were fairly discreet about your affair. . I wondered where. .’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You said something last week about “gambolling in the countryside”. Was there somewhere. .’
‘There was, but. .’
‘Where?’
‘Do you think. .?’
‘It’s a possibility. I think it’s worth investigating.’
‘You?’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It just seems vindictive. The idea of bringing him to justice. Still, I suppose you could just tell the police and — ’
‘I wasn’t thinking of bringing him to justice. I was thinking of finding out from him what actually did happen.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Tell me where it is.’
She told him. ‘But I’ve a nasty feeling,’ she concluded dismally, ‘that if you do find anything there, it’ll just be Alex’s body.’
He put the phone down and turned round to see the whole family looking at him, open-mouthed. Juliet stood half-way down the stairs, familiarly pale. Charles’s mind was working well, making connections fast. He felt confident.
‘Frances,’ he asked, ‘do you fancy a little trip?’
‘Where to?’
‘Somerset.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
Miles’s face contorted. ‘Oh really, Pop! It’s a hell of a long way. You can’t just do things like that, on a whim.’
‘Why not?’ Charles looked at Frances. ‘It’s your half-term, isn’t it? Be good to see some real countryside. We could stay in a nice hotel.’
‘But,’ objected Juliet, whose every holiday was planned at least six months in advance, ‘you haven’t booked anywhere!’
‘What do you say, Frances?’
‘All right.’
Good old Frances. She wasn’t where Juliet got it from either.
It was a nice hotel. On the edge of Exmoor. There was no problem booking. Indeed, after another bad summer for British tourism, they were welcomed with open arms.
They had a drink before dinner sitting in a bay window, watching dusk creep up on Dunkery Beacon. They talked a lot during dinner and then after a couple of brandies, went up to the bedroom.
It was a family room, with one double bed and one single. They sat down on the double one. Charles’s hand stroked the so-familiar contours of his wife’s shoulders.
‘This is another of your detective things, isn’t it, Charles?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Tomorrow will, I hope, be a significant day.’
‘Dangerous?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose it might be. I hadn’t thought. Or it might just be nothing. Me barking up yet another wrong tree.’
Frances took his hand. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do it, Charles. I do worry about you, you know.’
He felt closer to her than he had for years, as he tried to explain. ‘It’s strange. When something like a murder happens, I just feel I have to sort out what really happened. I feel. .’ he struggled for the right word, ‘. . responsible.’
Frances laughed wryly. ‘Responsible for anonymous corpses, but when it comes to those close to you. .’
He felt suitably chastened. ‘I’m sorry, Frances.’ He looked out of the window at the clear night over Exmoor. ‘I was thinking about that today over lunch. About you and me, about. . you know, responsibility.’
‘Oh yes?’ It wasn’t quite cynical, but nearly.
‘And whether responsibility and truth are compatible. I’ve always found truth a problem. That’s really why I left you.’
‘I thought you left me for other women.’
‘In a way. But it was because I needed other women, and I needed to be truthful about it. I hated all the subterfuges, I hated lying to you. At the time it seemed more truthful to make a break; then at least the position was defined. If I had left you, then I wasn’t expected to be. .’
‘Responsible?’ Frances supplied.
‘I suppose so’
After London, the quiet of the country was almost tangible. ‘You know, Frances, I often wonder if we could get back together.’
‘So do I, Charles.’ She sighed. ‘But if it did happen, there are certain things I would demand.’
‘You could have truth. I’ve always tried to be truthful to you, Frances.’
‘And what about that other recurrent word. . responsible?’
‘Hmm.’
‘There’s still the matter of other women.’
‘Oh, there aren’t many of those now. Never have really been many who counted.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ He sighed. ‘Hasn’t been anyone for months, really, Frances. I don’t seem to feel the same urge to wander that I used to.’
‘All right, Charles,’ asked Frances softly, ‘when was the last one?’
Oh dear. He had genuinely forgotten about Dottie Banks until that moment. And he had promised Frances that he would always be truthful. ‘Well, last night, actually. But she didn’t mean anything.’
Charles spent the night in the single bed.