10
THERE APPEARED IN the doorway of the Corkscrew the dishevelled figure of a woman, that is to say Julia, who stumbled towards our table displaying various signs of agitation.
Her researches in the Probate Registry had not proved reassuring: the grant of representation to the estate of Jeremiah Arkwright showed that he had died intestate and a bachelor, leaving his sister as his only next of kin. It seemed unlikely, in these circumstances, that the young man who called himself Derek Arkwright was his great-grandson, or indeed that his name was Derek Arkwright.
“There are many persons,” said Ragwort, “of the highest respectability, whose names are not Derek Arkwright.”
“Absolutely,” said Cantrip. “And the interesting thing is that most of them don’t go round saying ‘My name is Derek Arkwright.’ ”
I felt obliged to agree that the motives of those who seek to conceal their identities are not usually of the highest.
“You bet they’re not,” said Cantrip. “Jolly sinister is what they usually are. I’ll tell you who this chap is who isn’t Arkwright — he’s the henchman — Bolton’s or Albany’s, whichever of them did in Isabella. And they sent him down to the funeral to nose around and see if there were any loose ends, just like you said they would, Hilary. And he’s found out that the Reverend is the only person who could recognise the chap in the black Mercedes, so now he’s lured him off somewhere to do him in as well.”
Observing the effect of these remarks on Julia, who succumbs easily to panic, I endeavoured to persuade her that this was not the most probable explanation of the evidence before us: a man may be of dubious character without being a hired assassin. Though it did indeed appear that the Reverend Maurice might have been unwise or unfortunate in his choice of travelling companion, I thought it likely that his danger was financial rather than physical.
Selena, when she joined us, was in no mood to feel concern on behalf of those who went away on holiday. At a stage when the plumber claimed he could make no progress without the electrician, the electrician had been on holiday; by the time the electrician returned, the plumber was on holiday; by the time the plumber returned and agreed with the electrician that nothing more should be done without consulting the carpenter, the carpenter was on holiday. The only person, so far as Selena could see, who was not permitted to go on holiday, but was expected to remain in Lincoln’s Inn throughout the Long Vacation and worry about the building works, was herself.
If, therefore, the Reverend Maurice had also chosen to go on holiday, neglecting, very probably, his duty to care for the souls of his parishioners, and if the project turned out badly for him, it was not to Selena that he should look for sympathy.
Having reported in the least alarming terms she could the result of her researches at the Probate Registry, Julia received her aunt’s reply two or three days later.
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
West Sussex
Saturday, 11th September
Dear Julia,
Thank you for looking up Jeremiah Arkwright for me, even if I do now rather wish I hadn’t asked you. I suppose, as you say, that there may be some quite innocent explanation, but it isn’t likely, is it? The most likely explanation is that Derek’s some kind of crook. I keep wondering how I’m going to tell Maurice, or whether I should tell him at all.
Well, one thing I’m not going to do is try to get in touch with him about it while he’s on holiday. He did leave me a number to ring if there was an emergency — they’re supposed to be staying at a place in the south of France that belongs to a friend of Derek’s. If I rang it and found it didn’t exist, or the person who answered had never heard of either of them, I’d be worried for the next fortnight without being able to do anything about it. And if I did manage to talk to Maurice, how could I possibly explain something like this over the telephone?
Daphne goes on being in her Cassandra mood, even though she doesn’t know that he and Derek are together — Maurice’s name in the Book still has a shadow over it, and she thinks it’s getting darker. I don’t take it seriously, of course, but it doesn’t help to make me feel any happier about the situation.
Well, I suppose the worst that can happen is that he comes back minus his chequebook and credit cards — it won’t be the end of the world.
Yours with much love,
Reg
“Which is no doubt true,” said Julia, continuing to look anxious, “if that really is the worst that can happen. But if Cantrip’s henchman theory is right—”
“Julia,” said Selena firmly, “Cantrip’s henchman theory is complete moonshine. Albany and Bolton may have their faults, but they’re not the sort of people who hire professional assassins to dispose of witnesses. Anyway, the henchman theory depends on the idea that one of them poisoned Isabella, which in my view is also moonshine.”
“She was blackmailing one of them and he was there when she died — don’t you find that a little worrying? Or are you saying that the man in the black Mercedes wasn’t Albany or Bolton after all?”
“No, I don’t say that, but I do say that the man in the Mercedes wasn’t the only person she was blackmailing. What about Ricky Farnham, for example? We know she was blackmailing him — not for money, but into doing favours for her and spending time with her that he’d obviously much rather have spent with your aunt. By his own admission, she’d been making his life hell for two years.”
“Yes, but Ricky wasn’t there when she died.”
“How do you know? He was evidently quite a regular visitor — why shouldn’t he have looked in for a nightcap after the man in the Mercedes had left and Daphne had gone to bed? And washed up all the glasses afterwards, including the one left by the previous visitor?”
“Selena,” said Julia, disconcerted by this suggestion, “you don’t seriously think that Ricky Farnham poisoned Isabella?”
“No, of course I don’t. I think that she died of heart failure, just as the doctor said she did. But if anyone happened to dig her up and find she was full of arsenic, I’d expect the police to question Mr. Farnham at least as closely as either of the directors of Renfrews’.”
September is not the month for takeover bids: those whose profession it is to advise on such matters may safely withdraw from London to recoup their energies in the country or on the shores of the Mediterranean. A major client of Renfrews’ Bank, however, unaware of this convention or indifferent to it, had decided to proceed with an acquisition of sufficient magnitude to require the personal attention of the Chairman, who was spending the summer in his villa overlooking the Bay of Cannes, and of the two executive directors.
Sir Robert, it seemed, had not after all lost confidence in Selena’s advice. On the second Monday of the month she received urgent instructions to fly immediately to the south of France to draft the documents required for the transaction. Undeterred by pitiful cries of “What shall we do about the builders?” from her fellow members of Chambers, she accepted instantly.
It was thus that she happened to be present when Sir Robert Renfrew was poisoned.
Of this, however, we knew nothing until the following Monday, when she was once more among those gathered in the Corkscrew. Having returned by way of Paris and spent the weekend there in the company of Sebastian, she had paid a merely fleeting visit to Chambers to enquire if there were anything which urgently required her attention.
Though there was by now an autumnal sharpness in the evening air, she was still dressed in sandals and cotton, with a look about her of summer and southern warmth. Her mood, however, seemed thoughtful, one might almost have said subdued. When asked whether she had enjoyed herself in Cannes, she reflected for some moments and gave an equivocal answer.
Her first complaint was about the weather.
“I was in Cannes for five days, and the sun shone on every one of them, from dawn until dusk. The sky was blue and the sea was even bluer. There were boats bobbing round in the bay that I was longing to sail in and restaurants all round it that I was longing to eat in. And I was cooped up in the villa, drafting offer documents from eight in the morning until nearly midnight and eating sandwiches because we didn’t have time for proper meals. I admit that we were working outdoors, on a rather attractive roof terrace, and the sandwiches, as sandwiches go, were excellent. Even so—”
We agreed that in the circumstances it would have been more tactful of it to have rained continuously.
Her second complaint concerned what might be called the social aspect.
“If you’re with two men who both want the same job and a third who’s going to decide which gets it, the atmosphere tends to get rather strained. And you see, there wasn’t anyone else there to dilute the tension. My instructing solicitor was on holiday in Cornwall and thought that as I was there to deal with the legal side it was quite enough if he kept in touch by telephone. Lady Renfrew doesn’t enjoy business meetings and had gone to stay with friends in Switzerland until it was all over. Katharine Tavistock was there, of course, to deal with the word processing and communications and so forth — she’s the only one of them who actually understands how to operate their computer system — but she hardly counts as an outsider. The only other people at the villa were the housekeeper and her husband, who’s the chauffeur and general handyman.”
Her third complaint concerned the accommodation.
“It sounds ungrateful, but I found it a little awkward being a guest in my client’s villa. It was very luxurious, of course, but in that situation it’s difficult to tell where one’s professional responsibilities end and one’s social obligations begin. Sir Robert turned out to expect rather more of me than is generally required of Counsel in a professional capacity.”
“My dear Selena,” said Ragwort, preparing to be deeply shocked, “you surely don’t mean—”
“No, no, of course not, Ragwort, nothing of that kind at all. What I mean is that he wanted me to act as a spy.”
This was the first major takeover with which Renfrews’ had been concerned since Sir Robert had become aware of the insider-dealing problem: it would represent, he believed, an irresistible temptation to the insider dealer and thus an ideal opportunity to identify him. Neither Albany nor Bolton had known before arriving at the villa which company was the target of the proposed takeover; by the time they left, the information would be public knowledge: in order to profit by it, they would have to communicate with their brokers during the period of their stay there. Sir Robert was satisfied that any attempt to do so from the villa itself would be detected: Miss Tavistock was in charge of the communication systems and all telephone calls were automatically recorded.
“People have mobiles,” said Cantrip.
“Not the directors of Renfrews’—Sir Robert thinks they’re ungentlemanly.”
Sir Robert was satisfied that if either Bolton or Albany wished to instruct a broker he would go outside the villa and telephone from elsewhere. This, he accepted, he could not prevent them from doing: not even the most high-handed of chairmen could place his codirectors under house arrest. They were in Cannes, however, for work, not pleasure, and therefore unlikely to go out often. When they did, he was relying on Selena and Miss Tavistock — the only people, he said, whom he could completely trust — to ensure that they would be accompanied or discreetly followed.
“Some people have all the luck,” said Cantrip. “None of my clients ever ask me to spy on anyone.”
“Cantrip means,” said Ragwort, “that we all understand what an invidious and embarrassing position you were placed in.”
Selena had not felt it possible to refuse. Quite apart from the fact that Sir Robert was her most valued client, she had felt sorry for him. It was clear that he had been greatly distressed by the whole insider-dealing business, to an extent which she thought was even affecting his health: he seemed to her to be looking far less fit than he had done a few months before.
She had considered again whether she should mention to him the part we believed Isabella to have played in the affair: if our conclusions were right, it seemed likely that there would be no more incidents of insider dealing and the surveillance of Albany and Bolton was doomed to failure. She still believed, however, that to tell him about Isabella would aggravate rather than alleviate his distress.
“Besides, suppose we’d turned out to be completely wrong? Or suppose whichever one it was decided to do some insider-dealing for his own benefit, instead of Isabelle’s? If I’d told him there couldn’t be another insider-dealing incident, and then after all there had been, it would have been rather embarrassing. So I promised I’d do what I could to help with his surveillance plan.”
For the first three days she had not been called on to give effect to her promise. They had all been fully occupied with the preparation of the documents relating to the takeover and no one had left the villa.
“You see, all the drafting took about three times as long as it needed to, because Edgar was trying to score points. As Geoffrey is the technical expert and all the documents were fairly technical, we’d begin with Geoffrey explaining what they wanted to do and then I’d draft a document that did it. And then Edgar would suggest amendments, just to show Sir Robert that he understood the technicalities after all. Which in fact he didn’t, so then I had to explain tactfully why his amendments would make nonsense of the whole document. It was all rather time-consuming.”
On Wednesday evening, however, when they had finished their labours relatively early, Geoffrey Bolton had said that he felt like going for a stroll along the Croisette, which he referred to as the Crozzit.
“Edgar said it was called the Kwuzzit, which I didn’t think actually sounded much better, but Edgar was always trying to score points on the basis that he knew French and Geoffrey didn’t.”
Sir Robert had at once suggested that Selena should go too, saying that she had been shamefully overworked and he was sure she would enjoy a stroll around Cannes if she had someone to escort her. Even the bluntest of Lancastrians could hardly have said that he would prefer solitude; nor could Selena, under Sir Robert’s pleading eye and remembering her promise to him, decline Geoffrey Bolton’s invitation to keep him company. They had accordingly walked down towards the Casino and drunk liqueurs in a pavement café looking out across the bay.
“Right,” said Cantrip. “So did you manage to get the conversation round to where you could just sort of casually mention Parsons Haver?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I remembered the difficulty you had had in introducing the subject convincingly, and I didn’t feel that I would succeed any better. Besides, I wasn’t really trying to find out anything from him — I was more worried that I might tell him something that he wasn’t supposed to know. You see, he was obviously slightly puzzled about what had happened. He said — well, he said that Sir Robert had always been rather a Puritan and it wasn’t like him to send one of his directors for a walk in the moonlight with an attractive woman. Or words to that effect.”
By candlelight, it was difficult to be certain that she blushed; my impression was that she did.
“So he was wondering, he said, what the old boy was up to. I said that as Geoffrey was a simple innocent Lancastrian in a wicked foreign city Sir Robert probably thought he needed someone to keep him out of trouble. And he laughed. And then he said something about the Chairman being ‘proper mithered abaht summat’ and that he wished he knew what it was. I said that a man in Sir Robert’s position no doubt had a number of important matters to worry about. And he laughed again and said, ‘Ah, well, lass, if tha knows nowt, tha knows nowt, and if tha knows owt, likely tha’ll tell nowt, so I’ll not vex thee wi’ asking.’ So we talked of other things.”
It would somehow have seemed indiscreet to seek particulars. Whatever the subject of the conversation, she had learnt nothing more of Geoffrey Bolton’s past or private life than she already knew. She could say with confidence, however, that while outside the villa he had made no attempt to communicate with his stockbroker.
In their absence, an unpleasant scene had taken place between the Chairman and Edgar Albany. Selena heard of it on the following day from Miss Tavistock, who was too angry with Edgar to be unduly discreet about it. Edgar, apparently, had tried to persuade Sir Robert that he ought not to delay any longer before announcing the date of his retirement and the appointment of his successor. It was bad for the bank, he said, for people not to know when the next Chairman was going to take office and whether he was going to be someone with a more or less suitable background or a jumped-up little bank clerk from nowhere. Sir Robert had replied that he was not yet ready to make a decision; Albany had lost his temper and become extremely offensive. His behaviour had so much distressed Sir Robert that he had become quite unwell.
None of the party left the villa again before midday on Friday, when the bid became public. There had been no significant alteration in the price of the shares. On Friday evening the Chairman took them all out to dinner to celebrate the successful completion of their task.
“We went to a Moroccan restaurant, quite near the villa. It was a very good restaurant — the moules marinières were simply delicious.” Selena spoke wistfully, as if the excellence of the mussel soup were somehow a matter for regret. I assumed that she was merely wishing that she could have eaten more of them.
“Well,” said Julia, “at least you had one evening devoted entirely to pleasure.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Selena, “describe it quite like that.”
“Oh dear,” said Julia. “How would you describe it?”
“Well, at the beginning I’d have described it as rather sad. You see, I thought Sir Robert had been rather looking forward to having a celebration dinner — his dinner jacket smelt of mothballs, so it obviously wasn’t the kind of thing he did very often when he was in Cannes. But he’d somehow caught one of those horrible summer colds that make one feel utterly miserable and he wasn’t well enough to enjoy it. He’d completely lost his appetite and his sense of taste.”
Julia, a notoriously sentimental woman, was visibly moved by the pathos of the old gentleman’s disappointment.
“And then it also became embarrassing, because Edgar started making unpleasant remarks about Geoffrey never introducing his wife to anyone at Renfrews’. Remarks like ‘I say, old boy, I hope you haven’t made her think we’re all frightful snobs and look down on anyone who isn’t from the same social background? You know we’re not like that, old boy, you must know, if anyone does.’ I suppose he was hoping that Geoffrey would lose his temper. But Geoffrey just sat and smiled, and said ‘Ah, she’s a good lass, my wife, but she’d not feel at home in company like this.’ ”
“Dear me,” said Ragwort. “Can it be that the relationship between the two directors is not one of friendly rivalry based on deep mutual respect?”
“No, it’s one of bitter hostility based on deep mutual dislike. Or rather — Geoffrey deeply dislikes Edgar. Edgar, I think actually hates Geoffrey. Geoffrey’s threatening to take something, you see, that Edgar’s always looked on as his by right — that is to say, the chairmanship of Renfrews’ after Sir Robert retires.”
“It doesn’t sound,” said Julia, “as if having them at the same table would be conducive to an agreeable dinner party. One begins to see why you say that it wasn’t an evening of unmixed pleasure.”
“After that it got worse — quite considerably worse. Sir Robert suddenly seemed to get terribly angry about something — he went very red in the face and began shouting, talking about disloyalty and betrayal and not being able to trust anyone. He sounded as if he were drunk, but I knew he couldn’t possibly be. We’d all had a glass of champagne on the roof terrace before we left the villa, but in the restaurant he’d hardly touched his wine — he was drinking mineral water. For a minute or two we all tried to pretend that nothing odd was happening, but then Katharine said, ‘Sir Robert, you’re not well — let me take you home.’ And he stood up and then he collapsed — he seemed to be having some kind of convulsions.”
At the hospital to which Sir Robert was taken he had been diagnosed as suffering from food poisoning. The doctors had at first had grave doubts of his survival and Lady Renfrew had been summoned urgently from Switzerland. Anxiety on his behalf had somewhat overshadowed Selena’s enjoyment of her weekend in Paris. He had now, however, been pronounced out of danger.
“Poor old chap,” said Cantrip. “What rotten luck — he must have got a dodgy mussel.”
“Yes,” said Selena, turning her wineglass between her fingers. “Yes, that’s what everyone seems to assume. But the trouble is — it’s true he ordered the moules marinières for his first course, we all did. But the trouble is — I was sitting next to him and I particularly noticed — he didn’t actually eat any of them, or even a spoonful of the soup they were in. He took them out of their shells and then just put them back in the soup, so that the waiters wouldn’t notice he wasn’t eating. That’s when he told me that he’d lost his appetite and I began to feel so sorry for him. And the second course hadn’t been served by the time he was taken ill. So as far as I can see, he hadn’t actually eaten anything since the lunchtime sandwiches at the villa. It does seem rather bad luck to get food poisoning when one hasn’t eaten any food.”
She fell silent, frowning slightly at her wineglass. It required little skill in telepathy to guess the thought that troubled her: Ricky Farnham had been some thousands of miles away from the scene of Sir Robert’s mysterious attack; the man in the black Mercedes had been at the same dinner table.
Of the Reverend Maurice there was still no news. The only further communication received from Parsons Haver during the month of September was a letter from Griselda.
2 Churchyard Lane
Parsons Haver
20th September
Dear Julia,
Thank you for the amusing get-well card and for pity’s sake do stop trying to lure Reg off to London to have lunch with you. Don’t you realise, you wretched woman, that I’m a poor helpless invalid and Maurice is away and Reg is all that stands between me and being ministered to by blasted Daphne?
Oh God, I shouldn’t say that — the poor kid means well and she’s had a rotten life and if I’m horrible about her I’ll never get to heaven. I used to think heaven was just a place where everyone sang hymns the whole time and I wasn’t too bothered whether I got there or not, but now I know it’s a place where you can scratch your ankle whenever you want to for the rest of eternity and I really, really want to go there. So I’ve got to be nice to Daphne.
Daphne thinks that what she has a gift for is caring for people when they’re not well. She’s wrong about this, but if one told her so she’d be terribly hurt. She trots round here every day, laden with tinctures and embrocations concocted by her late aunt Isabella on the basis of traditional remedies from the mystic Orient, all smelling unutterably foul, and tries to make herself useful.
She started off by trying to make herself useful in the garden — she knew just what to do, she said, because Aunt Isabella had taught her all about plants — and she’d done quite a lot of work on it before I found out that what Isabella had taught her didn’t include the difference between weeds and seedlings.
So I stopped her being useful in the garden and now she’s trying to be useful indoors, by tidying up the house and cooking me things to eat. Tidying up means moving things from where I want them to be to where I don’t want them to be, doing a certain amount of damage in the process. Cooking means taking a harmless, wholesome bit of food and doing something to it to make it inedible. (I don’t quite know how she does it — she’s got the idea that it’s uncreative to stick to the exact recipe, so I suppose she just adds a bit here and leaves out a bit there until it can’t get any worse.)
When she isn’t being useful she’s being sympathetic. This means that she sits looking at me with a sad and respectful expression, as if it might be the last time she sees me in this world, and keeps telling me in a mournful sort of voice how awful I must be feeling. After about half an hour of it I feel like asking her to ring the undertaker on her way out.
When Maurice was here, it wasn’t so bad. There are lots of things she thinks he needs her to do for him, including weeding his garden — I warned him, but he was too soft-hearted to stop her — so she didn’t have too much time to spend round here with me. But lucky old Maurice has now gone waltzing off to the south of France with a young chap called Derek Arkwright, who seems to have taken a shine to him.
Has Reg told you about Derek? Very easy on the eye, definitely the sort of thing I’d go in for if I went in for that sort of thing. Tabitha’s besotted with him — he strokes her between the ears and flirts with her something outrageous and she laps it all up like best-quality cream. I’ve told her he probably does the same to every cat he meets and it’ll all end in tears, but she doesn’t take any notice.
But Daphne thinks he’s bad news. She says he has a nasty aura and horrible things have been happening ever since he started coming here. She’s even started hinting that he reminds her of the man who tried to burgle her a few weeks ago — which has to be pure make-believe, because her burglar was wrapped up in a balaclava and a long black raincoat and she said at the time she’d no idea what he looked like.
Anyway, the point is that now Maurice is away I’m the only person for Daphne to be caring to, and the only thing that gets me through a morning of it without throwing something hard and heavy at her is knowing that at lunchtime Reg will turn up and find a tactful way to get rid of her.
Oh God, I’m being horrible about her again and I won’t get to heaven and Jenny Tyrrell won’t think I’m a nice person. I’m not a nice person, but I want Jenny to think I am. Jenny thinks Daphne’s problem is that she’s never had enough love and we all ought to be specially nice to her to make up for it. So I’m trying, really I am, but it isn’t easy pretending to be nice when one’s not — it’s all very well for Jenny, it comes naturally to her.
And you do understand, don’t you, that I can’t keep it up for a whole day?
Much love,
Griselda
The suggestion that Derek Arkwright might be Daphne’s burglar did nothing to allay poor Julia’s anxiety on behalf of the Reverend Maurice. Indeed, as the days went by, I confess that I myself felt occasional pangs of uneasiness on the clergyman’s behalf.
And yet, by the end of the Long Vacation, all these misgivings seemed to have proved groundless.
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
Saturday, 2nd October
Dear Julia,
I’ve decided to say nothing to Maurice about the Jeremiah Arkwright business, so please don’t mention it to anyone when you’re next down here. He came back three days ago, looking so well and in such high spirits that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to spoil things.
And Derek seems to have enjoyed the holiday just as much as Maurice. He drove down here yesterday evening and they both came round for drinks. He was looking more attractive than ever and bubbling over with stories about places they’d been to and things they’d seen. I simply don’t believe there can be anything really wrong about someone I like so much, even if he is using a false name.
They’ve taken hundreds of photographs that they seem very excited about — they’re hoping to collect them this afternoon from the place in Brighton where they’re being developed and Maurice is going to show them to Ricky and me tomorrow evening. For some reason he’s particularly keen to show them to Ricky, but refuses to explain why.
Daphne, of course, has now found out that Derek and Maurice were on holiday together and has been round here wailing about Maurice having “not been straight” with her. I’ve tried to explain to her that it really is none of her business who Maurice goes on holiday with, but it’s no use. She just says, “I’d tell Maurice if I were going on holiday with someone, and if it was someone he thought was horrible I wouldn’t go.” She’s still going on about Derek’s untrustworthy aura, and making dark comments about how many wine bottles there were to put out in the dustbin this morning.
I’d better stop now — I’ve been writing this in the garden, trying to pretend it’s still summer, when the fact is that it’s far too cold now to sit out of doors. All the roses are finished, even the hardiest ones.
Yours with much love,
Reg
Two days later, however, there was a further letter.
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
Sunday, 3rd October
Dear Julia,
Something rather beastly has happened — Derek has stolen the Virgil frontispiece. I’m afraid there can’t be any doubt about it. There’s no question, of course, of calling the police. Poor Maurice is dreadfully upset.
Vraiment sont finis les beaux jours.
Yours with very much love,
Reg