by Bart Casey
~
Pont de la Tour was a welcoming oasis of splendor compared with the dismal empty warehouses that were its neighbors. But all of those became invisible when Soames and Margaret were seated at their table with an unobstructed view of the river and a backlit Tower Bridge.
It was a setting more akin to Paris than to London—more like looking out at the Seine instead of the plodding old Thames—and even the food fit the setting, thought Margaret as she finished the pea risotto with mint. But the conversation was more than a bit unsettling. Soames had been very intent on understanding the inventory and she had explained some questioned areas as best she could while also suggesting he follow up with Stephen. But Soames had been quite thin on the sales-advice side, almost as if that would be nothing for her to worry about. He had also been quite keen to keep the copy of the inventory, which he had scribbled all over attentively as he read. It was unsettling in the extreme to Margaret, who decided she would not be leaving the restaurant with him as planned. At some later date she’d have to come up with an explanation, she supposed, but just call it a sixth sense for now. She was going to ditch him.
The meal ended with Soames ordering two cappuccinos; before they came, she excused herself to go off to the ladies loo. As she went down the short corridor past the gents, she saw a door marked Staff Only. She checked behind her and then tried that door which opened heavily. Inside that restricted space, she could see part of the kitchen down to the right, but to the left was an outer door, which brought her out onto an alley just off the street on the back side of the restaurant, away from the entrance and valet parking. There was a light mist falling—not enough to call it rain, but just enough to give the darkened streets the look of some dark Sherlock Holmes adventure, she thought, somewhat unsettled. She pulled her jacket collar up and hurried westward along the street, running parallel to the river. She kept close to the buildings, so she could duck inside a doorway if any headlights came in sight.
Meanwhile, Soames waited until he had to ask the waitress to go back to the ladies and check on Margaret. He didn’t want her cappuccino laced with chemicals to get too cold, after all. But the report came back that there was no sign of her by the toilets or the doorway, and he moved quickly for his car. Why had she left? Was there something he’d said that set her off? Where the bloody hell had she gotten to?
~
Soames nearly knocked the valet-parking attendant over as he leapt into the car, quickly remembering himself and handing over a five-pound note to make up for his rudeness. He didn’t want to be too memorable if anyone later came checking up on his evening out with Margaret—because he was confident that he could now find her, and confident that he could complete his plan somehow, even though the opportunity to anesthetize her at dinner had disappeared. But the streets were just as deserted as when they arrived, and were even more cloaked in inky darkness by the mists surrounding the occasional lit lamppost he came upon as he careened around the blocks at high speed. Soon he realized it was pointless, and she had gone. What now?
He stopped to channel all his attention into modifying his clever plan—and that’s when he noticed Margaret’s newfangled alphanumeric pager on the passenger seat. She’d showed it to him on the way over. BBC reporters all had them and it was just the sort of status symbol he should have as well, she had laughed.
Soames saw the tiny screen was flashing “One message received.” He pushed the Show command just below and a text message from the BBC call desk displayed: “Get away from Soames. Dangerous. Stephen to be at your flat at 11 p.m.”
Soames stared at the pager. What the hell should he do now? She must have gone to her flat—Welbeck House by Selfridges, wasn’t it? He knew he should just head over there. He could just ring the bell and say he came to make sure she was all right. She wouldn’t know Stephen was on his way, so perhaps he could still complete his plan.
He steered himself at speed across the quiet streets of ten p.m. Saturday London, from the docks across the river into Mayfair, and parked in the drop-off zone kept clear in front of Welbeck House. The lights on the ground floor were blazing out the windows of John Bell & Croyden, the all-night chemist on the corner that stayed open dispensing prescriptions to the well-heeled needy at all hours.
He was just walking from his Jaguar toward the doors of Margaret’s building as a taxi pulled up, and out came Stephen, at a run.
“Stephen, old man, good to see you. Margaret disappeared from me at the restaurant, and—”
Soames didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence because Stephen lunged forward and hit him on the jaw with a punch that would have felled a heavyweight. It had all the might of his strong right arm, propelled by the full weight of his body flying forward. Soames went down on the pavement in a heap, flailing for a few moments to bring his hand up to his jaw, before his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.
“You fucking wanker,” Stephen said through his clenched teeth. “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you.” Then he vaulted through the doors and into the entrance hall.
The doorman came into the birdcage lift right after Stephen, clanged the door shut, and started its smooth ascension. “She just came in ten minutes ago, sir—looking a bit wet.”
“Really?” said Stephen. “She’s all right?”
“Seems so, sir,” the man said, pushing open the gate at Margaret’s floor.
He rang the bell, saying “Margaret, it’s me,” and she let him in straight away, just managing to close the door as he hugged her.
~
Back downstairs, the doorman managed to help Soames up and back into his car. He took a minute, just sitting behind the wheel to focus before he drove off, pretty sure that his jaw was broken.
Pulling up to his mews house, he saw the upstairs lights were on. He opened his garage doors with his remote and parked the car in its place. Upstairs he heard some shouting going on—what the hell? As he reached the top of the stairs and walked into the main room, the shouting stopped and he became the center of attention for the warring Mandy and Rowe who had somehow managed to become his unexpected welcoming committee.
Mandy just threw an ashtray at him and spat out “You stupid buggering bastard,” as she pushed by him and down the stairs. “I better not have picked up any of that old fart’s germs or you’ll be dead,” she ended, smashing the door behind her.
Soames stepped in and turned his attention to his second surprise visitor. Professor Rowe was standing in front of the fireplace, framed by the tall table lamps of Wellington and Nelson. “What the hell are you doing here?” said Soames.
Rowe paused for a breath, recovering from his unexpected verbal fisticuffs with Mandy. “Well,” he started, “I believe I have a solution to your predicaments…so I came down to share the good news. I tried calling, of course—but it seems you were out, so I just motored myself down.” He walked over and lowered himself into one of the upholstered chairs facing the matching sofa.
“A solution, you say?” Soames stifled his surprise, slipped out of his coat, and moved on his best behavior over to sit down on the sofa facing the professor, while cradling his hurt jaw. “Well, I’m all ears, I must say,” he said, waiting.
Rowe reached into the left side pocket of his tweed jacket and took out his small notebook. “Yes, I’ve been thinking about the tangle of your financial affairs, and have a few suggestions. The first one addresses your smart country house. One of my old colleagues, now retired from his university post in London, is struggling with the completion of his magnum opus—which is, as I understand it, a multi-volume treatise on the lesser metaphysical poets—you know, not John Donne, but perhaps Andrew Marvell and the others. Anyway, my friend’s London house has been filled suddenly with his daughter and her children, who are apparently fleeing his son-in-law, and a messy divorce is certainly about to ensue.”
“Why are you telling me all this, for god’s sake?” said Soames, very annoyed.
“Well, I rang my frie
nd this morning about his sad plight, and mentioned I might know of a haven where he could distance himself from the soap opera unfolding before him in London, and finish off his metaphysical musings in peace. I described your place in the Cotswolds as heaven itself—although I mentioned it would be very pricey—but instantly available, probably for six months or more as a short-term let. His response was joy, along with the comment that the price was no issue for him, as long as he could go there now. So he could carry your costs for that part of your obligations for a while.”
“Really? Why on earth would I want him in my house?” asked Soames.
“Well, I thought it would buy us some time while we made ourselves busy to raise new income for a more permanent solution. And I also made a short list of some of the items I thought we could procure together in the interim to raise other funds for you.”
Soames stood up from the sofa and walked over to his cocktail cabinet. He reached inside for a bottle of pricey Napoleon brandy and two snifters, hoping to help the throbbing in his face. “Very thoughtful of you professor. Care for a nightcap?” But then he went quiet for a moment before his attitude turned cold. “And afterwards perhaps we can go through my closets,” he hissed. “Who knows, we might even find some evening clothes or riding outfits to sell at the used clothing shops in Camden Town?”
“Well, my boy, I think we can set our sights higher than that,” responded the professor, looking down at his notebook, about to continue. But Soames cut him off.
“Listen, you old bugger, why should we have a jumble sale of my belongings when, within our reach, as Dr. Johnson once said, are riches beyond the dreams of avarice? These Vavasour papers are not only the answer to my financial problems, but also the means for lifelong luxury. All that stands in the way is a small amount of unpleasantness before fame and salvation. And while we’re setting the course straight, please tell me just what were you chatting about with Miss Mandy a few moments ago?”
“Miss Mandy?” said the professor, putting his notebook back in his pocket and turning upwards to look Soames right in the eye. “Well, I told her that you were taken, and always had been, by me and no doubt by a long line of other horny older men. So I told her, using the words of my young students today, to fuck off.”
Soames looked away from the professor’s stare and poured brandy into one of the glasses. “That’s really too much,” he began slowly, taking a swig. “You’ve blotted your copybook, old man. In fact, I think we are done and dusted. If you think I’m going to walk away from Miss Hamilton and her bloody papers, you’re bonkers. So just forget the nightcap, and buzz off. I don’t think we have anything else to talk about. I’m done with trudging through another series of small acquisitions with you, and the subsequent annoying sales transactions. I’m moving on, and it’s time to say goodbye.”
Professor Rowe lowered his gaze and moved his hand over to his other jacket pocket. “I’m sorry to hear you say that, dear boy. But I do agree, reluctantly, that it is now time to move on.”
~
Five minutes later, Professor Rowe had recovered himself to the point that he had poured his own brandy and moved out of the lounge and into the fine en-suite bathroom adjoining Soames’s master bedroom. At least he still had his aim. He was glad he had managed to put two bullets right into Soames’s bull-headed face, and the noise of the shots had not been as loud as he had feared. Very sorry about the mess, but they can do quite a lot these days getting stains out of upholstery, he thought. He drank the last of the brandy and felt its warmth going down.
Now it was time to take just a moment for himself, he thought. He put his gun on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the taps, taking the time to get the combined flow to his preferred temperature before slipping in the plug of the bath. Then he stepped back into the bedroom, and slowly undressed, leaving all of his things arranged neatly on the bed before coming back to the rising water. He had already placed his note on the desk in Soames’s front lounge, together with Soames’s portfolio with the Vavasour papers stolen from the vicarage. Now he could just get into the bath, and relax into his thoughts.
Of all the men and boys he had known, Soames had been the love of his life, and such an unexpected one, appearing on the scene long after he thought he had passed his prime. The boy seemed fresh, adventurous, and even joyful at the start—especially on that first spring trip to Italy. Rowe remembered not only did all of his own dormant physical machinery seem to perk up, but he had managed to become almost priapic in the heat of their new passion. Then their first capers together to purloin and sell rich papers were simply larks to laugh over later—not money-grubbing thievery. How that had all changed. The twisted man in the mess on the sofa was nothing like he had been—that boy had died long before. He tried to help him tonight, but Soames was just too far gone.
And what would be ahead for himself now, thought the professor? There would be the commotion about the shooting, the revelations of the thievery, and the dismantling of his “distinguished” academic life, much of which actually did deserve to be remembered as “distinguished” after all. But all of that would be cut out of him while he watched, like someone being hung, drawn, and quartered back in the day. No, that wasn’t the way, he reflected, just as he had said in his note. He would take all that up with his judges in the next world, and not here.
With his left hand, he tugged a heated towel down from the rack just above him, and stretched it over his head. Then he reached with his right hand for his pistol.
Try to be tidy, he thought. And now, it was time to go.
Back at Welbeck Street, Margaret wrapped a bandage around Stephen’s bleeding right hand. They shared a bottle of wine and talked through their hopefully unfounded fears about their old classmate Soames. If she ever saw the bastard again, they came up with a story she could tell him about why she had left (female problems, and embarrassment at having to get home right away)—that was the best they could do.
Stephen then told her about his conversation with Rowe and how, at the end, he made very candid comments about his own incapacity for theft and murder, which were totally credible. They agreed to call Detective Harris and update him on everything in the morning.
Very late, Margaret took care locking the door, and even put a dining chair up against the doorknob. Christ, she thought. How can we live like this?
~
They had slept in, in spite of their troubles, and were awakened by the telephone just after 11:30 a.m. Sunday morning. It turned out they wouldn’t have to call Detective Harris or need any alibis, nor any strategy about how to deal with Soames and Rowe in
the future.
It was Detective Harris himself calling to deliver the message that Soames and Professor Rowe were dead—found a short time before at the mews house in Knightsbridge when a cleaning lady arrived to tidy up. She had been used to Sunday duty cleaning up the morning messes after big nights out, but the sight of Soames and Rowe dead from gunshot wounds had her calling the police right away, crying and screaming. It looked like they had had a fight, because Soames’s jaw was broken, but then Rowe apparently shot him dead, and, perhaps after a moment of reflection, blew his own brains out as well.
The detective didn’t have time to go into any more details—he just wanted them to be at ease in the event they feared they were in danger. He said he wasn’t happy Margaret and Stephen had had more meetings with Soames and Rowe on their own, after he had spoken to Margaret. But all that didn’t seem to matter now. They should just say prayers of thanks that they had escaped those two and been so lucky.
Anyway, he wanted them to come in to Scotland Yard for a debrief on Tuesday morning. Margaret agreed straightaway, hung up the phone, and told Stephen the story. He told her Harris had got the bit about Soames’s jaw wrong: he had done that.
~
The rest of Sunday played out as one long recovery, starting with a walk over to Marble Arch and then continuing on through Hyde Park over to the Serpentine. Then t
hey walked right around the lake to see crazy young men at the Lido running out from the changing rooms in their Speedos and jumping in to the swim lanes for brisk freestyle swims across the shallow waters with their white swim caps shining. At the other edge of the park, the cavalry from the barracks there were riding in formation on the sandy lanes of Rotten Row along the Knightsbridge side. It was mad how the everyday world continued all around you when you’d been shaken to the core by tragedy, Margaret thought. There was no making sense of it all, and the strange limbo ended with Stephen heading back to the normality of another Monday at St. George’s.
Monday was different for Margaret, at least, because she decided to hand in her notice at the BBC that day. Her boss couldn’t really understand her decision. It was all going so well for her, except for the recent loss of her father. How could she throw away a successful career all her colleagues dreamed of? She didn’t really answer, except to say her dreams seemed to be changing, and she felt a massive sense of relief as she walked out of Broadcasting House at lunchtime. But it wasn’t really a final break. Her boss had ended by saying she could come back, if she reconsidered, and he would check in with her again in the new year. But for right now, she just had a few more days to work out her transition out of the team and she would be rid of the place—and selfishly rid of the siege of Sarajevo, although she knew she was shirking doing the play-by-play commentary on that reality. But the rest of the population of Europe didn’t want to hear it anyway, so goodbye to all that for now.
~
Stephen made a day off out of their Tuesday appointment at New Scotland Yard. Walking in, they had a sense of all the people who had passed through those doors and never been free again—but they were going in the opposite direction—to find freedom from the sinister threats that had plagued them for weeks.