‘No, never married. One dear lady—old lady now, I expect—pledged me her hand, but came the war with its uncertainties. Well, we lost touch . . .’ Thank God, he thought, then, remembering this was a rehearsal, he shrugged, lifted his head and squared the shoulders of the tall spare figure in worn but decently cut West of England tweed. He let the eyes complete the sorry tale of war-lost love. It was, as it happened, largely invented.
‘The children at my last school were mixed. I mean girls as well as boys—and if you must know, after twenty-five years of schoolmastering my distaste for both sorts was as cordial as it was mutual.’
Of course, he would never say the last bit; nor was it strictly true. He quite liked children, but not in that way—the way they would mean when vetting a bachelor ex-regular army officer turned prep-schoolmaster. Perhaps he was just over-sensitive. It was easy to mistake disdain for suspicion. He had been a failure—nothing worse.
‘Room ready, Major?’ The voice came from the corridor. It was the Filipino chambermaid aiming to please. She knew he was usually out for his constitutional by this time and liked to have his room cleaned early. It saved embarrassment if he wanted to slip back later with something for lunch. The hotel terms stipulated no cooking in rooms, but there was a gas-ring for the kettle so one could heat soup as well as make toast before the popping, coin-metered gas fire. It was just that the staff had to report irregularities—not that such things mattered much any more.
Three months from now the Paragon Private Hotel and the whole crumbling stuccoed terrace was coming down. The developer had already put up a hoarding illustrating the ten storey ‘apartotel’ to be erected on the site.
He had thought about quitting London often enough: now there was no option. There were no sub-standard rooms in newly built ‘apartotels’ for permanent residents on reduced rates.
The Rudyard Trust for Retired Officers and Gentlemen—the people he was going to see—had three residential clubs all outside Central London. He’d miss Kensington Gardens, the occasional concert at the Albert Hall, St Stephen’s Church in Gloucester Road, the museums and his libraries.
They said you could be lonely in London. He never had been. He enjoyed his own company. Perhaps he had acquired a few eccentricities, but people didn’t bother you. He had his own television set—second-hand, with a black and white picture, but it was all he needed for the evenings. Thank God for TV. As always, he glanced at the set last thing before he left the room. He could hear the maid busy next door.
‘I’ve locked my door,’ he called pointedly as he went to the top of the stairs: there was no lift. That was to remind her to lock up again when she had done the cleaning.
‘OK, Major,’ she answered, betting he’d be back soon for whatever it was he’d forgotten.
Perhaps he should have worn his British-warm overcoat after all. It was cold for late April, even on the Paragon stairs. The raincoat he had on was newer-looking—it was washable and had a sort of lining. He should be all right if he kept the pace brisk. He had allowed more than an hour for the walk to the oddly named Strutton Ground which, according to his twelve-year-old copy of the London A-Z, was a turning to the right off Victoria Street, just over half way between the railway station and Westminster Abbey.
Out of London, of course, there would be less opportunity to supplement income with private tutorial fees. In Town he had the connections, and he was pretty good at cramming teenage slow starters through the Common Entrance and ‘O’ levels. There would be compensations, though.
The Rudyard Trust let you keep what was left of any income after taking ‘a reasonable and equitable sum, depending on circumstances’ to cover your keep. You had to deposit some capital too for bequeathing to the Trust, up to a figure which in his case meant there would be nothing left to leave to anyone else. Since he had no family nor any close, deserving friend the arrangement suited well enough—in return for peace of mind.
Mark you, there was an awful finality about the whole thing. What if he did not like it at the ‘residential club’ which, in plain language, would be an old men’s home? Well, if that was the case, again, as his mother might have said, he’d have to lump it.
‘Good morning, Major.’ Mr Chauder, a dispossessed Asian from Kenya, beamed proprietorially from behind the small reception desk and in a reflex action straightened the plastic notice announcing the acceptance of American Express Credit Cards.
Few of the Paragon’s clients were rated credit-worthy by their closest friends, let alone the American Express Company or Mr Chauder, but the notice promoted general confidence. Major Copper at least looked solvent. Mr Chauder had more than once considered offering him a room in his next establishment on special terms but had always managed to overcome the impulse. It was doubtful, in any case, that the Major would have felt at ease in a Birmingham Commercial hotel.
‘ 'Morning, Mr Chauder.’ The Major used the hook of his walking-stick to touch the brim of the bowler now normally reserved for church, special events like the Armistice Day Service in Whitehall, and the funerals of army contemporaries: most had outranked him but fewer were outliving him.
‘It is very cold outside, Major sir. I hope you are well wrapped up enough. We don’t want you catching the pneumonia’—and thus causing no end of extra trouble for the staff, not to mention, in the event of anything serious like death, the difficulty of letting the worst room in the place for the next twelve weeks.
Mr Chauder remonstrated with himself for harbouring such uncharitable misgivings. He even thought again about offering the room in Birmingham—but not until the Major was through the street door.
As Roderick Copper turned the corner and made for the Cromwell Road an east wind was biting hard. For the moment he was too preoccupied to notice. His total capital stood at £5,862 on last night’s count. It was permanently beseiged by inflation and occasionally raided through absolute necessity. So the future was scarcely bristling with options.
A good deal of his service pension he had foolishly commuted at the time of his discharge for what now seemed a ludicrously small lump sum. He had thought of buying an annuity often enough but had never done anything about it. Now he’d had to accept that his income would nowhere near cover his staying on in a London hotel.
He stopped to buy a copy of The Times from a corner vendor— an exceptional expense these days since he could perfectly well see the paper in the library reading-room, but today was special. The Times, like the bowler, was a necessary prop.
Over the years he had twice tried existing in digs. He had been smothered by unsolicited attentions from a motherly landlady in Fulham and almost starved to death by a more genteel but savagely parsimonious member of the same sorority in Swiss Cottage.
In both places he had missed the independence—the relative freedom one enjoyed even in an hotel as small and limited as the Paragon. Surely a residential club inhabited by, as it were, one’s own kind would be better than paying-guest status and restrictions?
It was not the thought of death that hung in the back of his mind but the period that came before death: there, he was facing the real issue. He was Fit for his age and made sure he kept himself that way. But he had to die of something and he was ready to give up a good deal—a very great deal—to ensure there would be people about he could depend on if required.
Having come to terms with his need for the Rudyard Trust, the Major gave his mind over to the state of the weather. A moment later he turned back for his overcoat.
While the Major was setting out for the second time, Benjamin Gold was putting the finishing touches to making his bed. It was not a job he did well. It saved work for his daughter Denise, though he sometimes thought she did it again after he went out. He tried to get out in the mornings, rain or shine and whatever the season: it stopped him being under foot.
It was during his walks he did his best to commit to memory whatever new knowledge he had gleaned from the Open University Radio broadcast he listened to in h
is bedroom early. He wasn’t studying for anything in particular.
Denise and her husband George Potts lived with their two children in a neat semi-detached ‘executive type’ house in Putney which they were in process of buying. For the past year Benny Gold have been living there too.
It was three years since the death of his wife Rachel. For a while he had tried living alone. Then he had sold the house in Golders Green and gone on an extended visit to his other daughter Rebecca who, with her husband, had emigrated to Australia.
The vague plan that Benny might stay on in Melbourne had not come to anything. Although Rebecca had married a nice Jewish boy, her father had never felt comfortable with them. He blamed himself, arguing he was anyway too old at seventy to settle in a new country. So that had been that. He had come back to England, moving in temporarily with Denise and George until he found a suitable place. There had never been any question of his staying with them permanently—not really.
‘Dad, I’m back. It’s Five past nine,’ his daughter called from downstairs. She had been taking the children to school. ‘If you want to catch that train . . .’
Did he want to catch the train? Did he want to keep his ten o’clock appointment with the Director of the Rudyard Trust? Was he ready for an old men’s home?
Well, you had to remember it would be a residential club for retired officers and gentlemen: that was important. He had pressed the point when they discussed the whole idea again after supper last night. George had been against his going from the start. Benny wished Denise had pressed a little harder for him to stay at least for a while longer.
Of the two girls, Denise had always been his secret favourite from the time they were little. Her marrying out—marrying a Gentile—hadn’t bothered Benny. His wife, God rest her, had been upset at the time but such things heal. George had always been a Fine son-in-law and a good provider for his wife and the children. He was doing well with the office equipment company. There had been another promotion only last month.
It was after her marriage ten years ago that Denise had begun to grow away from her father. So, there was the increasing social gap. So, a London Area Sales Supervisor kept different company from a retired London cab-driver—except this retired London cab-driver qualified as ‘an officer and a gentleman’: just.
Denise did not look particularly Jewish. Her father did, and anyway with a name like Benjamin Gold, what else?
Benny absently shrugged his shoulders as he came down the stairs. Maybe it was all to do with their being Jewish. Maybe he felt out of place because . . .
‘Dad, you’re arguing with yourself again.’ She smiled affectionately as she stood waiting to help him on with his muffler and the double-breasted, dark blue overcoat. Now, when they were alone, she was the old Denise: more like her mother.
‘You think I look all right?’ He gave her his happy cherub grin as he turned around slowly like a marionette.
‘You look smashing.’ She paused. ‘Bit short . . .’
‘Bit short . . .’he echoed gleefully before they chimed in unison—‘Bit short, but look at the quality?’ That had been a family catch-phrase long before boy-friends and weddings and births . . . and deaths.
‘You don’t think the pinstripe is too formal? I could wear the light grey. You pressed it last week.’
‘Dad, you’ll knock ’em over with the pinstripe.’ She thought he looked healthier than he had done all winter—put on a little weight again, and that was no bad thing. His asthma had been so bad last year, after Australia.
She felt torn over his going to a retirement home but it had been his idea, and they’d have nursing staff if he was ill again, and it was difficult to get into the good places if you left it too late . . . besides which there was the new baby to think about.
They hadn’t told him yet there was another child on the way. It meant they would need the room—or else they would have to move to a larger house. George was for moving, but they could scarcely afford that and the baby—not even with the £7,500 her father had given them. The money made her feel guilty. But he had given the same to Rebecca.
He waved to her again from the gateway, then set off towards the station. She had offered to drive him. She was a good girl. He settled his narrow-brimmed pork-pie hat firmly on his almost bald head, looking about him as he walked. It was a pretty little avenue. Tiny leaf-buds were showing already on the silver birch planted along the pavement. He stopped a moment to wiggle his gloved fingers at a baby in its pram on the lawn of a small front garden: he adored babies. This one must be six months now: time flew.
Yes, it was a good class neighbourhood: nice houses—not big, but modern with garages and central heating. They were expensive, though—so what was cheap these days?
He was glad he was able to give Denise and George enough to pay off half the mortgage after he sold his place. He had never wanted them thinking they owed him for that. It was only money. He hadn’t needed it so what else except share it between the girls: pray God they would want to do the same some day for their kids.
He still had more than enough to get into a Rudyard Club. And if they wouldn’t take him, so there were other places. It was just that he enjoyed feeling his wartime commission in the Royal Army Service Corps still counted—like it did at the time. Then they had been living in Stepney. He had just done his ‘knowledge’, qualifying to drive a cab, when the war started. To have been promoted through the ranks after Dunkirk had been quite an achievement. He got no higher than lieutenant—but he’d been an officer; that’s what rated with a background like his.
After the war Rachel had wanted him to do something better than cab-driving, but he had stuck at it—bought his own cab with a loan and his army gratuity so he had been his own boss all his working life. They had done well enough, he and Rachel—not as well as the girls would do, but well enough. If it was written he wasn’t to end his days with his dear wife—nor to be in the way of his daughters—then ending up with other retired officers and gentlemen sounded good. Maybe he was no gentleman in the old sense—but always he had behaved like one.
He crossed the road to the station, giving a thumbs up sign to a cab-driver who had halted for him at the crossing.
So, as the song went, he’d be far better off in a home—and if there was time to kill before that he still had his licence so he could do relief cab-driving. He had thought about it earlier: now that he felt pretty fit again and with spring on the way . . . He turned into the station, getting out the money for his ticket.
Thus, on the morning of Friday, April 19th, Major Copper and Mr Gold made their separate ways to ten o’clock appointments at the offices of the Rudyard Trust. Not in his wildest flight of fancy would either have believed he was walking into a murder plot involving the sovereign state of Ngonga: nor, of course, until much later, was anyone else going to believe it either.
CHAPTER 2
STRUTTON GROUND WAS A SHORT, NARROW AND unusually busy thoroughfare with buildings of mingled heights and styles. There were small shops at pavement level, while the roadway itself was lined on one side with the colourful stalls of a regular street market.
Major Copper had threaded his way through the heavy human traffic wondering how the motorized variety fared. He found the street number he needed above an open doorway between two shops. He passed through to a long, badly lit corridor. Half way on the left was a worn wooden staircase. Opposite, a hand-painted board indicated that the four floors above were occupied by organizations none of which sounded important—the more so the higher you went. The Rudyard Trust for Retired Officers and Gentlemen was at the top.
Ignoring the staircase, the Major made for what he took to be a lift at the end of the corridor. The door opened inwards just as he was reading the inscription ‘Happy Public Relations Ltd’.
A tall, late twenties and startlingly glamorous brunette was emerging with difficulty. She was wearing a well-cut yellow trouser suit and a rich brown sun-tan. Grasping the strap of an
over-stuffed handbag in one hand, she had an unwieldy wooden table-lectern in the other. Clutches of large bulging envelopes were wedged under both arms. She was using her feet to dribble a medium-sized cardboard packing-case into the corridor. She flashed a helpless smile at the Major just before the door—activated by some powerful spring—punched her firmly in the back.
‘Knickers!’ she cried as the lock clicked shut. ‘Sorry. Not my day.’ The smile was still there. ‘Christine’s out, Linda’s sick, Soo’ll be back in a minute. You’ll have to fish the key out of my bag. It’s . . .’ She had begun a contortion that would have brought the bag to a fishable position except the movement allowed several fat, open envelopes to cascade to the floor. The contents scattered at the Major’s feet.
‘Shoot!—that’s the place-cards wrecked. Should have made two journeys. Thanks awfully.’ The girl and the Major were now crouched together pushing pieces of lettered paste-board back into the largest envelope. ‘By the way, I’m Happy Brown.’ She stood up. ‘You are looking for Happy Public Relations?’
The Major resisted an inclination to answer in the affirmative. ‘The lift, actually,’ he offered lamely. ‘But I suppose everyone’s looking for happy public relations’ came as an afterthought. ‘My name’s Roderick Copper. How d’you do.’
‘Mr Copper, you’ve made my day.’ Miss Brown’s pleased expression gave way to one of sympathy. ‘No lift, I’m afraid. Which floor?’
‘The fourth.’
‘Poor you. There’s a loo on the third. You can stop there for a breather. Did you have a taxi?’
The question seemed hardly relevant when one’s destination lay up four flights. ‘No, I . . .’
Copper, Gold and Treasure Page 2