It was left to Ros to say quietly, “But Fred has made himself most useful to me around the house. I don’t know what I’d do without him, now.” She stopped rather abruptly; she had wanted to say that as their development plans for the house were now to go ahead, there would be even more work for her strange little acolyte, but she did not wish to steal the thunder from Trevor and his news.
Fred basked in her approval, his thin face glistening with pleasure as he ran a hand needlessly over his thinning hair. “Very good of you to say so, Mrs Harrison,” he said. His genuine pleasure in her praise was masked by his customary wheedling tone; old habits were proving difficult to abandon. Although he was the resident who most admired her and worked most closely with her, he was the only one who had not yet brought himself to call her Ros, as she had invited them all to do.
Dick Courtney did not trouble to disguise his derision for Fred when he gave his own account. “I can’t pretend to have found myself useful work to anything like the extent achieved by Mr Hogan,” he said. Fred, who was seldom accorded this title, deduced correctly that irony was intended, thus increasing the speaker’s pleasure. “But in my own more modest, way, I am satisfied with my progress. As you all know, I have secured a post at Frankland Autos. Since then, things have moved satisfactorily.”
Dick was guying Trevor’s circumlocutions. If there were those among his listeners who recognised the fact, they chose not to acknowledge it. He looked round the table, wary beneath his urbanity, but saw no sign that anyone knew exactly the means by which he was engineering his progress at Frankland Autos. “I can now report that things are going well — even better, indeed, than I could have expected. I feel I have chosen the right post, and that there are great possibilities for me within the firm.”
He sat back with his thumbs under the bottoms of the lapels on his jacket; he was the only man in the room wearing one, and he used it like a uniform of superiority. Harry Bradshaw saw him suddenly in twenty years’ time, older, plumper, mouthing the meaningless, anodyne phrases of a company report. He was surprised by the depth of his dislike for this vulpine young man, who had such a capacity for disruption.
Undoubtedly Michael Ashby felt as he did. He did not trouble to disguise his distaste as he glared at the younger man from his position directly across the big mahogany table. His eyes bulged a little beneath his receding hairline; he launched into his own report more to cut short Courtney’s truculence than because he had anything he wanted to communicate.
“Colley’s Office Equipment doesn’t change much. Unfortunately. Unlike our young friend here, I can’t say I’m happy, but I’m on the way to becoming indispensable. Perhaps in due course I’ll be able to ask for a rise.” He knew this probably wasn’t true, but he was driven to the claim by the desire to upstage the young rattlesnake who sat opposite him, exhibiting such disbelieving amusement.
Trevor said hastily, “Oh, don’t do that, Michael, not yet. It’s early days, you know. Perhaps when they’ve realised how indispensable you are, I’ll be able to have a word with them on your behalf.” He was like an over-protective parent, making vain promises to try to control the actions of an impulsive child. Ashby looked at him, striving to focus his thoughts; his concentration on the mocking face of Dick Courtney had been so absolute that he had not expected rejoinders from elsewhere.
It was Harry Bradshaw who ended the awkward silence. In contrast to Ashby, he did not even look at Courtney as he reported coolly, “It takes time, of course, to build up work in education. But I’ve got two evening classes with adults going now, and the possibility of work as a part-time tutor with the Open University — unfortunately their academic year doesn’t begin until January, so that’s a long-term prospect. But I must say, I’m enjoying the evening classes. Adults are so rewarding to teach.” He had begun in the flat tones appropriate to a factual report, anxious to support Trevor Harrison because he was developing a genuine affection for that irritating figure. Now his enthusiasm burst suddenly out, as unexpected to him as it was to his listeners.
Dick Courtney looked at him and said very deliberately, “Rewarding in more ways than one, for the tutor of resource!” As he looked into those dark, malignant eyes, Harry learned with a shock that Courtney knew of his new, embryonic relationship with Sarah Dickenson. He could not understand why that knowledge should fill him with fear and revulsion; perhaps it was because the friendship was still so delicate and undefined that he recoiled from the influence of this destructive young man upon it.
Dick stared challengingly at him, waiting for a reaction, nursing the expectations of the other people around the table. Harry was too intelligent to be drawn into the exchange the young man wanted, whereby he would be able to reveal publicly everything he knew.
But he glared fiercely at Dick, provoking the blandest of smiles in those Machiavellian features. “Perks of the job, I suppose, for academics,” said Dick. He looked at the company at large and found several faces eager for enlightenment. “Highly bedworthy wench Harry’s sorted out for himself from his class. I’m sure he’s giving her the benefit of all his expertise!”
There were involuntary titters from Hogan and Ashby, and Ros just failed to control the surprise on her face as she glanced at Harry. Trevor smiled weakly; he was too preoccupied with his own news to appreciate the malevolence behind Courtney’s contributions.
Only Bradshaw understood that he had been spied upon, that Dick was retailing information Harry had not suspected he possessed. Harry did not look at his tormentor again. He knew those mocking features would provoke him into the outburst Courtney desired. Instead, invoking the first idea that came into his head, he said lamely, “So it looks as if I shall need accommodation here for quite some time yet, I’m afraid, Trevor.”
Harrison was glad to be drawn into the conversation, for he was anxious now to leave these undercurrents and get on to his own momentous information. “No problem there, Harry,” he said. “All of you are welcome to stay here for as long as is necessary.” He beamed around the table, the smile sitting like an external grafting upon his normally ascetic features.
He could restrain himself no longer. “Indeed, I can offer all of you exciting news in that department. The plans have been passed!” He waved them in the air like a magician producing a rabbit. “They went through on the Thursday after my father’s death. There was no objection in the Planning Committee, of course, once…” He stopped, surprising himself by this belated embarrassment about death.
“Once old Tom was dead,” said Dick Courtney robustly. His face was now a blank: there was no hint of rebuke in the words. “This must be good news for all of us.” He looked suavely round the table, challenging anyone to deny it as he leaned back in his chair.
Trevor hesitated only fractionally, but the interval was long enough for them to know that he had been thrown out of his stride by the boldness of this young man. Trevor would never have admitted it, for assurance was something he strove to foster in these protégés, but he was shaken by the burgeoning self-confidence Dick now exhibited to all those around him in the house. It made Trevor feel a supporting player, even in his own enterprise.
Nettled now, he was drawn into revealing more than he had planned to do at this stage, as he strove to regain the initiative. “It seems also that we could now incorporate what used to be my father’s quarters into our new developments. The family has no need of it: we have ample room as it is.” He was aware of Ros looking at him in surprise, but he did not acknowledge it.
Unexpectedly, it was Harry Bradshaw who said, “That seems somehow a little insensitive. It’s very generous of you and Ros, but I think we all think of that area as old Tom’s province still.” He stopped, feeling awkward. He had spoken without thinking, a habit he thought he had discarded for ever in prison.
Ros said quietly, “Perhaps you’re right, Harry. There’s no harm in leaving that particular area for a little while: we shall have quite enough on our plates with the building detailed
in these plans.” She was thinking of how Harry Bradshaw, normally as co-operative as anyone with their requests, had refused to go into Tom’s quarters with her to dismantle the hi-fi equipment he had installed in the old man’s den. “I think most of us are still getting over the shock of Tom’s death. What with the inquest, and the police coming here to question us —”
“I suppose we’re all satisfied that the old boy’s death was an accident?” said Dick Courtney. The lightness of his tone sat incongruously on the mischief he was engineering. He felt the collective disquiet, creeping round the room like a tangible thing. How pleasant life could be when one was in charge of the levers which controlled it. He was the only one at ease in the heavy silence which followed his words.
It was Ros who eventually said unevenly, “Of course we are. That is what the police decided. What the inquest confirmed.” She flicked back a tress of black hair which had fallen across her eye as if it were a living thing.
“I suppose so,” said Dick, pursing his mobile lips as if giving consideration to the question. “It’s just that Inspector Percy Peach seemed to think it wasn’t straightforward.” As usual, he had managed to pick up information others did not have; in this case, the CID man’s nickname. “I suppose you’re right. They raised no objection to the Accidental Death verdict in the end, did they?”
No one bothered to answer him. Trevor wound up the meeting quickly, feeling that his great moment had been disastrously upstaged by the tasteless contributions of this disturbing young man. All of them looked at Dick as they filed out of the room, but he stared at the table as if he read things in the deep red surface of its antique mahogany. The slight, mocking smile played steadily about his mouth.
He sat there motionless for some minutes after they had left. Then, checking carefully that he was no longer observed, he folded his arms and hugged himself, in a gesture which was all he had retained from his childhood. They had thought it blind mischief. But one of them, like him, knew that there was more in it than that. For his own enquiries were now complete.
Dick knew not only that Tom Harrison had been murdered, but who had murdered him. Now he could begin to turn the screws.
Chapter Twenty
“You could stay the night, you know. You don’t have to go.” Denis Frankland tried not to sound too anxious.
“I do. If I stayed, it wouldn’t be good for either of us.” Dick Courtney sat on the edge of the bed, just out of reach of the man lying back on the pillows, and began to dress.
“Sometimes I think you’re ashamed of us.” Frankland heard himself saying the things he had determined to avoid, behaving like the insecure older lover, at once attracted and threatened by the youth of his partner.
“You know that’s rubbish.” Dick dismissed it casually, like one dealing wearily with a wife’s nagging; yet it was the first time the accusation had been raised.
“Why do we have to be so secretive about it, then?” Denis was drawn on despite himself. He felt like the young and inexperienced partner in an affair, who wishes to proclaim his passion to a world he thinks it can only improve.
Dick responded in turn as if he were the experienced, worldly-wise partner. “Not secretive: discreet. We have to be discreet because publicity wouldn’t do either of us any good at work. Because I have to think of my relationships with the Harrisons.” The first was true; the second was merely part of an illusion he had chosen to create.
Frankland rose to the bait, claiming the right to protect him as jealously as any new lover, anxious as Dick had intended to demonstrate the extent of his caring. “You’re not dependent on them any more. You could move in here any time you like.”
Dick did not immediately reply, thrusting his head within the silk shirt Frankland had given him a week earlier, savouring the older man’s infatuation as it hung like a sweet cloud behind his back. “I couldn’t do that, Denis. Not yet. The Harrisons have been very good to me. They would be terribly shocked if they knew about this.”
It suited him to give this picture of the Harrisons as old-fashioned, soft-centred substitute parents. It reminded Frankland that there were other people who loved him and that he had a delicate conscience about his responsibilities. Denis was only too ready to idealise this exciting new presence in his life, and Dick fed him assiduously with the material to do so. It amused him to caricature the Harrisons in this vein, partly because of the very fact that it was so far from the truth. They were clumsy and over-trustful in their perceptions. Like many who proceeded from abstract liberal principles, they were too ready to take people like Dick at face value. But they would certainly not have been shocked by homosexuality.
Frankland knew he must not plead with the younger man. For a moment, he was quiet; then he realised that if he lapsed into sulking that would be just as disastrous. He said, “Let’s at least have a drink before you go.” He slipped from between the sheets and snatched up the dressing gown he had placed carefully on the floor at his side of the bed; the paunch that was beginning to sag, the flab at the top of the thighs, must be concealed immediately.
He picked up the bottle of malt whisky they had brought here with them an hour earlier and poured a generous measure into the cut-glass tumbler, as if he were anxious to forestall a refusal of even this smaller demand.
Dick had no intention of refusing; he had intended to have more of the whisky from the moment he had first tasted it. He did not take the glass when it was offered, but allowed Frankland to set it down on the dressing table in front of him. He was savouring his partner’s anxiety and the power it gave him. He watched the man afraid to be himself, worrying instead about the effect of his every action on his young lover.
Dick had noticed Denis’s impulse to cover his ageing flesh. Now he buttoned the silk shirt slowly over his smooth young breast and contemplated himself in the mirror, emphasising that he at least had no need to be ashamed of what it showed him. Frankland watched him stretching the slender column of his neck, white and elegant as a mannequin’s, and felt an irresistible urge to reach out and stroke it with the ends of his fingertips.
Dick allowed him to do so. As the older man stood with a hand gently kneading each side of his neck, he afforded him a small smile in the mirror. Then he took a sizeable mouthful of the Glenlivet. He did not intend to stay much longer.
Denis sensed it and sought desperately for something that might detain him, even briefly. This sweet madness had taken a deep hold. He said, “I’ve been thinking about work — about what we were talking about last week. I think it’s perhaps a bit early to talk to old George about early retirement but —”
“It is indeed.” For the first time Dick was a little disturbed. Passion was unpredictable: the seeds of change he had planted must be given time to germinate and grow. He had preparations of his own to make before the harvest could be gathered.
He said, “It wouldn’t be good for either of us to push things forward too fast. I’m still learning the trade, you know. Old George, with all his faults, still knows a thing or two about selling cars.” He liked that, particularly the apparently ingenuous insertion of that “with all his faults” into the generous assessment of the man who had worked for Franklands’ Autos for nearly thirty years.
Denis received it as Dick had known he would. “You haven’t much to learn. About the motor trade or other things.” He glanced with a smile at the tumbled bed behind him, then clinked his glass shyly against the younger man’s.
Dick gave him a small, conspiratorial smile in the mirror. Then he allowed his brow to furrow with anxiety. “I hope you don’t think all that comes from experience. I only do what I feel, Denis, spontaneously. You’re the one with all the experience.”
“Of course I don’t think that. You’re — well, really quite perfect, you know.” He looked anxiously into the young face, desperate that his banality should not be derided.
It was not: Dick patted the back of his hand and took a gulp of the whisky, closing his eyes to savour the ta
ste of the peat on the roof of his mouth and the sweet fire which ran through his chest. He stood up, a little unsteadily; for a moment the cool head swam. Denis had poured him a very large measure, and he had drunk it quickly in his wish to be away.
He gripped Frankland’s forearm, steadied himself, and turned the move into a gesture of comic affection. “You’re trying to get me drunk, you dirty old man!” he mocked, in a raddled cockney voice.
It was not a good impersonation, but Frankland thought it a further enchanting strand in the make-up of this lover he scarcely knew. He ran his hand through the lustrous dark hair, catching the hint of sweat through the sharp after-shave scent and finding it more intoxicating than the whisky. He followed Dick reluctantly down into the hall.
“It’s cold,” Denis said, as they looked from the doorway at the starless night. He turned back into the house, returning within seconds with an expensive short camel-hair coat. “Put this on — I scarcely ever wear it nowadays, so there’s no hurry about returning it,” he lied. He was as solicitous, as anxious to demonstrate his care, as any mother who sees her boy growing up and away from her.
Dick took the coat, briefly caressing the hands that put it about his shoulders. Perhaps he did not need it tonight, but it would be another quality addition to his wardrobe. He could not be sure yet how long this affair would last.
And it was indeed quite cold for May. There would be a sharp late spring frost before the night was out if the clouds cleared. Fortified by too much Glenlivet, he did not feel the cold, but his head reeled when the intake of cool air hit his lungs. Once he was out of sight of the man who he knew was still standing upon the doorstep, he leaned on the wall for a moment at the end of the private road.
Who Saw Him Die? (Inspector Peach Series Book 1) Page 13