Blame The Dead

by Gavin Lyall

  'Never worked for them myself… I think they've used Mac-Gill. And Herb Harris. Why?'

  'I think they recommended somebody to a client some weeks back. Name of Martin Fenwick.'

  He cocked his head and squinted at me curiously. 'Fenwick? Is that the bloke that got killed in France? '

  'That's the bloke.'

  'Are you still mixed up in that, then?'

  'Sort of.'

  He munched thoughtfully, then shrugged. 'Well, it's your business. 'I'll ask around.'

  'Thanks. And one more thing.' I gave him the number of the green Morris.

  'Hell,' he said disgustedly, 'you can pretend to be a copper on the phone as easy as I can.'

  'It isn't always that easy.' And I knew Dave didn't work that way anyhow; he had his own private contact with the Central Vehicle Index.

  'All right.' He stuck the piece of paper in his wallet. After that we just chatted about the Army until the place jammed up with fashionable young things from the Sunday Times having double-spread four-colour ideas in each other's Cinzanos.

  I bought enough food to last me through the weekend and got home soon after two. My faithful green Morris wasn't around, but he turned up half an hour later and parked almost out of sight beside the church. Did I want to go and talk things over with him? No, it was too public and too cold and my left arm was stiffening up again. Let the bastard freeze alone.

  Dave rang back in the middle of the afternoon. 'Hope you weren't expecting too much, Major. Hired car.' He named a small firm in West Kensington. 'D'you want us to try and shake something out of them?"

  I thought it over. 'No, leave it lay. Thanks anyway.'

  'Pleasure. I'm hoping to hear something about a job on Monday, but it's likely to be out of town. Could you make it?'

  'What company is that?'

  'Come off it, Major; they'remy clients. No poaching. Will you be free?'

  I could probably fit it in; Fenwick's affairs weren't exactly developing at a rush. 'Likely enough.'

  'See you, then."

  I walked to the window and the Morris was still down there. A hired car probably meant a professional. A newspaperman wouldn't need to hire a car in London, and anyway, he wouldn't get a story just by following me around. It looked as if somebody had put a private eye on me. Mockby? He was the obvious thought, but he'd probably have done it on a bigger scale; one man to watch one man was bloody nonsense. In a city, a proper inconspicuous tail job takes thirty men and several vehicles; no kidding, that's what it takes.

  When the pubs opened, I strolled up to the Washington fora. jar and a hope of getting a look at my new friend. But he wasn't that sort of fool. The Morris followed me, all right, but he didn't rush into the pub right behind me. Probably he came in some time in the next ten minutes, just to see if I was meeting somebody, but a whole lot of people came in around that time. And when I went out, the Morris had gone.

  He was back by the church when I reached the flat. I don't know what time he went to bed, but I made it by half past ten.

  Thirteen

  Saturday was a crisp, clear day; so far we'd had every sort of March weather except the traditional winds. Now it was blue and bright, but still with snow lying in the Kent fields and the farmers indoors swearing the hop harvest was fruz to hell and they'd have to sell the Rolls if the Government didn't increase the subsidy.

  I had company heading down through South London, but he didn't really stand a chance in that Saturday shopping traffic; I lost him by real accident before we reached Bromley. And once I was on clear roads, I let the Escort go. Nothing too chancy, but just holding her on a chosen line through the bends a couple of mph before her back end would start hedge-climbing, the grass brushing the sides. It made me feel… well, maybe in control of something, for once.

  A quarter of an hour before Kingscutt I slowed down; my left arm was starting to ache again anyway. I drove in like any sober City gent – apart from the car, my suit, and various purple marks on my neck; I put on my black sling once I'd parked, too.

  It was a small village of varying styles up to and including advertising-agency weekend restoration, but the church was genuine Norman and The Volunteer pub, just across a triangular village green, was genuinely open. I took a large Scotch and soda.

  A man in a black suit and a gin and tonic asked politely if I was there for the funeral. I said I was, then pinned him down before he could pin me: 'Did you know him in the City?'

  'I'm in Lloyd's, yes. On the brokerage side. And you?'

  I chose the opposite alibi. 'Just a friend of the family. Terrible business.'

  'Yes. And that other chap with him, running away like that. Englishman, as well.'

  I shrugged hopelessly. 'I suppose every country has its share of them.'

  'Very true, very true. Well, I don't know, about you, but we're certainly going to miss old Martin.'

  'Popular chap, was he?'

  He chuckled briefly. 'Oh, everybody knew Martin and his little tricks.'

  'He… what?'

  'The last of the old-style underwriters. In the old building, where we were really crammed together, there was a great tradition of practical joking, you know. Real club-room atmosphere. Just about all gone since we moved to the new place -but Martin did his best.'

  'Well, I'm damned.' I stared into my glass, but the dizzy feeling wasn't coming from there.

  He smiled knowingly. 'Seemed a bit of a dull dog to you, did he?'

  'Well, you know… nice bloke, straightforward… no real hobbies or anything…'

  'I suppose that was his way of relaxing – just switching off the power. Rest is as good as a change, eh? But Lloyd's certainly won't be the same without him, and damned if you can say that for most of them. I mean us.' A church bell began to toll and he emptied his glass quickly. 'Sounds like action stations. You had a bit of an accident?'

  I went with him to the door. 'Yes. Just met a ditch that was driving dangerously.'

  He laughed cheerfully and we marched out towards the church. A convoy of big black cars was just closing up beside it, with a sizeable and well-dressed crowd spilling out and around. There was money in that mob; almost all the men had real black suits, like my brokerage friend, not just 'something darkish' like mine.

  'See what I mean?' he said. 'They wouldn't turn out like that for most of us.'

  I put on an impressed expression and managed to lose him on the fringes of the crowd. I took my time going in, which was a mistake: I'd forgotten the old English tradition of rushing for the darkest back pew, so I got a nice conspicuous seat in the middle. Paul Mockby spotted me coming past and said 'Jesus Christ', but not the way it usually gets said in church.

  The service was the full works, and we sang, not muttered, the Twenty-third Psalm. Somebody with a voice so inbred that it could hardly climb out of his mouth read the lesson, and the vicar – a pleasant-looking fluffy old boy – gave an address.

  He did his best, but he was carrying too much handicap for that course. Partly because it was soon clear that Fenwick had never been inside the church before, so we had the bit about pressures of honourable toil in the ancient market places of the City; and partly he was obviously scared that the Sunday papers might prove the corpse to have been the biggest frauds-man since the Swedish Match King. Over-all, he ran steadiest on the midst-of-life-we-are-in-death and cut-down-in-his-prime stretches.

  I spent most of my time talent-spotting, but all I got was Hawthorn near me, David and young Harry Henderson up front beside a tall, slim woman. No Maggie Mackwood that I could find.

  Then we were back on our feet and the coffin was processing past on top of six of the tallest, smoothest-dressed men I'd ever seen. They didn't come out of any Kent hopfield. You know, there is something about the rich being bigger than the rest of us; maybe their mothers' milk comes pasteurised.

  I caught David's eye as he passed and got a quick, nervous smile. I tried to get a proper look at the tall woman – who must be Mrs Lois Fenwick �
� but she was wearing a proper veil, and all I did was confirm that tallness and slimness. And she moved well. A black, prim-looking governess dress that fitted the occasion nicely.

  I hung back again, and was just about last out. We didn't have far to go: they'd found a plot in the churchyard itself. And, if you care, there're worse places than an old Kentish churchyard to go down for the last time.

  'Can't stand this sort of thing. Harping on death and all that. Turns me over, rather. Sorry, old boy.'

  He was standing deliberately well back, just as I was, and stirring a little heap of damp confetti with an elegant black shoe. The rest of him was tall, thin – and also mostly black, of course. Except the tangled fair hair, the blue eyes, the face with its mid-thirties boyish good looks.

  'Three quick volleys, shoulder arms, right turn, and run for the canteen?' I suggested. It was a guess, but he was old enough to have done National Service.

  'That's more like it,' he admitted, then grinned suddenly. 'What were you in?'

  'I Corps.'

  'Ah.' He nodded, like when you say you clean out dustbins. 'I was only National Service, of course.' He named a Lancer regiment where you have to prove your father was a colonel and your mother a horse, and one of them rich besides.

  'Willie Winslow,' he added.

  That struck a bell louder than the verger had done so far. 'You're in Fenwick's syndicate? I'm James Card.'

  Automatically, he started to hold out a hand – then froze it halfway. His face got wary. 'You weren't the chap who…?'

  'That's right.'

  'Oh, I say.' He thought about it, frowning. 'It's all right for you to be here, is it?'

  Tve got a better reason for feeling sorry than most here today.' Ineeded somebody in the syndicate, and if the Army Pals act wasn't going to work, then maybe the self-pity bit would.

  He looked at me sharply, then relaxed into an uncertain smile. 'Well, I suppose that's right…'

  In the middle of the black crowd the vicar's voice started buzzing.

  I whispered loudly, 'Met a broker chap in the pub just now -he was telling me Fenwick had been the life and soul of the party at Lloyd's.'

  Willie looked firmly front but sounded quite friendly out of the side of his mouth. 'Oh, rather. You should have been there the day they launched the new Cunarder. He kidded one old boy the thing had capsized, and the damned fool believed him for quite five minutes. Nearly went through the roof. Terribly funny.'

  'Odd… he didn't seem like that to me.'

  'Well, you hardly really knew him, did you, old boy?' He was letting me down lightly. Kindly.

  Then there was the hollow sound of earth on the coffin lid, and that was the loudest bell of the day. Willie winced, but stiffened himself. 'Suppose I'd better…'

  'Not me.' He looked rather relieved, then strode into the crowd with that loose-jointed action of a Lancer walking away from a dead horse.

  The crowd began to break up, slowly but speeding up as they got away from the smell of mortality.

  Mockby was one of the first going past me. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

  'I didn't see Miss Mackwood,' I said pleasantly.

  'At leastshe had the decency to stay away.' Thank you, chum – every little helps, even if it's only somebody else's conclusions. 'What happened to you?'

  'Some mob tried the same thing that your boys did, only more so.'

  He considered this, then nodded. 'Good.'

  'Real pros – including the truth-drug bit.'

  'My God,' he hissed. 'Did you talk?'

  'Some. They didn't seem to think it was enough – so maybe they'll be back.'

  'Look, boy, you're too small for this business.' He was talking fast and low. 'Come and see me back in London. Right?'

  'Can I bring a bodyguard? '

  He gave me a quick sneer. 'D'you know a good one?' and went away.

  David Fenwick appeared at my elbow. 'You don't seem to get on with Mr Mockby, sir. Did you have an accident?'

  'Nope. It was entirely intentional.'

  His eyes opened wide. 'You mean it was to do with…?'

  'Yes.'

  'Oh. I didn't want you to get involved in-' And just then, Mrs Fenwick appeared behind him. She'd pushed back her veil and it was entirely an improvement; it isn't always, even at weddings. An oval face, almost little-girlish, with a small nose, large brown eyes, and sculptured Cupid's bow lips. She looked pale, but pale looked like her colour, and calm and dry-eyed.

  She smiled gently in my direction and murmured, 'I don't think we've…' and let it fade away so I could ignore it if I wanted to. Her voice had a faint American accent.

  David stood forward. 'He's Mr Card, Mother. He was with Daddy when…'

  For the moment her face went blank. Just zero. 'Oh… you're the… how nice of you to come.' She managed to look pleased.

  'I invited him,' David said firmly, not letting me take any of the blame.

  Mrs Fenwick nodded without looking away from me. 'Quite right, darling. I do hope you'll come up to the Manor now. I'm sure Willie will give you a lift…' She glanced over her shoulder and Willie appeared there.

  'Willie, dear, have you met Mr Card?'

  Willie said Yes, and went on looking at me as if I were something new at the zoo whose habits might not be suitable for children.

  Mrs Fenwick smiled again and passed on. David gave me a glance and followed.

  The crowd flowed around us. After a moment Willie took out a gold cigarette case, offered it to me, took one for himself. 'I suppose it's permitted on Holy Ground… I see you know young David.'

  'Yes.'

  He thought of asking me how, then didn't. 'Brave young fellow. What a business, what a business.' He puffed for a moment. 'I suppose there wasn't anything else you could do, really.'

  'Except get stuck in Arras jail.'

  'Oh yes, just so. Quite frightful. D'you think they'll catch the chap that did it?'

  'Not unless somebody tells them what it was all about.'

  We started to walk towards the gate. He said thoughtfully, 'I say – it couldn't have been anything to do with the syndicate, could it?'

  'I'm bloody sure it was.'

  He looked at me. 'Did Martin tell you, then, before he…?'

  'No, but Mockby's as good as told me since.'

  'Really?'

  'Well, he's really been threatening me and sending his chauffeur round to sort me out and search my pad. To me, that's telling.'

  He went thoughtful. I'd been piling it on a bit, of course. Our Willie seemed a little limp to use as a lever, but when you're trying to prise information out of men like Mockby you take whatever you can get, He went on being thoughtful about it until we reached the cars. There he waved a hand. This is my bus. Be a bit of a squeeze, but…'

  The 'bus' was a long black-and-silver streak of pre-war Mercedes, all bonnet and exhaust pipes and huge headlights and twin horns and a sort of miniature engine-driver's cab stuck on the back as an afterthought. It was as old as I was, but lasting a hell of a sight better. I've never seen a car in more beautiful nick.

  'Not really the thing for these occasions,' he said, vaguely apologetic, 'but it's the only black job I've got right now.'

  I clambered in and he twiddled a few knobs and the engine went off like a peal of thunder, first time, just as you knew it would. We prowled gently round two sides of the green, then blasted off up a short hill. But he never got a chance to get really moving: we were part of a long queue of expensive transportation winding up to the top, turning right, then in through a pillared gateway.

  The Manor turned out to be a square Victorian pile, built long after real manorial times. But solid under its Gothic trimmings, with well-kept sloping lawns and rosebeds and low garden walls. He parked on the gravel driveway – the forecourt was jammed already-and we walked round and up half a dozen wide stone steps and in.

  The serious drinkers were already scraping the bottoms of their first glasses and the chatter was
beginning to warm up. I caught Harry Henderson carting a tray around and latched on to a Scotch, then stood on the fringe of the crowd and looked around. We were in a tall, rather shapeless hallway, with a log fire burning in a grate at one side and a wide staircase on the other. A couple of pictures on the walls looked genuine, if a little pale, and were well lit. The furniture was thin on the ground, but good antique stuff. It hadn't been the same taste that had furnished the St John's Wood flat. And it hadn't been the income declared on those tax returns that had furnished here, either. What had Oscar implied about this house?

  Behind me, a man's voice said, 'She makes a damn pretty widow, anyway.'

  Another said, 'Don't suppose she'll make one for long.'

  'Hardly. Wouldn't mind a nibble meself, if it comes to that.'

  'Not quite the thing to say when you're standing here drinking poor old Martin's gin.'

  'Hers, old boy, hers.'

  The voices faded into the general babble and I drifted on through to a big, light corner room. It was sparsely furnished -even the concert grand didn't crowd you in that room – but all good stuff. I stared at a picture on the wall and decided it must be late Turner. And nobody got later than Turner.

  David came up with a tray of drinks and I reloaded.

  'Can I have a talk with you, sir? '

  'Sure. I'll hang around until you're clear."

  He pushed off; I collected a couple of classy canapés off a housekeeper-shaped woman and went on wandering gently. So far, I hadn't seen Mockby, and since he was difficult to miss I assumed he'd headed back to London to weed his money patch.

  Then I came on a collision course with Willie, wandering lonely as an upper-class cloud with a fixed half-smile on his face.

  He looked at me. 'I say – you've had an accident.'

  It was only the third time we'd met that day. I tell you, you could bleed to death in this country until somebody decides he knows you well enough to call an ambulance.

  'Nothing too bad.' I reckoned he'd had enough horror stories for one day. 'Tell me – was Fenwick a good underwriter?'