Blame The Dead

by Gavin Lyall

  I said calmly, 'Did Fenwick mention the log proving engine trouble in the Skadi?'

  'Er – he said something. I thought you couldn't read it? '

  'Happened to run into a Mrs Smith-Bang the other day. In Bergen.'

  'That crooked old bag?'

  I smiled and shrugged. 'You know her, obviously.'

  "Everybody knows her.' He guffawed heartily, then remembered my character weaknesses again. 'You're not giving her that log. What were you doing in Bergen?'

  Willie blushed but Mockby didn't notice.

  'Went to see a surveyor called Steen. But he got himself shot before we could talk.'

  Now his expression was plain bewilderment, but with a growing unease behind the eyes. 'So, then?'

  I finished my drink and put the glass down. 'So I don't know any more. Thanks for the drink.'

  'Hey, wait a minute! You didn't give that log to her, did you?'

  'No.'

  'That's something, then. So -hand it over.'

  Til think about it.'

  Til pay you a thousand.'

  Til think about it.'

  'Fifteen hundred and that's it. In cash. No tax.'

  'I'll think about it.'

  Willie said uncomfortably. 'Oh, do we really need this, Paul?'

  'We need that bloody log!' Back to me. 'Two thousand.'

  'I'll think-'

  'Stop saying that!'

  'Can I help it if I'm a great thinker?'

  'Idon't believe you've got the bloody thing at all!' he shouted.

  I knew how to react: a negligent shrug of believe-what-you-like-old-mate. But Willie looked as if he'd been caught bringing a female into his club.

  And Mockby saw it. He swung round.'Has he got it?'

  Willie made a sort of neighing noise.

  'Great God on a gondola,' Mockby whispered hoarsely. 'You never had it.' His voice lifted to roaring-forties levels. 'Charles! Charles!'

  The door crashed open and the big chauffeur stood there, looking surprised.

  'Throw this cheap swindling sod out. I meanthrow him.'

  The ruddy face creased into a happy grin. 'Right away, Mr Mockby.' He moved forward.

  I took the Mauser out of the holster inside the waistband on my hip and just held it, pointing at the floor.

  I knew what Mockby would say and he did: 'You won't use that thing.'

  I reached out and fired, and after the bang there was a lovely long clattering clanking tinkling noise from inside the cocktail cabinet. One side of the mirror lining was totally gone, and a couple of glasses gone with it.

  'Not too serious,' I soothed him. 'At least I didn't hit a bottle. And you can always tell your wife you were practising for the polo season. Come on, Willie.'

  He looked only faintly surprised; the other two were petrified. He finished his drink, smiled politely at Mockby, and walked around him to the door. I followed; Charles stepped out of our way.

  'I'll get you for-' he began.

  'Don't trouble yourself. We'll find our own way out.'

  The Bishop's Avenue was wide and bright and still, every light in every house blazing and nothing moving at all. Nobody running to see what the small sound of a -22 exploding had meant, even if they'd heard. You could stand and scream in the middle of the street there and if you did it long enough, somebody would ring the cops to come and take you away and abate the nuisance. But they wouldn't want to know why you screamed. Innocence is something you can buy for yourself, just as you can buy deafness for others.

  As he swung out of the driveway, Willie said, 'I've always wantedsomething frightful to happen to that cabinet, but did you have to drag me away as well? '

  'The less you say to Mockby right now, the better. And I needed a lift.'

  His profile looked pained for a moment. 'Yes, I'm frightfully sorry about that. But does it really matter if Paul knows you haven't got the log?'

  'It'll start him looking again, and I don't like his methods.'

  'Ah, yes. Quite so.' Then he thought for a while and said, 'I wonder if he heard Martin right, with that business of invalidating the policy.'

  'It takes a bit to invalidate a Lloyd's policy, does it?'

  'Oh, Lord, yes. That's why they come to us… good solid policy, well-tested and all that. I just don't quite believe it…"

  'Well, stop trying. Mockby was lying, anyway.'

  'Washe?'

  He glanced at me and the car slowed and a part-time homo sapiens who'd been doing forty mph eighteen inches behind us braked and hooted wildly. Willie took no notice at all. 'But why should he?'

  'Because it keeps the Sahara Line right out of it. It makes it just a fuss between the ADP and their insurers; the ADP must have been doing the blackmail, killing Fenwick, trying to get hold of the log. The Sahara Line couldn't be involved and Mockby's hands are clean. Does that figure?'

  'Er… yes, I see what you mean.'

  'But when I mentioned meeting Mrs Smith-Bang-what?'

  He nodded slowly. 'He was just normally rude about her. He doesn't really think she arranged for Martin to be killed. I see.'

  'I'm assuming Mockby really cared about Fenwick, of course.'

  'Oh, I think he did, all right. If nothing else, he thought Martin was a jolly valuable asset. Or he wouldn't have joined our syndicate – you know?' And after a while, he added, 'But what does it all add up to? '

  'It doesn't. Not until we've got that log – if it still exists.'

  'Well – what are you going to do next? '

  'Just don't know.' But I knew what I was going to try.

  It didn't seem too unrespectable an hour when I got home, so I rang Kingscutt straight off. Of course, she might have turned it in and come to stay in London somewhere, or even gone back to America – no, hardly likely, with David still in school.

  Then she answered. Her voice was cool, polite, composed.

  1 said, 'I'm sorry to trouble you, Mrs Fenwick; it's James Card.'

  'Oh? How nice to hear from you. How are you getting on?'

  'Well… I'm not sure. Would you be in if I popped down to see you tomorrow?'

  After only a moment's pause, she said calmly, 'Yes, of course. Please come for lunch.'

  Thanks very much, I'll do that. About twelve, then.'

  After that I mixed myself another Scotch and went back to Vegetius on Preparations for a General Engagement until it was past time to go out for dinner, so I opened a tin of chilli.

  Twenty-nine

  I was there at twelve precisely.

  The Manor looked a little cold and lonely without the shiny mass of parked cars that had been there last time. Now there was just a scruffy old Morris Minor – so old it had the V-shaped windscreen – parked on the gravel beside the front door. I climbed the steps and pulled an old bellknob and heard it jangle.

  The housekeeper-shaped woman who'd been shovelling round the food at the funeral opened the door, nodded a little dourly at me, and led the way in. Lois Fenwick was in the big drawing-room, now looking even bigger and emptier. She was sitting on the rug in front of a big log fire.

  She smiled pleasantly and just reached up a long arm and I shook her hand. 'It's very nice of you to come all this way. We don't see many people these days, do we, Mrs Benson?'

  The housekeeper made a noncommittal grunting noise. Mrs Fenwick looked at a neat little gold wristwatch and said, 'Time for our medicine, Mrs Benson.' Then, to me, 'What would you like to drink?'

  'D'you have any beer?' I'd still got the drive back. But no beer, so I had to have a Scotch and soda anyway. Mrs Benson mixed them from a tray in the corner, it was obviously a daily ritual. She brought Mrs Fenwick a gin and tonic, me my Scotch, herself a glass of what looked like sweet sherry.

  Lois said, 'Well, cheers.'

  Mrs Benson gave another strangled grunt, sank her sherry in one lump, and went away. Far away, I heard a vacuum cleaner start up.

  Lois laughed gaily. 'Dear Mrs Benson. I don't know what I'd do without her, but she do
esn't really approve of me having men to visit. Now sit down and tell me what you've been doing.'

  She was wearing a high-necked Victorian cream silk blouse and slim black trousers that really were slim, and leaning against a big brass-and-leather club fender. The nearest chair was a good six feet away, so I perched on one corner of the fender.

  'I've been sort of trying to find out who killed your husband.' And she took that without blinking. 'But not getting very far. There's one thing, a ship's log-book, that was sent him from Norway. You wouldn't have any idea what happened to it, would you?'

  She smiled prettily. 'It's probably at Lloyd's.'

  'No. I'm quite sure it isn't. The only place I can think of is here.'

  She sipped her gin and smiled. 'So now you want to search this house, do you? Won't that be a pretty long job?'

  'It's a fairly big book, Mrs Fenwick. And I'm a fairly experienced searcher.'

  'Are you really? How exciting. Where did you learn that?'

  'Army Intelligence Corps. Mrs Fenwick-'

  'Why don't you call me Lois? The Fenwick part's rather gone out of my life.'

  'All right – Lois: I'm not the only one looking for this log. They haven't been here because they thought I had it. Now one lot know I haven't. And believe me, they aren't the sort to ask if they can have a look around. That might make it risky for you.'

  If I was worrying her, I couldn't see any sign of it. She just sipped, raised her almost invisible eyebrows, and said, 'D'you mean Mr Mockby?'

  'He's one of them.'

  'Then you're wrong about him. He did ask, this morning.'

  I got cold inside. 'And you told him…?'

  'Oh, just that now Martin's dead and buried I don't even have topretend to like Paul Mockby.'

  I grinned and relaxed. Everybody seemed to be picking on poor old Mockers, these days. Then I unrelaxed. 'I'm still only half wrong. Sometimes he might ask first, but after that he takes.'

  She uncoiled herself and stood up in one perfectly balanced movement like a well-bred cat, and with the same sense of natural self-importance. 'Well, I don't imagine he'll try it until after lunch. Let's go see what Mrs Benson's found in the larder.'

  Either Mrs Benson was very lucky or she'd looked very hard, because what she'd found was a smoked trout and a homemade quiche Lorraine with green salad to follow. But nothing to drink except water; maybe that was the residual American influence – though she ate European-style, fork always in her left hand.

  I hardly said a word until I was most of the way through my quiche, and then asked, 'Did you make this yourself?'

  She nodded.

  'Lovely light pastry.'

  'Thank you, kind sir.' But she seemed really pleased. 'I don't often get the chance to do much cooking.'

  I'd guessed something like that. The table we were eating off – a round Georgian affair-was too small for the big dining-room, and had only six chairs with it. But that made it all of a piece with the rest of the house – good furniture, but rather sparse and with the formality of a house that is more arranged than lived in. Well, with Fenwick up in London and David away at school…

  'Have you lived here long?'

  'Since we were married. My family sort of gave it to us as a wedding present.'

  Hadn't Oscar Underbill hinted at that? I nodded and asked, 'D'you know many people around here?'

  'Well enough not to let most of them in the house,' she said calmly.

  'They're a bit County, are they?'

  'It's not them. The few real ones are rather sweet. It's the ones who pretend they've always lived in the country and buy damn great dogs they can't control and won't go out to post a letter except on horseback, even if they're facing the wrong end.' She helped herself to salad. 'Occasionally we got one of Martin's friends in for Sunday lunch, or David brings somebody to stay… But not those phony country women.' Then, abruptly, 'Are you married? You don't somehow sound it.'

  'I was for a time.'

  She didn't quite ask what had happened. Not directly. 'Did you have any children?'

  'No.'

  'I suppose that's lucky. You didn't want them?'

  I shrugged. 'We never got round to deciding wewanted them, anyway. I was moving around a fair bit in the Army… we never got a chance to dig in anywhere…'

  She went on looking at me with a bland but interested smile. 'And you don't feel dynastic about it – that the name of Card shall not vanish from this earth?'

  'Good God, no.'

  'What happened to your wife?'

  'Oh, she married again. A nice solid foundry executive.'

  'Family?'

  'Yes. Two, by now.'

  And that seemed to satisfy her for the moment. I asked, 'What are you planning to do now? Going back to the States?'

  'I haven't figured it out. I don't fancy I'd too much like to live over there, now, and David's very happy at school here, so… I guess I need a little time to see.' She got up and poured us coffee from a pot sitting on a sideboard hotplate.

  'Did David go with you to the States when you visited?' I asked casually.

  She glanced at me quickly, but I was stirring my cup. 'No, not for a few years.' She sat down again. 'Martin and my father didn't get on too well. So -1 guess I didn't want David to hear my father sounding off abouthis father. Dad doesn't exactly watch his language. But it's a shame David can't see America as well. Harrow's… well, it is rather English.'

  'Just rather.'

  She smiled suddenly. 'Now I'll bet I've said the wrong thing: were you at Harrow?'

  'Like hell I was. I was at grammar school in Glasgow during the war; then we moved down to Worcester. Nowhere anybody heard of.'

  There was a knock on the door and Mrs Benson waddled in. 'If you've finished, madam, I'll clear up and then be off.' And I got a look that suggested I was badly overdue, as well.

  Mrs Fenwick answered in a slightly nervous sing-song voice. 'Thank you very much, Mrs Benson. We'll go through.' She led the way back across the hall.

  When the door was closed, I said, 'Mrs Fenwick – I mean Lois – could I ask if you're going to let me search this house?'

  She made an elegant little shivery movement. 'How very blunt. Well, of course you can. I'm going into the village to do some shopping, so you'll be all alone for at least an hour.'

  'Fine,' I said. She lit a cigarette and leaned gracefully on the end of the mantelpiece, and smiled at me. I said, 'Fine,' again, but still wondered why it was that easy.

  Mrs Benson and the old Morris Minor had gone by the time I went out to see Mrs Fenwick off. I helped her drag open the rather rickety doors of the wooden two-car garage – and hadn't expected to feel the gut punch like a suddenly remembered shame. Just at the sight of a car.

  She noticed. 'The AA brought it home on Wednesday.'

  'Yes.' I went on staring at it. They hadn't even cleaned it -why should they? It still had the stains of Calais and Arras and Lille, and his fingerprints and mine…

  She said, 'The other one's mine. Little Trotsky.'

  The other one was a red Morgan Plus 4, the last of the handmade small sports cars, built with deliberately old-fashioned lines: cutaway doors, running-board, spare wheel out in the open and all.

  'Trotsky?' I asked, coming out of my daze.

  'He's red and a bit wild but with great integrity.'

  'And he hasn't been to Mexico yet.'

  She laughed, a cheery silver-bells sound. 'What a lovely idea. When he's on his last legs, I'll maybe take him over there to die.' She slipped a ready-knotted silk headscarf over her hair, climbed in, and started up.

  I stood aside as she backed out. She swung neatly around, called, 'It's all yours,' then waved and roared off around the house. I swung the doors closed and walked slowly back up the steps.

  For a time I stood inside the front door and did the old trick of trying to feel the house that sat around me. It didn't help, of course, because it wasn'this house. But in another way, that might make things e
asier; if he'd been just the Occupying Power it limited the places he'd think of hiding something. So, just to start with, I fell back on the standard rules and began looking.

  A man doesn't hide something in a kitchen; not his territory. Nor, for much the same reason, in a dining-room. Nor in a bedroom, even if he has his own one, as Fenwick had there. It doesn't feel private to a man, the way it does to a woman. Just look at the suicide statistics; women usually kill themselves in bedrooms, men almost never.

  That cut out a fair bit of territory, and I could add David's room and probably a few larders and cloakrooms and coal-houses where Mrs Benson had the grazing rights. Which didn't leave us much positive information except that men hide things high rather than low, unless they're young or short-arsed, and Fenwick had been neither.

  All those rules are taught in the best CI schools and are both beautiful and true, but they miss out one thing: there has to be something there to be found. And here, there wasn't. After nearly two hours, I was absolutely damn certain of that. It wasn't in the cellar and it wasn't in the attic and it wasn't anywhere in between. It wasn't in the gardening shed and it wasn't in the garage.

  Of course, it might be locked in a treasure chest and buried anywhere in the acre or so of ground – but that didn't make sense. Fenwick hadn't been laying it down for the future like port or savings bonds. This was a live piece of evidence; if he'd bothered to hide it at all, it had to be somewhere simple, where he could get it back quickly.

  Like his bank or his solicitors' office?

  I drifted gloomily back to Fenwick's study and sat down at his desk and helped myself to a mouthful of Norwegian aquavit from a bottle in the corner. It was a nice, small, crowded, very masculine room; all tobacco browns and rich dark greens. A couple of comfortable deep leather chairs, rows of Folio Society books, one of those bone galleons that French prisoners on Dartmoor used to carve in Napoleonic times. Or a good fake of one, of course.

  A handsome room, although maybe a bit like the Master's Study layout in a furniture exhibition, and a bit wasted, seeing how little time Fenwick can have spent here. Unless somebody else had built it for him, as bait.

  Thirty

  Lois – I was beginning to think of her by her Christian name, now – got back soon after four. I heard the Morgan grinding across the gravel and went out to open the garage doors for her.