Murder Takes a Turn

by Eric Brown

  SIX

  They came to the crest of the road and Charles leaned forward and touched Langham’s shoulder. ‘I wonder if you could halt here, my boy, so that we might admire the view?’

  Langham pulled on to the grass verge and Charles sighed.

  Maria said, ‘I never realized Cornwall was so beautiful.’

  ‘The coastline is famed for its spectacular scenery,’ Charles said. ‘And look, that must be Trennor Pendennis.’ He pointed a stubby finger at a distant village.

  The grey skies had lifted as they’d motored from London and, after lunch at a roadside inn just outside Andover, the sun had emerged from behind a caul of piled cumulus. Now the sunlight scintillated on the bright blue sea and picked out the nooks and crannies of the coast.

  The village nestled in a cove far below, a collection of stone-built cottages climbing the hillside above a small harbour.

  ‘And there is Connaught House,’ Charles said.

  The bay was enclosed by two headlands, and high up on the furthest was a rambling house set amid lawned gardens. Connaught House was severely Gothic, with numerous belvederes, peaked gables and high, narrow windows.

  ‘I recall the place from a feature about Connaught in the Telegraph,’ Charles said. ‘The photograph was black and white, of course, and the house seemed a bleak and austere pile. But it seems even bleaker, bathed as it is in sunlight, don’t you think?’

  ‘A suitable abode for a curmudgeonly, reclusive scribe,’ Langham said.

  ‘“Curmudgeonly”,’ Charles laughed, ‘is being generous.’ He leaned forward between the front seats, staring at the house. ‘Did I tell you that Connaught and I were once close?’ he murmured.

  Langham said, ‘I don’t think I’ve heard you mention him before.’

  ‘We were at school together. I met him when I was thirteen, an impressionable age. He was the same age as me, and I must admit that I rather took to him.’ He smiled. ‘A “pash”, as they called it then. You would hardly believe it now, but he was a handsome youth. We shared a passion for the Greeks. But he discovered Catullus, and let it turn his head. He declared Christianity dead and became somewhat … libertine. But he made it obvious that he felt nothing for me … in that respect. We went our separate ways, philosophically. I moved on to the Romantics, fell under the spell of Coleridge and that set, and then I met Daniel …’ He fell silent, staring blankly down at the sea. Langham glanced at his agent and was surprised to see incipient tears welling in his eyes.

  Beside Langham, Maria made a discreet gesture for him to drive on, and he let out the clutch and rolled the Rover down the road.

  They passed through Trennor Pendennis, with its picturesque harbour and cottages, then took the road around the bay and climbed to the promontory on the far end of which perched the novelist’s residence.

  To their right was a plantation of fir trees, to their left a long drop to a tumble of rocks where the surf crashed. The road became a narrow lane and turned inland, through the firs, and minutes later they arrived at the gates of Connaught House.

  The gates stood open – permanently, Langham thought, as they were rusted and overgrown with ivy. To the right was a small lodge, its windows shattered and its window frames and front door long given over to dry rot.

  He wondered in what state they might find the house itself.

  He eased the Rover between the mossy stone pillars and proceeded up the weed-choked gravelled drive. Beyond a stand of dowdy rhododendron, the house came into view, and Charles reached forward and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Stop!’

  Langham braked suddenly.

  ‘I’m sorry, my boy. Forgive me.’ Charles took deep breaths.

  Maria murmured, ‘We’re with you, Charles. There’s nothing to fear.’

  Charles smiled, a kindly glint in his eyes. ‘Your words are well meant, child. But I have everything to fear: the ghosts of the past, my treacherous cowardice, and not least the unknown – and by that I mean the person Denbigh Connaught has become. It is, after all, forty years since we last met.’

  ‘You might be pleasantly surprised by how he’s changed,’ Maria said. ‘In his letter he did offer to apologize, after all.’

  ‘And I castigate myself for casting suspicion on his fine words, Maria. He might very well have changed, and meant every word in his missive, but I have only my memories of him as a youth on which to base my … my fears.’ He tapped Langham’s shoulder. ‘Onward.’

  Langham released the handbrake and rounded the rhododendrons. A lone car was parked before the house – Wilson Royce’s silver-grey Morgan. So the young man must have slept off his hangover, recalled where he’d left the car and retrieved it for the drive down to Cornwall.

  He parked beside the sports car and hauled their cases from the boot. Charles struggled from the rear of the vehicle, emerging with all the gargantuan improbability of a genie from a magic lamp.

  ‘Hello there!’ a familiar voice called out.

  Langham turned to see the loose, lank figure of Wilson Royce, garbed in blazer and cricket whites, waving a languid hand from the top of the steps. Maria glanced at Langham, who nodded minimally and murmured, ‘That’s the fellow.’

  ‘Do you think he recognizes you?’

  ‘We’ll soon see.’

  Royce tapped down the steps and approached them, his hand outstretched. ‘Royce. Wilson Royce. Call me either Wilson or Royce. It’s all the same to me.’

  He shook Maria’s hand first, murmuring, ‘Enchanted,’ then Charles’s, then moved on to Langham and smiled without the slightest hint of recognition.

  ‘I look after Connaught’s business interests, and I’m on hand to meet everyone today. Old Watkins, the butler, is taking the afternoon off – touch of the ague. Fortunately, cook’s fighting fit, so we’ll be eating tonight.’

  Maria said, ‘“Everyone”?’

  Royce smiled at her. ‘You didn’t know? It’s full house for the weekend. Here, allow me to take that,’ he went on, lifting Maria’s case.

  Langham picked up his own case and Charles’s and followed Royce towards the house which appeared, on cursory inspection, to be in far better upkeep than the lodge.

  ‘I must say,’ Royce addressed Langham as they climbed the steps, ‘your face is rather familiar. Have we met, by any chance?’

  ‘I think not – but people often make the same mistake.’

  Charles carolled, ‘It’s his film-star good looks. Donald is a dead ringer for Robert Donat.’

  Royce laughed. ‘That must be it. I’ll show you to your rooms. If you’d like to refresh yourselves, then come down for drinks in the drawing room. First on the right at the foot of the stairs. The others should be arriving in due course.’

  They processed up a wide oak staircase and Royce escorted them along a panelled corridor to the east wing overlooking the sea.

  Beside Langham, Charles danced along in agitation, his plump fingers worrying his bow-tie. ‘I was wondering, Mr Royce, is Connaught …?’

  ‘Never makes an appearance before six o’clock, Mr Elder. Locks himself away in his study – working, or so he claims. He’ll emerge for drinks before dinner.’

  ‘Ah,’ Charles said, a shadow falling across his features. ‘Capital.’

  Royce opened the door to a room with a view across the rear lawn. ‘Your room, Mr Elder. And you, Mr and Mrs Langham, are next door. This way.’

  They followed the young man to their room.

  ‘See you downstairs when you’re ready,’ Royce said.

  When the door had closed, Maria said, ‘Well, he’s not quite what I was expecting.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘From your description of him yesterday, I thought he’d be good-looking and – what is the word? – louche. In reality, he appears younger than I expected, even immature, and somewhat nervous.’

  ‘Well, I did see him the worse for drink.’

  They took turns to wash in the en-suite bathroom, then Langham changed into a casua
l shirt and Maria swapped her two-piece for a gingham summer frock and sprayed eau de cologne behind her ears. ‘There.’

  ‘You look divine,’ he said.

  They left their room and Langham tapped on Charles’s door. ‘You decent?’

  ‘Come.’

  He opened the door and found Charles seated upon the bed, his weight creating a deep vale in the mattress. He looked like a disconsolate Buddha.

  ‘Are you joining us?’

  ‘Far be it from me to decline the offer of alcohol,’ Charles said, ‘but would you mind awfully if I joined you a little later? I need, I think, a period in which to reflect.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Maria asked.

  Charles smiled. ‘I feel a good deal better than if I were facing this ordeal alone, my child. Now, off you go and enjoy yourselves. I shall be down presently.’

  They closed the door and made their way along the landing. ‘Do you know, Donald, I am beginning to wonder at Connaught’s motives … and beginning to feel a little guilty at encouraging Charles to come down here.’

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you tell me Charles himself said he must gird his loins and face his demons, or some such?’

  Maria sighed. ‘He did, but I just hope he’s strong enough, and that Connaught isn’t planning something … horrible.’

  ‘Aren’t you over-dramatizing things a bit, my girl? I thought he’d summoned Charles to apologize, and to offer him his latest magnum opus?’

  ‘He did, and perhaps I am.’

  Langham took her arm as they descended, crossed the hall and entered the drawing room.

  Wilson Royce stood before a bar at the far end of the room, pouring himself a drink. He turned as they entered. ‘What’s your poison?’

  Maria said, ‘Just a tonic water, please.’

  ‘And you, Mr Langham?’

  ‘A Scotch and soda would be wonderful.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  They moved, with their drinks, to the French windows overlooking a long lawn and the hazy horizon, where the sea merged imperceptibly with the sky.

  Royce said, glancing at Langham, ‘So you both work for the literary agency the old man is thinking of switching to?’

  Langham wondered why, as Royce was Connaught’s business manager, he was making the enquiry, unless it was merely to break the ice.

  Maria replied, ‘I’m a partner in the agency. Donald is a writer.’

  Royce sipped his Scotch. ‘The old man’s playing his cards close to his chest with this particular hand. His sacking of Pritchard and Pryce came out of the blue – he didn’t so much as mention it to me. Left me with egg on my face, I can tell you.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why he should select Elder and Dupré?’ Maria asked.

  ‘Other than the fact that he and Mr Elder were at Winchester?’ He shook his head. ‘No, none at all. I mean, you’re known to be efficient, but you are a rather small concern, after all.’

  Maria bridled. ‘And growing,’ she said.

  ‘Quite,’ Royce said, smiling his wolfish smile.

  Langham said, ‘And the other guests arriving today?’

  Royce frowned into his drink. ‘Odd bunch. Old acquaintances of Connaught’s. Some of them he hasn’t seen for decades. Must say I had to do a bit of detective work to dig up their whereabouts.’

  Langham looked at the young man sharply at the word ‘detective’, but it appeared he’d said it without irony.

  ‘I wonder why he’s gathered them together for the weekend?’ Maria said.

  Royce smiled, and sunlight glinted on the saliva of his misplaced eye-tooth. ‘No doubt we shall find out in the fullness of time,’ he said. ‘Oh, before I forget,’ he went on, withdrawing a small envelope from his blazer pocket, ‘the delightful Annabelle dropped by earlier and gave me this.’

  He passed Langham the envelope, watching him closely as he opened it.

  Langham read the handwritten note, then told Maria, ‘Annabelle would like to see us for tea or drinks at five, at her place in the village.’

  Royce sipped his Scotch. ‘Acquainted, are you?’

  Langham said, ‘She’s read my thrillers,’ and left it at that.

  ‘Yes, Annabelle likes to lose herself in books like that,’ the young man said, not without a note of condescension.

  Maria looked up at the sound of a car engine as the sleek nose of a 1940 electric-blue Lagonda coupé appeared before the window.

  Royce said, ‘I say, what have we here? They certainly don’t make ’em like that any more. Excuse me while I play host.’

  He hurried from the room.

  ‘What a conceited young man,’ Maria said.

  ‘Compared with yesterday, my darling, he’s on his best behaviour.’

  Only the long bonnet of the Lagonda was visible through the open window of the drawing room, so Langham could not see the driver as she alighted and addressed Wilson Royce.

  ‘The drive down was appalling,’ she shrilled, ‘and the roads around here are obviously made for hay wains. I stopped counting the potholes after the first fifty.’ The rest was lost as Royce escorted her around the house to the entrance.

  She pushed open the drawing-room door and entered, Royce skipping along in her wake. ‘No, I don’t want to refresh myself before a drink,’ she was saying. ‘I want a bloody large G and T.’

  Langham had envisaged, judging by her soprano, a tall woman in formal dress, heavily mascaraed and smoking a Turkish cigarette in a long holder.

  Nothing, in the event, could have been further from the mark. She was a small, plump woman in her fifties, dressed in baggy brown corduroy trousers and a man’s white shirt. Her round face had the pallor of icing sugar, which was accentuated by her crimson lips and a helmet of jet-black hair.

  While Royce was at the bar mixing her drink, she approached Langham and Maria with an outstretched hand. ‘Pandora Jade,’ she said. ‘Artist. I paint abstracts.’

  Langham made the introductions.

  Pandora Jade laughed. ‘Ah, a writer and his agent. Often seen in pairs – less often married.’

  Royce returned with her drink.

  ‘Here’s to you both,’ Pandora said. ‘And perhaps you can tell me, young Wilson, what the hell’s going on here?’

  ‘Sorry, no can do. I’m as much in the dark as you are.’

  ‘Balderdash! Supposed to be his business guru, aren’t you? Surely you know what the old goat’s up to?’

  ‘As I told Donald and Maria,’ Royce said, ‘the old man’s playing his cards close to his chest.’

  Outside, another car drew up beside Pandora’s Lagonda – this one a decrepit maroon-coloured Vauxhall. Its driver, a thin, stooping man, limped around the car and bent to examine the offside headlight.

  ‘Excuse me while I …’ Royce said, gesturing towards the new arrival, and made his escape.

  Pandora drained her glass. ‘That one didn’t touch the sides. Care for another?’

  They declined, and she stumped off across the room and helped herself from the bar. Langham smiled to himself. Despite the woman’s eccentric appearance and brusque manner, he warmed to her.

  ‘Do you have any idea why the old bastard summoned us?’ she asked on her return.

  ‘Well,’ Maria said, ‘in our case, he might be joining my agency.’

  ‘Rum job, as far as I’m concerned. Haven’t seen the reprobate for thirty years, and then a couple of weeks ago I received the first of three letters. “Hie yourself to Cornwall pronto, and here’s twenty quid for the petrol.” I’m a bloody artist – ergo, perpetually skint. He called, waving spondulics, and I came. Expecting fireworks. He’s up to something, mark my word.’

  ‘You mentioned you knew Connaught years ago …’ Maria said.

  ‘Met him at a party in London. This was in the mid-twenties. Long and short of it, we had a fling.’ She snorted. ‘Upshot: he put me off men for life. I could tell you more, but I’m not drunk enough.’

  Langha
m laughed. ‘I look forward to when you are.’

  The door opened and Charles Elder entered and joined them, smiling as Langham made the introductions.

  ‘Would you care for a drink, Charles?’ Maria asked.

  Pandora knocked back her G and T and said, ‘No, let me play the tar-bender. What’ll it be?’

  ‘That’s so kind of you,’ Charles said. ‘Do you think they would run to a vermouth with ice?’

  ‘If Connaught still likes his drink as he did thirty years ago, I don’t doubt it,’ Pandora said, and crossed to the bar.

  ‘What a very strange lady,’ Charles said as he watched her upend a bottle over a glass at the bar.

  ‘I quite like her,’ Maria said.

  ‘Me, too,’ Langham said. ‘She certainly calls a spade a spade.’

  Pandora returned. ‘Here’s mud in your eye. Vermouth, straight, with ice.’

  ‘You’re a lifesaver, my dear.’

  The door opened and a man in his early fifties limped into the room, escorted by Wilson Royce. ‘And this is Colonel James Haxby,’ Royce said.

  He made the round of introductions, then moved to the bar and poured Haxby a whisky.

  The colonel was tall and emaciated, with the complexion of a seasoned alcoholic: his flesh was deathly pale, but shot through with a network of broken veins. His rheumy green eyes regarded the group with bleak melancholy, like pale garnets swimming in catarrh.

  He wore a black blazer and a regimental tie, both threadbare, and leaned heavily on a stick, gripping his whisky in his left hand.

  ‘Eleventh Hussars,’ he barked to all and sundry, apropos of nothing. ‘Lost me leg in Egypt fighting Rommel’s mob.’

  ‘What terribly rotten luck, Colonel,’ Charles said.

  ‘Landmine. Chappie next to me wasn’t so lucky. Blown to bits. I ended up with his head in me lap. You don’t know you’ve been in a war till you’ve had your pal’s head land smack-dab in your lap.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Royce said, smiling weakly at the guests as if in apology.

  The colonel fixed Royce with his strange eyes. ‘You served?’

  ‘National Service in ’fifty-three,’ the young man said.

  Haxby grunted and swung his gaze to Langham. ‘You?’

  ‘Captain, Field Security. Madagascar and India.’