by Eric Brown
Maria glanced at Langham and smiled.
‘The future stretched ahead,’ Charles said, ‘so full of promise. We were both due to go up to Oxford that autumn, and the thought of the shining spires in the company of Daniel …’ He shook his head, his expression clouding. ‘And then one day Daniel was called out of Latin and told to report to the headmaster. Later, in tears, he told me that we’d been seen on the riverbank and had been reported. The headmaster had told him that our respective parents were to be informed, and if it happened again, he’d said, we would be expelled. I, for my part, was not so much concerned as to the reaction of my mother – we were not close – and my father had passed away when I was ten, but I was beside myself at the thought of what Daniel’s parents might say and do. His father was an Anglican clergyman with a parish in Norfolk, a hellfire tyrant who ruled with a rod of iron. Daniel, understandably, was terrified.’
Charles closed his eyes suddenly; he took a deep breath, opened his eyes and continued. ‘Daniel was discovered by the chaplain, early one morning, at the foot of the bell tower. He had left the dorm in the early hours and, unable to bear the thought of his father’s ire and his mother’s shame, thrown himself from the tower. I … I found a note under my pillow, in his beautiful handwriting. He simply stated that he was sorry, and that he hoped that I, and God, might forgive him …’
Charles wept in silence; Maria reached out and squeezed his hand. He rallied, smiled at them and went on, ‘I was riven by grief and guilt. The thought of life without Daniel, of a future in which he did not feature … You see, I had built so many dreams, constructed a future for us together at Oxford, and to have that so cruelly ripped away …
‘I was summoned to the headmaster’s study. He … he said it was a tragic accident, that Daniel had been sleepwalking … He also told me that he had not yet approached our parents with the details of our … our “indiscretion”, and, in light of what had happened, would not do so. I did not tell him about Daniel’s note.’
Charles fell silent, and it was a minute before he continued. ‘And then a few days later, on the very last day of term, Denbigh Connaught sought me out in the library where I’d gone to brood. I assumed he’d come to offer his condolences. He … he seemed frozen, almost terrified, as he admitted that it was he who had informed on Daniel and me; he had followed us that day from the cricket field, and had watched us on the riverbank. Then he had gone to the headmaster and told him, because, he said, “it had been the right thing to do”.’ Charles shook his head and repeated, slowly, ‘“The right thing to do”? I never really understood what he meant, then or in the years that followed, as I tried to parse his motivation. It seemed so … so cruel, and counter to everything that Connaught, as a disciple of Greek hedonism, believed.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘Of course, now I understand.’
He looked from Langham to Maria. ‘You heard him say so himself, Maria. He was jealous. He adored Daniel – I see that now – and resented my relationship with the boy … And in his jealousy, in order to hurt me, he did something so selfish, so thoughtless …’
Maria reached out and took his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘And now, after all these years, he has found it in himself to acknowledge his sin, and ask for my understanding and forgiveness.’
‘And,’ Langham began tentatively, ‘will you?’
‘Will I accept his apology?’ Charles fell silent, contemplating. ‘Do you know something, my children, until just minutes ago I was consumed by such anger that I would have damned Denbigh Connaught to hell.’
‘But now?’ Maria asked.
Charles sighed. ‘I need time, my friends. I know I should find it in myself to accept his repentance … But it will take a little while.’
Maria murmured, ‘I’m glad, Charles, and proud of you.’
They fell silent and contemplated the beauty of the garden. Langham refilled his pipe and puffed it into life, and steered the conversation on to other subjects. For the next twenty minutes he told Charles of their plans to find a little cottage in the country close to their friend’s stately pile in Suffolk, and Charles positively beamed at the prospect.
A little later Langham said, ‘And now, how about a drink before lunch?’
Maria looked at Charles, who smiled. ‘Do you know, a little drink is just what I need at this moment.’
They left the benches and strolled towards the exit, Maria taking Charles’s hand and squeezing.
As they stepped from the garden, Langham looked up and saw, at the far end of the narrow lawn, Colonel Haxby emerge at speed from the French windows of the drawing room, followed by Pandora Jade. The colonel disappeared around the far end of the hedge.
Pandora stopped when she saw the trio, then dashed towards them in evident distress.
She stared at Langham, her lips trembling in shock. ‘Thank Christ,’ she panted. ‘You’ve got to come. It’s Colonel Haxby …’
‘What is?’ he said.
‘He has his gun,’ she said, ‘and he’s threatening to kill Connaught!’
And, with that, she turned on her heel and raced around the boxwood hedge and out of sight.
TWELVE
Ryland left Lewisham at eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, crossed the river and drove north to Belsize Park. On the way he passed within half a mile of St Mary’s, where Don and Maria had tied the knot.
For months beforehand he’d dreaded the reception and his duties as best man. In the event, after a few pints of Fuller’s, his nerves had evaporated and he’d hobnobbed with all sorts, from the staff of the French embassy where Maria’s father was the cultural attaché, to drink-sodden old hacks who kept the wolf from the door by penning a dozen westerns a year.
Came the time for him to make the best man’s speech, and he was raring to go. He forgot his nerves – and the few lines he’d prepared – and launched into a full-blown account of what an all-round good fellow Donald Langham was, finishing with the story of how Captain Langham had saved his life at Diego Suarez. At the end of the ten minutes, the room was silent, with hardly a dry eye to be seen. But best of all was the expression of appreciation on Don’s face as Ryland proposed a toast to the groom.
And then, his duties dispensed with, he’d proceeded to get royally blathered.
He turned into a leafy road off Belsize Park High Street and inched along in search of the premises of Harker Fine Arts.
He found the imposing, double-fronted gallery fifty yards along the road and whistled. ‘Would you look at that …’ Talk about going from the ridiculous to the sublime, he thought: yesterday he’d slummed it in a Rotherhithe junk yard, and now he was about to enter the portals of a place which, by the looks of it, catered for aristocrats and royalty. The door was painted a rich navy blue, and the window frames on either side glinted with a border of gold leaf. In the windows, exquisite miniatures nestled on beds of black velvet.
Ryland smiled to himself. So William Harker might deal with the rich and famous, but it was heartening to know that he also maintained contact with the likes of Bernie Radley, rag-and-bone man and notorious fence.
He crossed the pavement and entered the gallery.
A discreet bell above the door tinkled his arrival, and a thick carpet underfoot deadened his tread. He looked down, feeling a twinge of guilt at not having wiped his feet. Oil paintings hung on the walls, and more were arranged on easels down the centre of the long, narrow room. A young woman, as pretty as a film star with piled-up hair and pearls, sat behind a desk and regarded him curiously, a finger pressed to her carmine lips.
Ryland nodded to her, pulled a cigarette from behind his right ear and lit up. He strolled down the gallery, moving from picture to picture. They depicted geezers from centuries ago with ridiculous wigs and tiny, prim mouths. All very well, he thought, but give me a snap of Brighton seafront any day.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ the young woman asked in cut-glass tones.
Ryland turned. ‘I’d like to speak with Willi
am Harker.’
‘Mr Harker will not be in until twelve, sir.’
‘Sleeps in on Saturday mornings, does he?’
She smiled, almost conspiratorially. ‘He arrives at twelve every day.’
‘It’s all right for some.’ He looked at his watch. It was ten to twelve. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘Are you interested in making a purchase?’
‘I wish!’ he laughed. ‘What are they going for? This one, for example?’ He pointed at a painting of a knickerbockered youth who looked as if he was chewing a lemon.
‘That would be one thousand pounds.’
Ryland whistled.
The girl laughed. ‘I know,’ she said, dropping what she’d learned in her elocution lessons. ‘Crazy, ain’t it?’
‘Strewth, and I had you down as one of the Mayfair set.’
‘Stepney, but I can talk posh when I want to.’
‘Stepney? Lordy, I was born next door in Bow. Ralph Ryland.’
‘Pamela Baker.’
‘So how’d you find yourself a cushy number like this, Pamela?’
‘Me dad knows someone who knows Mr Harker,’ she said. ‘He was looking for a receptionist last year, and I’d just finished this course at night school, hadn’t I?’
‘Good for you,’ Ryland said. ‘What’s this Mr Harker like as a boss?’
‘He’s all right, I suppose. But he thinks he’s better than everyone else. Earn a bit of money and they think they own the world.’
‘Maybe you can help me.’ He pulled out his accreditation and showed it to the girl.
Her eyes went wide. ‘“Coo”, as they say in the films. A private eye. Mr Harker in trouble again?’
‘Again? Makes a habit of it, does he?’
‘Mixes with the wrong type, in my opinion. See, years back he did a bit of bird in the Scrubs. Receiving stolen. Not that he likes being reminded of it.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘I wonder …’ He pulled the photograph of Wilson Royce from his pocket and showed it to the girl. ‘You don’t happen to have seen—’
‘Seen him?’ Pamela said, snatching the photo and staring at it with venom in her eyes. ‘I’ll say.’
Ryland sat on the corner of the desk and said, sympathetically, ‘What happened?’
‘He swans in here one day last summer, he does. “Hello,” I says. “This chap thinks he’s God’s gift.” All smiles and gab. Charming, I’ll give him that. And good-looking in a wet kind of way. He does some business with Mr Harker in the back office, then comes out here and works his charms on me.’
‘And I hope you told him to go sling his hook,’ Ryland said, thinking that he must sound like her father.
Pamela blushed. ‘That’s what I should have done. Only …’ She faltered. ‘He had this way with him, see. Said I was beautiful, that I should be in the films. Then he said that he had contacts, people in the business. So we went out for a drink, and then dinner, and a few nights later he took me to this big hotel in the West End and he introduced me to these men in black suits smoking fat cigars, and they looked me over like I was meat on a slab. Wilson said they were money men, producers, and if I stuck by him, he’d see me right.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. Well, I saw Mr Wilson Royce for a month, if you know what I mean. I asked him about these money men, but he just shrugged and said that these things take time. And then he goes and drops me, just like that. Didn’t answer my calls, and didn’t show his evil face in here ever again.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, well … It taught me a lesson, didn’t it? Trust no one, especially smooth-talking Johnnies like Mr Royce.’ She smiled at him. ‘So, what’s he up to now? I hope it’s something illegal and you nab him.’
‘I’m not exactly sure what his racket is. But I think he’s up to no good. Do you know how often he met Mr Harker?’
‘Maybe two or three times, I’d say, before he vanished.’
‘And do you know what business he conducted with your boss? Did he want to sell Harker a painting?’
‘I’m not sure, but Mr Harker did introduce him to … Oh!’ Pamela sat up ramrod straight and nodded towards the window. ‘His nibs!’ she hissed. ‘Don’t tell him about what I said. I think he took a bit of a shine to Mr bloody Royce.’
‘Mum’s the word,’ Ryland promised, looking through the window as a large man emerged from the back of a chauffeur-driven Daimler and waddled towards the gallery.
Ryland turned from the desk and affected an interest in the paintings.
Mr Harker eased himself through the door. ‘Any phone calls?’ he asked Pamela.
‘No, Mr Harker, but a Mr Ryland is here to see you.’
Harker turned and regarded Ryland, and was clearly not impressed by his visitor’s frayed suit and general down-at-heel appearance. A gold filling flashed as he smiled without the slightest degree of warmth. ‘Yes?’
‘I wonder if I might have a word?’
‘Concerning?’
Ryland presented his accreditation. ‘I’d like to talk to you about a mutual acquaintance.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘A certain Wilson Royce.’
Ryland thought he saw the man’s lips purse as if in distaste. ‘Come into my office.’
Harker led the way to a small, sumptuous room and seated himself behind an oak desk. Ryland leaned back against the door.
‘Well?’ Harker demanded.
‘I’m investigating the activities of Mr Wilson Royce,’ Ryland said, ‘and I understand that you’ve had certain business dealings with the young man.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘Now, that’d be compromising my sources, wouldn’t it, Mr Harker? I’m sure you understand that.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Harker said. ‘I hardly recall Mr Royce.’
‘A long time ago? I’m given to understand it was just last year.’
‘I’m a very busy man, Mr Ryland. I deal with hundreds of people in the course of the year. You can’t expect me to remember everyone.’
‘Then tell me the little you do recall about Mr Royce.’
Harker pursed his fat lips, then shook his head. ‘He came in here once, I think, and expressed interest in buying a painting.’
Ryland regarded the end of his cigarette. ‘Now that’s very interesting, Mr Harker, because that isn’t quite the story I had from my source, is it?’
‘I can assure you—’
Ryland interrupted. ‘You see, what I heard was this: our young Mr Royce came in here trying to sell you a painting.’
‘I would have a record of the transaction if that occurred.’
Ryland smiled. ‘Would you? I would’ve thought you’d keep that kind of deal under wraps, so to speak.’
‘Just what are you insinuating?’
Ryland laughed. ‘Come on, Harker. We’re men of the world. You know very well what I’m “insinuating”.’
Harker spread his fat hands on the desk and leaned forward, droplets of sweat beading his bald head. ‘I run a respectable establishment here, Mr Ryland.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you do – with a bit of shady business on the side, I dare say. Now,’ he went on, relighting his cigarette and blowing out a plume of smoke, ‘just what was Mr Royce trying to sell you?’
‘As I said—’
‘We can do this two ways, Harker,’ Ryland cut in brutally. ‘Either you spill the beans or I get the rozzers in to investigate. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want to serve another spell in the clink, would you?’
‘But that was years ago!’
‘Do you think the judge would take that into consideration – as an “extenuating circumstance”, perhaps?’ Ryland sneered. ‘Now, what did Royce want to sell?’
‘I … I don’t recall the exact details. A painting. A miniature, I think.’
‘And don’t tell me that you passed up the opportunity to buy it?’
‘I … I was suspicious. Something d
idn’t ring true. I suspected that he’d obtained the painting through less than legal means.’
‘Which is a long-winded way of saying you think he nicked it?’
‘I … As I said, I had my suspicions.’
‘Which were? Just why did you think Royce wasn’t on the straight and narrow?’
‘He said something about a deceased aunt leaving him the painting, and that he was looking to make a quick sale.’
‘And you didn’t believe him?’
‘Something didn’t ring true. The deceased aunt is something of a cliché, after all.’
‘So you didn’t buy the painting?’
‘I declined.’
Ryland nodded, regarding the smouldering tip of his cigarette and biding his time. ‘So instead of buying the painting yourself, Mr Harker, you introduced him to someone who might?’
Harker’s eyes widened as he stared at Ryland. ‘What makes you think …?’ he stammered.
‘I have a very informative source,’ Ryland said. ‘Now, who did you introduce him to?’
‘I did nothing of the kind,’ Harker blustered. ‘I told him I wasn’t interested, and he left without a word.’
‘I was given to understand that he visited you, here, on more than one occasion.’
‘You were informed incorrectly.’
‘And you’re sure you can’t recall who you introduced Mr Royce to?’
Losing his patience at last, Harker rose from his seat, rounded the desk on his tiny, surprisingly nimble feet and whisked open the door. ‘Good day, Mr Ryland.’
‘And not even the offer of a cup of tea?’
‘Good day to you.’
Ryland gave the man an ironic salute, then turned and strolled from the office. The door slammed behind him.
At the reception desk, Pamela winced. ‘No luck?’
‘Well, I’ve certainly put the wind up your Mr Harker. He says he hardly recalls Mr Royce.’