‘Ah well,’ the doctor said, ‘I’ll go and look to the two laddies. They’ll maybe need a sedative.’ He went reluctantly along the path. ‘They might do best to board at St Gilbert’s for a while. I can speak to the senior master.’
Steve passed him in the doorway as she emerged looking slightly distraught. She hurried to Paul and took his arm, but then she waited several seconds before she spoke. ‘Darling,’ she said at last, ‘I’ve offered to stay here for a while. The boys have an aunt living in Leeds and we’ve sent her a telegram. But in the meantime I’ll cook their supper and generally stay around. They have a few friends who could help out, but they’re both being incredibly stoical and they won’t impose on people they know.’ Once she had started she spoke in a rush with the sentences crowding in upon each other until Paul said reassuringly, ‘Whoa! Yes, yes, I think that’s a splendid idea. Good for you, darling.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Inspector Morgan can give me a lift into Whitby.’
An ambulance arrived to take away the body. Police formalities had apparently been completed and the inspector led his colleagues from the cottage with the stretcher party.
‘I suppose you’ll be staying here with your wife, Mr Temple?’ he asked without conviction.
‘Actually no, I was going to ask you—’
‘All right, get in the car!’ He turned angrily to the uniformed men by the estate car. ‘Come on, you two, let’s have Doyle down at the station then!’
Tom Doyle was an enigmatic man. He was popular and also a little mysterious, kind-hearted and private. He was a fisherman and odd-job man and adventurer. But the village accepted him, which probably proved that he was sound. He seemed honest enough to Paul as he sat puffing his pipe in the inspector’s office.
‘So tell us about the Baxter boys,’ said the inspector. ‘Why have they been hiding?’
‘I don’t know.’ There was an air of baffled sincerity in his voice. ‘I swear I don’t know, and that’s the truth!’
One evening about three weeks ago Tom Doyle had returned from a day’s fishing, and there had been a message asking him to call round and see Mr Baxter. ‘He’d just bought a lot of plants from one of the local nurseries and I knew he wanted me to sort them out for him. Market gardening’s by way of being a hobby of mine.’ So Doyle had gone along to the cottage at around eight o’clock.
When he reached the cottage he found Mr Baxter standing in the doorway talking to Lord Westerby and another well-built man with an American accent. Baxter was looking worried, harassed even, and he didn’t notice the odd-job man at his gate. ‘All right, all right,’ he was saying wearily, ‘if that’s the way it is.’
‘Indeed it is, Baxter. I think we’ve made the position clear.’
‘And I hope there’s no bad feeling,’ said the American. You understand there’s nothing personal about all this.’
Baxter nodded. ‘The position is quite clear and there’s nothing personal. I know.’
The American was clearly dissatisfied with Baxter’s weary resignation, but Lord Westerby thought they had made their point. ‘Come along, Walters, we must be going. He sees our view of the matter, even if he doesn’t appreciate it.’
‘That isn’t enough. I’ll give him until Friday of next week, and then I’ll—’
‘Now now, Walters, there’s no need to threaten him.’
‘Well, there’s an awful lot of money tied up in this deal. We gotta be careful!’
Lord Westerby was coming along the path towards Doyle. ‘Evening, Tom,’ Lord Westerby said with hearty benevolence. ‘How’s the world treating you?’ He seemed not at all put out that their conversation might have been overheard.
‘Mustn’t grumble, sir,’ said Doyle.
‘Really? Why not? I grumble all the time!’ His lordship bellowed with laughter, wrapped his tweed jacket across his ample tummy, and strode off to the Land Rover parked beside the chestnut tree. The American followed looking less pleased with life.
‘If there’s no news on Friday,’ he said severely to Lord Westerby, ‘you’ll just have to come down to London.’
‘Don’t be impatient, my dear fellow.’ He started up the engine and then waved to Baxter and Doyle. ‘Cheerio!’ He smiled indulgently at the man called Walters. ‘I mean to say, whatever happens we must try not to be stupid about this business.’ The Land Rover sent up a cloud of dust and then roared off along the country lane.
Philip Baxter watched them go with pensive apprehension. He looked, old Tom Doyle thought to himself, as if the noble Westerby was asking for the leasehold back on his home. He didn’t even say hello to Tom Doyle. ‘Come in and have a drink,’ he said inaudibly.
‘Thanks,’ said Doyle as he followed into the cottage. ‘I suppose you want to see me about those plants—’
‘Some other time.’ Philip Baxter went through to the kitchen. ‘I’d been saving this brandy for a special occasion,’ he said sadly, ‘but we’ll drink it, shall we? It’s better than all those gut-rotting whiskies they sell in the grocers’ shops. And I don’t have any beer.’
Tom Doyle was mystified, but he raised his glass and asked what they were celebrating. He spoke with cheerful reassurance. And when Baxter looked forlorn he offered to help. ‘If there’s anything I can do,’ he said stoutly.
Baxter sat in the winged armchair and sipped a large brandy. For several minutes he didn’t speak. Then he sighed. ‘Do you like my boys, Tom? Do you think Roger and Michael are worth sacrificing my life for?’
‘They’re a fine couple of boys, Mr Baxter,’ he said in bewilderment.
Baxter stared into his glass again, noticed it was empty and refilled it. Then he stared at the glowing golden liquid.
‘They aren’t in any kind of trouble, are they?’ Doyle asked. ‘Roger and Michael? Are they all right?’
Baxter shook his head. ‘I wonder,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Do you think they could stay with you for a while, Tom? Perhaps for two or three weeks?’
To begin with Doyle had thought he meant a holiday. Trips on the boat and roughing it in the morning getting breakfast for themselves. But Baxter had been in earnest. They were to stay with old Tom Doyle and stay out of sight.
‘It’s not a holiday, Tom. I’m not going away. But I want the boys to disappear.’ He finished the brandy in one tasteless gulp. ‘I don’t want them to go to school, I don’t want them to be seen about the village, and I don’t want anyone to know they’re staying with you.’
‘You want me to hide them?’ he asked nervously. ‘But why?’ Doyle laughed. ‘The lads can’t just disappear like that. There’ll be all sorts of questions asked. What will the school say? Why, the police might even get to hear of it, and then there’ll be a lot of awkward questions asked!’
‘The police will certainly get to hear of it, Tom, because I intend to report the matter to them.’
Doyle was no longer amused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to give the impression that the boys have either run away from home or been abducted. I’ll kick up all the fuss I know how, with the local press and anybody else I can think of.’
Doyle nodded fatalistically. ‘And all the time they’ll be in my cottage? I don’t like it.’
‘They’re in danger, Tom, and there’s nothing else I can do about it. I’d go to the police if I could, but—’ He was drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair. ‘I’m sorry I can’t explain, but this is the only solution.’
Doyle went thoughtfully across to the window and looked at the box of new potted plants in the conservatory. ‘Supposing I do what you want,’ he said slowly. ‘Supposing I take the boys in and hide them for three or four weeks, how do we know that by then things will have changed? Can we be sure that this danger will have blown over?’
Baxter could see that he had persuaded his man. ‘We can’t, Tom, but in three or four weeks I shall be able to cope with the situation.’
‘And what will you tell the boys?’
‘The truth.’
Baxter had gone to the drawer of his desk in the next room and taken a hundred pounds in ten pound notes from a cash tin. ‘That’ll pay for all expenses,’ he said, ‘and whatever is left over is yours.’ He had waved aside Doyle’s protests. ‘Now remember, once the boys arrive at your cottage I don’t want them to get in touch with me, and neither must you. On no account must you call, write or telephone. Is that clearly understood?’
Doyle sighed and put the money in his pocket. ‘Yes, Mr Baxter. But supposing something happens, some emergency? One of them might be taken ill—’
‘You know the little shop in the lane? Mrs Vernon’s? If you need me put a card in the window: “Three-wheeler bike for sale, two spare tyres, suitable for boy of ten”.’
‘And if you want me?’ asked Doyle.
‘I shan’t want you, Tom. But keep an eye on the shop. When you see a card reading: “£5 Reward. Lost Parrot, red and green plumage, answers to the name of Cheeta”, then you’ll know the coast is clear. Throw your hat in the air and ask Michael to telephone me.’
That was all Tom Doyle could tell them. ‘The boys turned up at five o’clock the following afternoon and they stayed with me until today – until I saw the card in the window.’
Inspector Morgan glowered at the man, reluctant to send him home but clearly having no grounds for an arrest. ‘What about this other boy, this John Draper?’ he asked without much optimism. ‘Where has he vanished to?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Doyle leaned forward anxiously. ‘I read about his disappearance in the newspaper and it frightened the life out of me. But Mr Baxter couldn’t have been involved in that, sir.’
‘Why not?’
Doyle turned nervously to Paul and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, he couldn’t, could he? I mean, he didn’t say anything to me about young Draper. Just his own boys.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Paul murmured reassuringly. ‘Did Mr Baxter say anything to you about Curzon?’
‘No, sir.’
Paul smiled and rose to his feet. It had been an illuminating interview, but it was time to go. Paul found the atmosphere of provincial police stations oppressive; they had all been built in 1870, which was not his favourite period in architecture.
Paul Temple went back to the hotel and collected his car. He needed to think. He drove across the moors weighing up in his mind all the facts he knew about the Curzon case and noting all the questions for which he had no answer.
He knew that Doyle had been a convincing witness, and his story had been circumstantial. Philip Baxter had obviously hidden the boys with him because of some threat, and the threat had been real enough because Baxter himself was dead. Was it something to do with the business arrangement between Baxter and Lord Westerby?
Somebody had three times tried to kill Diana Maxwell and she was afraid for her life. She wouldn’t talk after all, but perhaps her uncle, Lord Westerby, would know what was troubling her.
And who was Curzon? His name had been on Roger’s cricket bat, and Diana Maxwell had originally claimed to know all about him. Paul watched the sun disappear below the greens and browns of the distant horizon leaving behind it a chilly golden glow. There was no good reason for thinking that Curzon was important, except for Charlie Vosper’s nose.
The Baxter cottage looked the same as it had before the tragedy. Paul found it difficult to believe that violence had erupted behind those curtained windows. He knocked on the door and half expected Philip Baxter to open it and explain that it had all been a mistake.
But in fact it was Steve who came to let him in.
She raised a finger to her lips. ‘The boys are just having supper,’ she said confidentially. ‘You won’t start interrogating them now, will you? They’re still rather numb from shock.’
Paul went into the cottage. ‘It’s my wife I’ve come to see. I haven’t eaten this evening, and apart from you this whole county is packed out with Yorkshire people. I was feeling lonely.’ He found his way to the kitchen, where two youthful faces looked up at him, paused, and then continued eating. ‘If there’s a scrap of cold meat left over,’ Paul said, ‘or a small piece of cheese—’
‘Roger and Michael have healthy appetites. But there’s half a Yorkshire pudding,’ Steve said cruelly, ‘and a can of beer in the fridge.’
The two boys smiled shyly and watched Steve prepare a pile of ham sandwiches. ‘We’ve been talking about you this evening,’ said the younger of them. ‘I edit the school magazine and Mrs Temple was telling me about your early days as a writer. I’d like to be a novelist.’
Paul laughed. ‘You’d do better to find a proper job. Why not be a professional cricketer? Then you can be a sports journalist when you retire.’
‘To be a good cricketer,’ the boy said tactlessly, ‘is damned hard work.’
It appeared that Steve had established real sympathy with the Baxter boys. The older one, Michael, had questioned her on the life and prospects of a designer and they had discussed his intention of going to art school in London next year. He was an engaging young man who had known something of Steve’s reputation from a newspaper article just after Christmas.
‘He was about to take me upstairs to show me his portfolio,’ said Steve.
Paul raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘All right. Roger and I can stay down here and talk about cricket. I hate eating sandwiches by myself.’ He turned man to man and asked Roger whether he played for the school first eleven.
‘No,’ said Roger when they were alone. ‘I’m not really good enough. That’s why I thought I’d be a novelist.’
Paul munched thoughtfully on a ham sandwich for several seconds. ‘I was meaning to ask you, Roger, about a name on your cricket bat. Why did you add the name Curzon to the school team?’
Roger Baxter gaped in astonishment. ‘That was clever of you, Mr Temple! Fancy your noticing that!’
Paul shrugged modestly. ‘What I call nose-ology.’
‘I was only doodling,’ the boy explained. ‘I was supposed to be asleep, but it was a warm night and I wrote the name on the bat to pass the time. A lot of boys did that this term.’
‘But why Curzon?’ Paul insisted. ‘I think it might be very important in helping to find out who killed your father. So please tell me what happened that night when you were supposed to be asleep.’
Roger Baxter blinked earnestly. ‘Well, there’s nothing much to tell. It was late, as I said, and I could hear voices downstairs. The voices were loud and angry, so I crept out on to the landing to find out what was happening.
‘My father was downstairs in the living-room and there was another man with him. I didn’t recognise the voice, but they were very angry with each other and my father kept on shouting, “I don’t care what Curzon says! I’m not obeying these instructions whatever Curzon wants!” The quarrel went on for several minutes.’ Roger smiled apologetically. ‘My father never quarrelled with people. He hardly ever shouted, even at me.’
‘And what did the other man say?’
‘He said something about it being useless to argue. “Curzon calls the tune and we have to dance to it.” That sort of thing. “Don’t be stupid, Baxter, we all have to do as we’re told.” I found it very worrying. That was why I went back to my room and wrote the name on the cricket bat. I was thinking.’
‘Did you ask your father what had been going on?’
‘Yes, next morning at breakfast I asked who Curzon was. But father didn’t tell me. At first he was extremely angry that I’d heard. Then he calmed down and said I should forget all about it. He said an old friend had dropped in for a drink and they were having a friendly argument.’ The boy thought for a moment. ‘But I don’t know who the friend was. And he wasn’t very friendly.’
The beer gave off a minor explosion as Paul opened the can and then poured it into a glass. ‘What sort of voice did the man have?’
‘Well spoken, educated. I suppose it was a southern accent.’
‘Did your father ever mention a fr
iend of his called Walters?’ Paul asked. ‘Damn and blast!’ He had allowed the beer to fizz up and overflow on to the table. ‘That’s one reason I prefer whisky.’
‘Walters?’ the boy repeated. ‘No, I’ve never heard father speak of him.’ He leaned forward with sudden intensity. Tell me, Mr Temple, do you think this man Curzon murdered my father?’
Paul sighed. ‘I wish I could be sure, Roger. But we’ll soon know.’ He dabbed the pool of beer with his napkin and then left the table. ‘Ah well, that was delicious.’ He took the remains of the drink into the next room.
It had been Philip Baxter’s study and the aura of scholarship hung mustily in the air. A massive leather topped desk looked on to the gardens and beyond across the Westerby estates. It was the sort of room that Paul could never work in, with thick sound proof carpets and curtains like tapestry, wallpaper embossed with velvet. There were argumentative pre-Raphaelite paintings in heavy frames and packed, untidy bookcases. Paul wondered what Baxter had worked at during his retirement. The two volumes of the current Stock Exchange Yearbook looked unused and dust lay on the dictionary. The complete works of Trollope glistened artificially as if they had never been read.
‘Did your father normally keep the odd hundred pounds in notes in the house?’ Paul asked.
‘No, he didn’t. I was surprised when Tom said that father had taken the cash from his desk. But if Tom said so—’
Paul tried the drawers and found them open. But there was no cash box. The usual assortment of files and personal papers which Paul hadn’t the nerve to read at that moment. He did glance at Baxter’s cheque book, however, and found no counterfoil for withdrawals to account for a hundred pounds.
‘My father thought that cash lying about was being wasted. He would have invested it or spent it.’
Paul nodded. He swivelled round in the padded chair behind the desk and snatched at Barchester Towers as he passed. The spines of ten novels by Trollope swung away from the bookshelves in one piece like a door. Behind the fake books was a wall safe.
Paul Temple and the Curzon Case (A Paul Temple Mystery) Page 5