by HRF Keating
‘I would. A very unladylike expression.’
‘Naturally. But what did my friend Freddy do? At once he began considering whether the offence was actionable, what damages he might claim, such as the cost of a new pair of trousers on the flimsy grounds that they might no longer be wearable, together with a claim for distress caused by having to lunch at a reputable club in a state of disarray. The case he elaborated lasted us through the whole course of our meal. You see what I mean?’
‘I do. And I rather think that, as a police officer, I am often mired in a similar swamp myself. We, too, are inclined to work under the belief that every crime can be resolved only by the means we have at our command.’
‘Now, you are trying to offer me reassurance. And you are doing it. Only not in the way you think. You are doing it, I trust and hope, by bringing to me the case you spoke of when you telephoned. And, more, you indicated to me it marginally involves that appalling organisation, the Zealots.’
Harriet seized internally on appalling.
Is this bubbling Bengali, possibly the sole dissident in that loyalty-linked society puffy Sir Cecil spoke of so sonorously, going to give me at least some insight into Robert Roughouse’s world?
‘Yes, the Zealots,’ she jumped in. ‘I’ve learnt that some members of that society took Robert Roughouse by ambulance at dawn the day after he was so badly injured to a private clinic in Birrshire. My attempts to find out exactly why they acted with such urgency have so far met with no success.’
Kailash Gokhale’s brown eyes shone more brightly.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Just the sort of thing I thought you might have to tell me. In my day at that extraordinary educational establishment, the Zeal School, I was only the third so-called black who had ever been there, and schoolboys, you know, are apt to be decidedly uninhibited. I might add that after their time at school they are still inclined to set aside the restraint necessary in civilised society.’
But Harriet had hardly taken in all that. Kailash Gokhale’s reference to being the sole brown-skinned boy at the school had flicked her mind across to Sir Cecil earlier stating the absolute truth that his ever-loyal Zealots were never prey to congeries and cabals. And, in a sudden flash of insight, she had linked that expression to Charity Nyambura talking about ‘the Cobbles’. Surely she must have meant — an unusual, dated word she’s unlikely to know — the Cabal?
‘Mr Gokhale,’ she broke in. ‘I’m sorry. But could you please tell me if, among the Zealots, there’s a group that calls itself the Cabal?’
Kailash Gokhale blinked. Just once.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, there is. I’m surprised you know of it. They pride themselves on keeping their existence pretty much secret. But, yes, the Cabal has been going for some years. It was, incidentally, founded as a discussion and dining club with the very highest, if vague, aims, by none other than Rob Roughouse. A great one for founding things, Rob. A true optimist, poor fellow.’
‘Poor fellow indeed.’
‘Oh, yes. Though I had perhaps more in mind in using the word poor, Rob’s invariable tendency to optimism, something always the better for a sharp dose of the truth. You know about his Innovation Party?’
‘I do.’
‘Very well, now the Cabal was originally no more than that simple dining club, although one that indulged itself with a whole train of mandatory rituals. I suspect, in fact, that Rob, who’s always treated me in the friendliest way, would have liked me to join. Not that nowadays he might have regretted it if I’d agreed.’
‘He would have thought you — what was it? — too held fast in your legal swamp to be acceptable?’
‘A hit. And a palpable one. Because, yes, there has developed in the Cabal, as I have gathered from occasional hints and indiscretions, a tendency to favour ignoring the rule of law.’
‘Has there indeed?’
‘Well,’ Kailash Gokhale said, ‘don’t be too quick to come to judgment on those people. On occasion I am capable of ignoring a law myself. Not, I hasten to say, any of those on the statute books, though I suppose when I’m retained for the Defence some of my arguments may be said to tend that way. But I have, quite frequently I regret to say, broken laws such organisations as the Zealots delight in laying down.’
‘Yes, I learnt as much earlier today from its president, Mr Justice Phillip Cotmore, who now, by the way, with his elevation to the High Court wishes to be called Sir Cecil.’
‘Sir Cecil. I hasten to obey.’
‘I don’t doubt you will. But, now, can you be a little more specific about the Cabal? Do you know who its other members are? Or is that an impenetrable secret?’
‘Oh, it’s impenetrable indeed. So shall I tell you the names I do know?’
‘Please.’
‘All right, besides Robert there’s his particular friend, Matthew Jessop.’
‘With him when that grenade was launched.’
‘I’d expect that. And who else is there? Let me see. Yes. There’s that up-and-coming surgeon, Jackson Edgeworth, always top in science at school, the insolent swine. And a newish, rather older member than any of Rob’s contemporaries, Sir Marcus Fledge, chairman of Pettifer’s. If that means anything to you.’
‘Pettifer’s, the worldwide machinery-making firm? Yes, it could hardly not mean something to me, if it’s only money, money, money.’
‘As it is. Fledge, who was a little senior to myself at the Zeal School, I’ve always thought rather a dull chap. It’s quite odd that, only recently I think, they’ve voted him in. Say what you like about the Cabal, they’re a pretty lively lot, if misguided. But vote him in they did, as I have somehow learnt.’
‘Right. That’s four names. Can you produce more?’
‘Oh, yes. There’s that wretched fellow Tigger Drummond, inventor of the little Tiger Man toy, and a thoroughly bouncy pest at school. Then, yes, someone from a year above Rob and myself, Martin Cookbury, who now runs a very successful advertising firm. And another dullish chap, to my mind anyhow, Reginald Brown, senior partner in a firm of stockbrokers. Very useful to them, as you may come to realise. That’s probably the core membership, though there will be a few more. But they’re the ones I’m certain of.’
‘I don’t suppose you can give me their addresses?’
‘No difficulty about that. I have, of course, tucked away somewhere in a cupboard here that invaluable work, the Zeal School Register.’
A little rummaging, and a copy of the grey-covered booklet from which Harriet had contrived to secure Gokhale’s phone number, lay on the open surface of the desk. Out came her notebook, down went the information.
‘All right,’ she said as she finished scribbling. ‘So does the Cabal do anything beyond having high-flown thoughts like Robert Roughouse’s?’
‘Well, yes. I suspect, though with no actual evidence, that these days they — what shall I say? — do something. But what that something is I have no idea, no idea at all. What I can tell you, though, is that Rob has seemed in these past weeks to have a new attitude towards myself. Vaguely friendly as always, which is his nature, he’s been doing more, recently, than ask after my health, comment on the news or whatever. He’s actually been telling me things about himself, and, to a very small extent — a matter of hints and drawings-back — about some of his friends in the Cabal.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘All right, I think I can tell you a little more. But you’re not to make too much of it.’
‘Yes?’
‘When Rob and I meet in circumstances where there are other Zealots present, there’s often about him a certain furtiveness. Yes, I think that’s the word. A furtiveness altogether different from his normal attitude.’
‘You’re talking,’ Harriet intervened, as much as anything to give him time cautiously to advance a little further, ‘to someone who for a good quarter of an hour watched Robert Roughouse haranguing a mob of very angry anti-hunt supporters. Nothing furtive about him there.’
&nbs
p; ‘You watched him? This was just before the attack?’
‘It was. My husband and I happened to be going home after a midweek lunch party and had to pass through Gralethorpe. We found our way absolutely blocked by that demo, and stayed to watch for a little, largely because of Roughouse and the almost ridiculous courage he was showing. And then came that grenade, and I found myself what we in the police call the Investigating Officer, the first at the scene of a crime.’
‘I see now why the case is one you feel more obliged than in the ordinary way to resolve. So let me help you as much as I reasonably can.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Very well, I rather think, from what I’ve noticed about Rob, that he’s on the point of getting the old heave-ho from that nice little dining club he himself instituted. Or perhaps he’s been easing himself out of it because he didn’t much like the company he had come to find himself in.’
Harriet thought for a moment.
‘And … and do you think,’ she asked, out on a limb, ‘it’s possible, at all possible, the rift in the Cabal, if that’s what has happened, could go as far as them getting someone to attempt to kill Roughouse?’
‘My dear lady, I cannot possibly answer that.’
‘No, I suppose not. But can’t you manage a guess, however malicious?’
Kailash Gokhale laughed.
‘All right, the malice is there, I admit. But, alas, so far without any basis.’
He paused for a moment, looked down at his almost clear desk.
‘So what you’re saying,’ Harriet advanced cautiously, ‘is that Robert Roughouse has been having doubts about what the Cabal’s up to?’
‘Yes, up to. Not a term one would introduce in a court of law, but one that does indeed convey what I think, guess, wonder, might be happening.’
‘But you’ve no idea what precisely that might be?’
‘I am the very last person who would be allowed even to hear a whisper of it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But how then am I to get to know? Because I think I ought to.’
A second or two of silence.
‘Really I’ve no idea. No, wait, there is one thing you might do.’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you chanced to see Rob’s book, Marching Through Georgia?’
‘Oh, God, no, I haven’t. I’ve been meaning to look at it. But I haven’t managed to get hold of a copy, though at the back of my mind …’
‘Well, it’s been some time since I read it myself, and I can’t say I remember a great deal about the contents. Rob isn’t one of the world’s great writers, I have to say. But get hold of it, read it. That’s the best by way of advice that I have to offer. All the advice, indeed.’
‘I couldn’t possibly borrow your copy, could I?’
Kailash Gokhale smiled.
‘I’m afraid the lawyer says no. You see, I annotated it as I read, and some of my comments are undoubtedly libellous. You reading it would constitute publication.’
Is he joking, Harriet thought. Can I make sheep’s eyes at him and change his mind? Complex rules almost always create ways round them.
She glanced at her watch.
‘Oh lord, I’d no idea it had got so late. Where’s your nearest bookshop?’
‘You won’t find Marching Through Georgia in a bookshop. It’s been out three years or more, and I even had some difficulty in getting hold of it then.’
The plump little barrister must have seen Harriet’s face falling because he gave her a yet more impish grin, abruptly leant back in his chair and placed his fingers together in a pointedly storytelling mode.
‘When I was a mere boy down in Bristol, where my father’s job as a partner in a jute importing firm had brought us to live,’ he began, ‘I used to haunt the big public library. One evening in the reading room, deep into — I’m afraid — a detective story, though one of course with a legal hero, I looked up and saw I had failed, despite the hush all over the building — in those days, you know, the unspoken rule of silence still prevailed — even to hear the last warning bell. The whole room was deserted. I was locked in.’
He produced a dramatic pause. Harriet dutifully responded.
‘And you got out? How? Was it by some legal device?’
‘No, no. In those days I wasn’t yet wholly a law-devouring machine. I simply sat there, quite pleased with my romantic circumstances. But then, some twenty minutes later, or even less, the cleaning lady came in as she pursued her laid-down round. With one bound I was free.’
‘Nice story, I’ll remember it. And, OK, I’ll take your kind hint. The public library in Birchester should be still open, if I catch the next train. They’re bound to have a copy, even several, of a book by a locally prominent man.’
Chapter Twelve
The train from London was delayed. Not once but twice. As it left the last station before Birchester, Harriet realised she was by no means certain of the library’s opening hours. It might on a Saturday close early. Picturing the familiar building, it occurred to her that Kailash Gokhale had told his story of being locked in the library at Bristol, not just as a charming anecdote but so as to put a definite extra emphasis on reading Marching Through Georgia. He must — why have I only just thought of it? — remember the book as having in it a hint of why that egg bomb was manufactured.
Does he then know more than he’s willing to say to me? Or is he making such a wild guess at whatever it is he suspects — God, how cautious law-impregnated people can be — that he dared not give me more than a clue, if I’m sharp enough to spot it, pointing towards … towards what, for heaven’s sake?
She began looking at her watch at increasingly short intervals, its little hands hard to make out in the dim light of the carriage.
Stupid, stupid. It’s still not a quarter to five. Must be. Plenty of time to go that short distance from the station to the library, even if it closes as early as five. And, in any case, what does it really matter if I do find it closed? All it’ll mean is I’ll have to wait a little longer till I read a book that I ought to have got hold of already. Unless it has some vital …
A jolting thud seemed to run all along the train.
She looked up, startled.
We’ve arrived. Probably just bumped the buffers.
She jerked open the heavy door beside her, jumped down to the platform, turned and pelted off, handbag on its narrow strap banging at her hip.
Which way? Yes, to the left. Turn left coming out.
Then run. Keep running.
The crossroads. Go all round via the zebras, or straight over? Yes, no traffic about. So, go straight, and trust no speeding car’s just coming.
OK, over.
Quick look at watch. Can’t quite see. Was it three minutes to? Or past?
Run again.
God, not used to pelting along like this. Must get back into … My duty.
But, yes. There it is, other side of this road. Can see the sign Public Library. Can’t see if the doors are open, though. What time is — Hell with that. Just get across.
Wait. Look both ways. Early days in the Met, round of the primary schools … Road Drill.
No, come on. Looks safe.
Across.
Then at the foot of the steps leading up to the big, stone-built, Edwardianly pompous building she saw its sombre wooden doors — oak? — were firmly closed.
Shit.
But if …
She ran up the steps at a trot. Put a hand flat on the doors’ right-hand leaf. Yet even before she leant any weight on it she knew it would not yield. The window above the transom was showing no light of any sort. As she slumped forward to draw breath, she saw the notice board just beside her. Painted on it with full municipal authority Opening Hours 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. Sats 5 p.m. Closed Sunday.
She did not need to peer once more at her watch to know it would say at least five minutes past, if not almost ten.
Damn it, she thought as her mind slipped back into calmer waters. Caught
by the inexorable progress of clock hands, fixed for all the nation by some early nineteenth-century Act of Parliament, and later for the whole world under the law of Greenwich Mean Time.
She looked once more at the locked oaken doors and the blackly forbidding window above. Last librarian on duty gone, heading for home on their bicycle. Week’s work over.
No. That picture Gokhale painted for me. His young self, all alone in the locked Bristol library, having an adventure. Till, all too soon the cleaning lady arrives on her prescribed round, and with one bound …
A cleaning lady in here now? Very likely. So, I’ve done it. After all, I’ve …
But then Common sense Harriet came pouring back. A coolly rational flood. Hammer on these doors till I’ve attracted attention? More likely to attract the attention of some patrolling PC and then awkward explanations indeed. And, even if there is anyone in there, how easy am I going to find it to persuade them that it’s necessary for a senior police officer to go hunting among the shelves for one particular book?
No, come on, there’s tomorrow. Tomorrow to find perhaps one of the only two or three copies of Local Author’s Marching Through Georgia. But, damn it, no, it still won’t be to hand then. Tomorrow’s Sunday.
Ah, well.
Home James. Taxi, if I can spot one. Back at the station probably.
*
At the house, exhausted and hungry, when she spilled her tale of woe into sympathetic husbandly ears, there came a moment of unexpected irony. One of the copies of almost forgotten Marching Through Georgia borrowed from the library had been taken out by none other than Nose-in-a-book John.
‘It’s been in the house ever since, you know. Passing the library when I was doing a bit of shopping weeks ago, I suddenly thought — I’d decided originally not to buy something only marginally worth cramming into the shelves — that a book by a local man might after all be worth a quick browse.’
‘And, natch, you had that.’
‘I did, soon as I’d brought it home. Which is why it’s been there on the window-sill in the hall ever since, waiting to be taken back. Surprised the Hard Detective never noticed it.’