I have never – I don’t suppose many people have – rescued from a coffin someone who has narrowly escaped being buried alive. All I can say is, the experience can hardly have left its victim in worse shape than that in which, on that quiet morning, I found Major Jaunty Blair. He emerged from his tomb, where saddles and horse blankets and other bits of equipment were stored, wild-eyed and grey with terror. His forehead was shiny, his wispy hair soaked with sweat and plastered to his head, his hand, as he grabbed my arm, strengthened by an accumulated frenzy of terror. It took him a long time to summon up the will to be helped down the ladder. Then he stumbled into the open air, coughing and spluttering as though he had forgotten how to breathe.
‘Thank God you came, Progmire! Thank God for you! Always a friend.’ The Major looked up at me, trembling with gratitude, rather like one of his dogs, I thought, who had been cruelly treated. ‘Always had this horror. Rat in trap. Locked in. Bloody tank. Hot as hell. Tank on fire. Locked bloody in! Saw them everywhere. Tanks full of dead geezers.’ He was nursing his arms and his elbows, as though they were bruised as he had thrown himself against the door, struggling for freedom. He talked breathlessly, in bursts like random gunfire. As he got to the end of the ramp he vomited.
I did a great deal for Jaunty that day. I cleaned him up. I helped him to the sofa where he stretched out. I soothed him with whisky and hot tea. I made him baked beans on toast, which he said was all he could face for lunch. I was there to find things out for Cris.
The incident itself remained a mystery. Jaunty said he had been going to take his horse Montgomery to a local show where he would be ridden by a whipper-in to parade the pack of hounds. He had collected the saddle and various accoutrements and was putting them in the space over the driver’s cabin, which he mysteriously called the luton. As he was doing this, some bloody fool must have come into the lorry, shut the luton’s door and bolted it from the outside. Perhaps they thought that was funny. They might have thought the war in the desert bloody funny, and being trapped in a tank a real hoot, being suffocated in a red-hot box fucking entertaining. At this point Jaunty became incomprehensible and had to be brought back to a serious consideration of the problem with whisky.
Who could have done it? Fiona was the girl groom, he told me. She was meant to come over and help with the transport of Montgomery. She was a sensible girl most of the time. Worked long hours for the love of horses and didn’t keep bothering him for more money like some of the more mercenary little bitches. God only knew who was rogering Fiona at the moment. Could be one of the hunt servants. Could be some mad joker with a bloody warped sense of humour who’d never seen the inside of a tank or gone soldiering. Could be ... Yes. He had Fiona’s telephone number. It was on a bit of paper pinned to the wall of the office.
So I went off to ring Fiona, who sounded sensible, shocked and totally puzzled. She was going to come with someone called Charlie Riggs and drive Montgomery over to the show in the lorry, but that wasn’t planned to happen until two o’clock because Jaunty was having lunch with a visitor from London. That was me, wasn’t it? She didn’t really know why Jaunty should have been putting things in the luton around midday. She’d been with Charlie Riggs all the morning, riding across the moor. She’d never known him to be capable of a practical joke, let alone the cruel one which had terrorized Jaunty. There is only one other thing worth recording about this conversation. During it, I was looking out of the office window and I saw a red Cortina come bumping down the lane and into the stable yard, where the lorry was still standing with its back down. The car stopped, turned round slowly and then drove back past the house towards the main road. For a moment I had a clear view of the driver, an old man with broad shoulders and the look of a bald emperor. It was a face I knew I had seen before but, on that extraordinary afternoon, I couldn’t remember where.
After I had spoken to Fiona I went back to my patient and told him what she’d said. He shook his head and lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling, until I reminded him that I had come not to rescue him but because he had sent for me.
‘Don’t know what to do. That bloody geezer of Beth’s. Must have got the wrong idea. Something I said to him. Got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’
I said I was glad to hear it. I was careful not to sound hopeful too soon.
‘Poured brandy into me. Got me talking. About the old days. About the war and so on. Up there among the Eyeties.’
I said I knew he’d done something like that.
‘Now I hear he’s causing trouble for your boss. For old Cris Bellhanger. A bloody good geezer I went soldiering with. Is he causing trouble?’
The old man lay in riding breeches with his boots off, the sleeve of his sweater disintegrating and his shirt open to display the white hairs on his chest, his face a slowly relaxing mask of fear.
I said yes, and that Dunster was causing trouble.
‘So many bloody fools about nowadays. Is he still on about that business of the church?’
Yes, I told him, that was what he was on about still. It was the understatement of the year. ‘Did you tell Dunster that Cris had said to you, “We must say the Germans did it”?’
‘Can’t remember all I told him exactly.’ Jaunty shook his head. ‘But the Germans did do it. We all knew that. German captain in charge gave the order.’ The cold house suddenly seemed warmer, the dark sitting-room filled with sunshine. He held out his empty glass but I didn’t refill it, not being sure of him yet.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’
‘Never.’
‘I ended up in Austria. Major Blair, Allied Administration. Stamping out the black market-bits of it, anyway. Sorting out war criminals. That’s where I found out who did for those poor devils who went to church. Bad idea, going to church.’ He gave a ghastly sort of a smile. ‘Can be extremely dangerous.’
It all sounded so simple. Too simple perhaps, but I didn’t want to ask questions that might throw doubt on what was Cris’s clear defence. What Jaunty had said was already enough for me to fill his glass again, but I still wanted to know something. ‘So was the German officer put on trial?’
‘We never quite caught him. Slippery bugger. Got away with it. Well, all it needed was a promise to fight communism, plus a big slosh of money. In the proper quarters. None of it came my way, I have to tell you. Not a dollar for Jaunty. Not that I’d’ve taken it. I’d have had the geezer tried and shot. Might feel differently now. Much water under the bridge. Gallons of bloody water!’
Some of it still didn’t fit, particularly the bit that had once led me to suspect the Major himself.
‘When you took me out to dinner, that night at Dandini’s ...’
‘Super place, isn’t it? Go there a lot, do you? Now you’re a bachelor again?’ The whisky had done a remarkable job: there was a flush on his cheek-bones and the small, yellowish eyes he turned on me were glinting, is that smashing girl still there? That little Tracy?’
‘You told me that an old man isn’t responsible for what he did when he was young. You said he was quite different then, different fingernails and teeth and so on.’
‘I remember,’ the Major nodded. ‘Yes, I remember saying that. Too bloody true.’
‘So no one should be blamed for what they did years before.’
‘Right! That’s what I said.’
‘Who were you thinking of when you said that?’
There was silence. He looked back at the ceiling. For the first time since I had rescued him from the tomb he seemed almost relaxed.
‘Was it the German captain?’ I suggested.
‘That’s right, Progmire. You’ve got it. Spot on!’
‘Why were you worried about him?’
‘I keep my ear pretty close to the ground – or I did in those days after the war. When I was in the Allied Administration. And after.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘Rumours.’
‘What sort of rumo
urs?’
‘About our Kraut friend who did the job at Pomeriggio. Finally got away to England. We’ve given him hospitality, that’s my belief, for all these years.’
There was a question I felt it dangerous to ask, all the same I asked it. ‘What else did you hear about him?’
‘Well. He changed his name, of course. Arrived here as Lewenstein. Now goes under the name of Llewellyn and runs a large garage somewhere in the Cardiff area.’
‘And his fingernails have changed?’
‘You’ve got it, Progmire. Spot on. After all these long years, let him rest in peace.’
‘But you did say ...’ – I took my final risk – ‘that if Dunster unearthed the true story it would be a disaster for all the family?’
Another car had driven up and the dogs were barking in a muted sort of way, as though it were a formality they had to go through even for friends. The Major was still examining the ceiling carefully. ‘Of course,’ he said at last, it would have been extremely awkward for me if Dunster had told that story. After all, I knew where the German was and I never told anybody. I want your advice, Progmire. That’s why I asked you here. Should I ... Should I tell them now?’
‘Of course. You must tell Crispin Bellhanger’s lawyers.’
And then Fiona called out from the kitchen. The girl groom came in with Charlie Riggs and after that I got little further information from Major Jaunty Blair.
I am an accountant and not a lawyer. If I had had any proper legal training, or perhaps if I had not been so elated by a story which exculpated Cris, I should not have left Blair Cottage without a signed statement from Jaunty. Instead of getting that, I wasted the rest of my time there in looking after the old rascal and allowed the most precious evidence – for this is what it seemed to be at the time – to slip through my fingers. ‘Don’t blame yourself for a moment,’ Cris said afterwards. ‘You did absolutely all you could and I shall be forever grateful.’ Of course he would say that, out of pure kindness, but I went on blaming myself even after the trial was over.
I did ring Justin Glover. I drove into Dulverton as I’d offered to replenish the stock of whisky, and I telephoned from the post office. I recounted the whole story and Justin said he was a little disorganized at the moment as Theodora, the six-year-old, was having ‘the old ear trouble, only worse’ and his wife, Jenny, was getting into a bit of a lather about it and he’d probably have to slip off home early. He’d fix up for someone to come down in the next day or two and he hoped to get Jaunty to swear an affidavit, or at least sign a proof of evidence. He congratulated me and then asked who the hell I thought had banged Jaunty up in the luton.
‘God knows.’
‘I suppose someone might’ve played a practical joke?’
‘I don’t think it was the girl groom. Or her boyfriend. They seemed genuinely upset. I don’t know about Jaunty’s other acquaintances. Some of them might be rather dubious.’
There was a silence and then Justin Glover said, ‘I hope it isn’t going to be one of those sort of cases.’
‘Which sort of cases?’
‘Witnesses being got at. Anyway, thanks, Philip. I’ll get someone down to him as soon as possible.’ As it turned out, as soon as possible was far too late.
When I got back to Blair Cottage, Fiona and Charlie Riggs went off with Montgomery to the show and I managed to call Mike at her mother’s house in Chester. Jaunty, I told her, had had an accident, the lorry door had jammed and he’d been shut in, which upset him rather. He was a good deal better now. ‘Don’t want to speak to her.’ Jaunty waved a dismissive hand from the sofa and said in a harsh and penetrating whisper, ‘The woman’ll only fuss. Just tell her to get herself back down here tooty sweet. Plenty for her to do, what with the mess she’s allowed the place to get into.’ As a result of constant recourse to the medicinal whisky bottle Jaunty was not in a very good condition to receive Mike, so I told her there was no desperate hurry. She said she’d get up to London that evening and stay the night with Beth, which of course meant spending the evening with Dunster. She could get to Taunton quite early the next morning and Fiona would drive over and meet her train.
‘Bloody women!’ Jaunty said. ‘There’re never anywhere when you need them. You’re not going to leave me alone here tonight, are you, Progmire?’
‘Well, I had thought of driving back quite soon.’
‘I’d honestly rather you didn’t. For God’s sake, wait until Mike gets herself down here.’ He looked up at me and once more I thought of an animal at bay, which he had hunted. ‘Do that for me, won’t you, Progmire? After all, you can’t say I haven’t done my bit for your boss.’ That was true, so I agreed with reluctance.
Around six o’clock Fiona and Charlie came back with Montgomery in the lorry. She told Jaunty that his horse had performed magnificently with the hounds. Later she helped me get his supper. He ordered baked beans on toast, now with two eggs and two rashers of bacon. This meal was over-ambitious. He pushed it away half-eaten and told us, ‘Get me up to bloody Bedfordshire!’ Charlie Riggs and I supported him up the stairs and into a room where the bed hadn’t been made during Mike’s absence, clothes were on the floor and the ashtray on the bedside table was overflowing with small cigar butts. We got him undressed with difficulty and left him with relief.
So I slept that night, as I had once done so happily, in Beth’s small bedroom, among the rosettes and books on the care of ponies, and the photographs of the child and teenage Bethany clearing jumps or receiving cups at gymkhanas. I felt tired and slept well, confident that Dunster was defeated and Cris out of trouble. In the morning I took Jaunty a cup of tea. He lay awkwardly in bed, one arm thrown up across his forehead as though to ward off a blow. When I put the tea beside him, he opened one suspicious eye and said, ‘The bloody woman not back yet, I suppose?’
‘The train gets in at eleven. Fiona’s going to meet her.’
‘I think I’ll stay in bed. Tell you the truth. Don’t feel quite the ticket.’
‘Rest,’ I said, and sat down beside him. ‘You probably need it.’ I also thought he’d got the most prodigious hangover. ‘Only I just meant to ask you. When you wrote to me ...’
‘Got you down because you can see a bit far through a bloody brick wall.’
‘Well, were you going to ask my advice about whether you should tell our solicitor about the German captain?’
"Course I was. I was going to give them the whole story. If you advised me to do so, Progmire. I honestly wanted to help old Cris. No need for that. Bloody uncalled for and out of order.’
‘No need for what, Jaunty?’ His voice had become faint. I sat nearer to him, eager to learn the truth.
‘No need for what happened. No need for that at all. I wasn’t about to let down Captain Cris.’ Then his one open eye closed and he told me no more about his imprisonment in the luton.
I went downstairs and read back numbers of Country Life and was bored to death with stately homes and Stubbs paintings. Royal Worcester and breeding Palominos, when Fiona drove up with Mike.
‘It came as an awful shock to him,’ I told her.
‘It would do. Jaunty wouldn’t like to be shut up in anything. It was the tanks, you know.’
‘Yes.’
‘The tanks in the desert. That war! It’s amazing how long it takes some people to get over it.’
‘Amazing.’
‘How on earth did it happen? Has he told you?’
‘No,’ I said truthfully. ‘He hasn’t told me that at all.’
‘Beth and I were wondering why on earth did he ask you down?’
‘He wanted to ask my advice about something.’
‘About this wretched law case?’
‘Yes. About that.’ Mike was growing old. She was vague and probably quite innocent of all knowledge of Jaunty’s affairs. But she had been with Dunster and I thought it better not to tell her anything more. So, for the last time in my life, I said goodbye to Blair Cottage.
Justin Glover’s representative didn’t go down for two days. When he telephoned from the station, Mike told him that the doctor was with them. Jaunty had had a stroke in the night. He couldn’t move his right arm and had totally lost the power of speech.
I wrote a long letter to Beth saying how sorry I was and explaining most of what had happened and how I had done my best to look after her father. I got no answer; the lines of communication between us had virtually broken down.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Informer is a weekly magazine which was started long before the last war and even before people like Cris and Jaunty were born. Its circulation has been falling steadily over the last decade and its brand of earnest, puritanical and self-righteous socialism has made it acceptable only to a dwindling number of lecturers, social workers and school teachers. The book reviews are still pretty good, however, and the theatre criticism excellent. For that reason a copy was usually to be found in the Mummery bar and I was on my way through a lot of statistics on glue-sniffing, and a lengthy denunciation of the government’s policy on food additives, towards an assessment of the latest Hamlet at Stratford, when I came upon a piece headed THE BATTLE OF POMERIGGIO: THE ESTABLISHMENT CLOSES RANKS.
The facts of the libel were set out and the progress of the action reported. Cris was depicted as one of the much-favoured ‘great and good’, a liberal millionaire who had a large country house, belonged to the best clubs and knew all the ‘best’ people. Dick Dunster, ‘no stranger to Informer readers’, was the first investigative journalist to expose this hollow man who, ‘through his sway over Megapolis TV, exercises considerably more power over the nation than his close friend the Prime Minister’
Dunster Page 19