Sher’s smile was rare, but singularly sweet. He smiled now. Willie looked from one of them to the other, and wondered who had been fooling whom.
That had been at the end of the first series. The second had been almost equally successful, and so had the first episodes of the third. With the last half-dozen, however, there was a decline in viewing figures, and although the decline was not steep it was steady. Willie found himself lunching again with the Director. There was a new Assistant Director. He wore huge horn-rims, a jacket that buttoned up to his neck, and flared trousers. He used words like viable, and was much in favour of what he called drama in the image of the modern. He was also fond of the expression let’s face it, which received considerable play now.
‘Let’s face it, Willie, this Holmes series has had it. The marvel to me is that it’s stayed up as well as it has, when you consider the outdated image in which it was conceived.’
The Director was eating coquille St Jacques. He paused between mouthfuls to look inquiringly at Willie.
‘What you call the outdated image is just the reason it got those terrific figures.’
‘Not any more. You simply have to face it, something that’s right outside the modern idiom like this can’t last. The way I see it, you’ve either got to modernise it somehow or pack it in.’
‘Ridiculous,’ Willie said. ‘Just a few episodes that are not so good, you can always get those at any time. Because of that you want to stop one of the most successful series ever made.’
‘Modernise or–’ The Assistant Director glared through his horn-rims. Both of them turned to the Director, who was finishing his coquille. He swallowed the last mouthful, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, looked from one to the other of them, and sighed.
The result of this luncheon, as of many similar luncheons, was a compromise. The fourth Sherlock Holmes series was commissioned, but concessions were made to the image of the modem, specifically that Irene Adler should appear as a permanent antagonist to Sherlock Holmes, and that the original stories should no longer be sacrosanct. The new series had been launched with a publicity campaign in which the lead article announced: ‘Sherlock Holmes versus Irene Adler. Has the Great Detective Met His Match?’ Would the publicity have an effect on viewing figures?
Chapter Eight An Affair of the Heart
At the Croydon sale Val bought a couple of figures which she thought were very good Staffordshire, a Pembroke table in excellent condition, and what might with some generosity have been considered two Morland watercolours. The pictures were in any case extremely cheap, and perfectly saleable in the Greenwich shop.
On the way from Croydon to Greenwich she pushed the car along, as she almost always did, with zest and determination. In her experience, men hated to be passed by women drivers, and when she could pull out and pass a fiercely trilbied man, or a man with a cigar sticking out at an angle from the corner of his mouth, she felt a small surge of pleasure.
Come on now, she thought as she drove up the Croydon road to Beckenham at nearly twenty miles an hour beyond the speed limit, come on my beauty, get past that Rover with the thick-necked stockbroker rhinoceros at the wheel, yes you’re past, and now a quick dash by the greengrocer sheep in his Jag, show him what life’s like, rub his nose in it, teach him women drivers aren’t all just placid cows who make way for men on the road. Going up Beckenham Hill and into Bromley Road the traffic was nose to tail, with no chance of passing, but on the turn into Brownhill Road she got in the lane going straight ahead, turned right and cut in on a Mercedes coupé driven by an elegant young man. The Merc flashed, which made her feel good, because she had always wanted to own a Merc. As she came up to traffic lights the other car drew level. The young man wound down his passenger window and used a number of four-letter words. She used some similar language back, before turning away from him down Burnt Ash Hill. Such behaviour, Val, my girl, she said to herself, you should be ashamed.
The Val Haynes who sat behind a steering wheel was a different person from the composed, middle-ageing woman who sold antiques and ran a household efficiently. She drove as though she were in competition with every car that drew level with her, and indeed she often thought in this way, saying to herself: ‘Car in front at Spratt’s Corner (or next road junction, or next roundabout) is the winner.’ Driving in London gave her limited opportunities, and she did not much like it. Her favourite driving was on motorways. There she flashed cars that stayed in the fast lane and refused to move over, and overtook them from the inside lane if she had to, or engaged in races against sports cars that fancied their luck. She would return from a trip to a sale at Nottingham or Bristol, sated as a cat who has illicitly swallowed cream.
The shop was off Romney Road, near the Maritime Museum and the Naval College, in an up-and-coming area that was still not quite fashionable, so that she had been able to buy a leasehold cheap. Fritz, who ran it for her, was a German in his fifties who had been a prisoner of war in Britain, and had never gone back. He was a skilful repairer of slightly damaged pieces. His knowledge of antique furniture was scrappy, but this meant that he did what she told him without question, and that suited her very well. If she made mistakes occasionally, they were not pointed out to her.
She spent a couple of hours in the shop, and then drove sedately back to central London. At four o’clock she was in a flat not much more than a mile away from the rehearsal room where a troublesome scene in which Sherlock Holmes discovered that Irene Adler was behind the theft of the naval treaty was being played, in bed with Willie Lowinsky. They had made love, and she was smoking, tapping out the ash in her careful way.
‘You know, Willie, I often wonder why I’m doing this.’
‘Because it’s nice.’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, it is nice, but that’s not the reason.’
‘Because you’re nice. Because I adore you. Didn’t I say so that day in Weybridge?’
‘That was just a ploy in the game to get Sher to Baker Street.’
‘Darling, I don’t know why you don’t believe it when I say I adore you. I always have.’
She laughed. ‘If you meant a word of it, you’d sound ridiculous. For that matter, I don’t see why you do it. With me, I mean, when there must be so many younger birds available.’ She put out the cigarette, propped herself on an elbow and looked at him. ‘Except that you’re losing your hair and getting fat, so perhaps there aren’t all that many available.’
‘One of the things I love is you are so frank,’ Willie said without conviction. He patted his stomach. ‘I am not so fat.’
‘And there must be plenty who get much more excited in bed.’
‘They are so silly. I love you, Val darling, because you are not silly. I have told you many times I want you to come and live with me.’
‘I’ve heard you say so, yes.’
‘And I mean it.’
She took another cigarette, considered it, put it back. ‘I suppose what I get out of it is some kind of release I don’t get with Sher. He’s not too much in bed you know, he never was. But I sometimes think what we’re both doing is getting back at him. Because he’s so successful, because he loves it so much.’
‘You’re talking nonsense.’
‘I am not, and you know it. But I’ll tell you something else. I’ve had almost enough of Sher. I married Sher, but now I’m wedded to Sherlock. I used to think it would be better when it all ended, now I’m not so sure.’
He made an irritated gesture.
‘Tell me, Willie, is it going to stop, will this be the last series?’
‘You know I can’t answer that. When you’re working on a series you don’t start talking about whether another one will follow it.’
‘You mean to tell me there wasn’t an argument about whether to pack it in when the last lot ended?’
Willie jumped out of bed and stood glaring at her, a radish not only forked but hairy. ‘I love you, my darling, but one thing I must tell you. I don’t go to bed to have
a business discussion, that I keep for the office.’ He began to put on his clothes. She watched him with the total composure he envied, then said that it was time for her to be going anyway, Sher would be home soon.
‘You have been very clever, Mr Holmes,’ Sarah Peters said. ‘My congratulations.’
‘Madame, if I may return the compliment, your own skill and ingenuity were very great. You erred, if I may say so, only in choosing so altogether foolish – I’m sorry.’
The continuity girl said, ‘You erred, if I may say so, only in your choice of such an inferior collaborator.’
Sher repeated the lines correctly, took two hesitant steps towards Sarah. ‘Goodbye. In future, keep out of my way. Next time–’
The prompt girl said, ‘I advise you to keep out of my way.’
‘Goodbye. I advise you to keep out of my way. Next time–’
Sarah took her own two steps towards him. They were very close. She was wearing a chocolate brown trouser suit, and she was tall enough to be only a couple of inches below him. She smelt of cigarette smoke and gin. ‘Next time, Mr Holmes? Is that a threat or a promise?’
They looked into each other’s eyes. Then Sher turned and strode from the room, opening an imaginary door. Sarah stood looking after him with an enigmatic half-smile.
‘Fine,’ Richard Spain said. ‘That’s it for today, loves. Tomorrow morning ten-thirty, and let’s all of us be here on time, okay? Still lots to do.’
The cast began to talk to each other. Their voices buzzed in Sher’s ears like the humming of insects, Basil’s rising above the others with mosquito shrillness. Outside a heavy lorry ground its gears. He felt as though a clasp had been put round his forehead. ‘Richard.’
‘Sher. I wanted to have a word.’
‘I’m sorry about the lines. The trouble is they’re so wrong. I advise you to keep out of my way, Holmes could never have said that, it’s totally out of character.’
‘Is that why you look at me at the end as if I were Myra Breckenridge?’ Sarah asked cheerfully.
Richard smiled nervously. He was young. ‘Let’s huddle in a comer and talk about that last scene, shall we?’ They sat round a table on small hard chairs. ‘Sher, you’re meant to be half in love with Sarah, but she’s right, from the way you play it nobody would know.’
The band was clamped a little tighter. ‘In love, that’s absurd. We know Sherlock Holmes never fell in love with anybody. What does Watson say? “He never spoke of the softer passions save with a gibe or a sneer–”
‘Bugger what Watson says. Sher, love, we’re working on a script, remember? If you say you actually can’t speak the lines, they’ll have to go. But they’re important, and something will have to go in instead. It’s no good referring me back to the sacred texts.’
It was all perfectly reasonable. With an effort he controlled himself, and said gently, ‘I see that, Richard. I’ll get the lines right tomorrow. But there’s one other thing. The ending. You roll the credits at the end as usual, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And you always roll them over a picture of me – walking down Baker Street or taking tobacco out of the Persian slipper, or sitting by the fire with Watson. You’re rolling this time over the picture of Sarah standing there after I’ve gone out. You must see that’s wrong. Nothing to do with you, Saran, it’s just that the stories are about Sherlock Holmes, and they have to begin and end with him, like the Maigret series.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Sarah got up.
Sher flung out a hand in a commanding Holmesian gesture. ‘Just a moment.’
She turned and faced them, tall, dark and elegant. ‘As far as I’m concerned you can roll your credits over whatever you fucking well please, Mr Sherlock Holmes.’
She walked away. Richard got up as though to call her back, then sat down again. Sher put a restraining hand on his arm and said, still in the Holmesian vein, ‘Let her go.’ He disliked women in trousers, and it disturbed him that she was so tall. He was five foot ten, not quite tall enough for the ideal Sherlock, but it was surely stupid to choose an Irene who was only a couple of inches shorter. He thought of mentioning this, but decided against it. After all, the casting choice had been Willie’s.
‘You shouldn’t have said that.’
‘She ought not to be so touchy, it’s absurd. And I must say I do dislike hearing women use that word. Old-fashioned, I dare say.’ To his surprise he found himself saying the very thing about which he had been going to keep silent. ‘And she’s too tall for the part.’
‘Sher, there’s no point in arguing about that, and you know it. And the next time you’ve got something to say which affects another member of the cast, I’d be glad if you’ll say it when we’re alone. I’ll speak to Willie about rolling the credits if you really want me to, it was his idea to have an occasional variation. But you’ve got to get more into that last sequence. And there’s a passage in Act One I’m not happy about. It’s when you see Irene for the first time…’
They talked about it for nearly half an hour. Then Sheridan Haynes went out into the dark cold January afternoon, a wind blustering and biting against him. A hint of snow was in the air. He wrapped his overcoat around him, as he walked back to Baker Street. The traffic was dense, the yellow lights above him shone like flowers on concrete stalks, the car lights were different flowers, yellow or winking red, but all of them poisonous, staining the atmosphere and turning the people who drove them into robots, little mechanical figures going through jerky motions with hand and foot. It was a pleasure, and it was a gift also, to be able to transform this world in his imagination so that the monstrous electric flowers became soft yellow gaslight, and the people crowding the pavements turned into the decorously clothed men and the gracious women of long ago. The mystery of that world was recreated for him, the present faded away. When a voice said, ‘Good evening, Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ he heard the words without surprise.
It was Cassidy, and with him another traffic warden, a little apple-cheeked man who wore the same uniform but with two stripes on the flash at his shoulder that said ‘Traffic Warden’. It was this man who had spoken. ‘Have I got the quotation right, sir?’
A surge of pure pleasure went through him. It was like meeting a compatriot in a strange country. ‘Yes, but you’re not the person who should be saying it. Still, I’m glad you study the master.’
‘It was Irene Adler in disguise, I know.’
‘This is Mr Johnson,’ Cassidy said. ‘He’s the controller for our area.’
‘That’s right. Joe Johnson’s the name. I go around the area keeping an eye on things, and when Cassidy here told me he often passed the time of day with you, I thought, if I ever see him I’m going to chance it and speak. I hope I haven’t offended.’
‘Of course not.’
Cassidy blew his nose. ‘He’s always talking about you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I ought to be moving.’
Johnson looked after him. ‘A very good man, honest as the day. In the army once, then in the police. The right type, though he’s a bit of a miserable devil.’ He dismissed Cassidy. ‘Mr Haynes, it’s true that I’m a great admirer of yours as well as of Sherlock Holmes. I wonder whether you’d do me the honour one day of coming round and having a cup of tea or a glass of beer with me at home. I’m a bit of a Sherlock Holmes collector myself, and one or two of my things might interest you.’
It was the kind of suggestion he had often refused, but the pleasure he had taken in the greeting and their brief conversation made him say yes. Johnson wrote down an address in Shepherd’s Bush, and they fixed a date. He arrived home in a good temper. Val was already home, and greeted him with the calmness that was one of the things he valued most in their relationship.
Chapter Nine The Third Killing
Sue Devenish did not exactly think of herself as a perfect wife, but she tried to behave like the perfect wives she had read about in women’s magazines. ‘When your man comes home with the look on his face that m
eans he’s had a terrible day, don’t start off by telling him the fright you had when Johnny fell and cut his knee. Sit him down in his favourite armchair, mix him a good strong drink, have one yourself, and settle yourself to listen. Your turn will come later.’ So on this particular evening when Roger came home with that certain look, she did not reproach him for being late without ringing to tell her, but brought him a large whisky and herself a gin and tonic, sat on the arm of his chair, and asked him what was up.
‘Does it show that much? Sorry. Just that the AC balled me out this morning, in the nicest possible way, about what they call the Karate Killings. What lines were we following, had I considered the possibility that Gladson’s murder was nothing to do with the first one, or that it was politically motivated, and all that. As though we hadn’t talked all that over fifty times. He’s a nice bloke, the AC, but not too bright.’
Although other wives were almost always impressed when they learned that her husband was a Chief Superintendent in the CID, Sue had the feeling that there was something not altogether nice about being married to a policeman. However, she knew that a wife must keep up with her husband’s work, and she was interested in the Karate Killings because, like many of their neighbours in Wimbledon, she had had a certain admiration for Sir Pountney Gladson.
‘Are you sure it’s nothing to do with politics? I should have thought–’
‘I’m not sure about anything, not even that it was a karate chop. A lot of people are pleased he’s out of the way, all sorts of Lefties and Maoists and blacks. But that’s different from knocking him off, and in his own car too. If there wasn’t a link with the other killing – through the way it was done – then my bet would be that it was a personal job. He was a pretty fair bastard, and he seems to have had a finger in some odd pies. He was mixed up with the Claber gang, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had something to do with it. But that would just be instinct, no facts.’ He looked gloomily at his whisky, drained the glass, and patted her backside. ‘How are the kids?’
A Three Pipe Problem Page 5