by David Nobbs
The following day, all that was changed. Derek Parsonage rang him at the office.
‘You said you were going to France tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve thought of something, which I thought I ought to tell you before you go. I suppose you’re surrounded by colleagues.’
‘Yes.’
Henry looked up at Ginny, pounding the keys as if she were reporting World War Three, not a persistent smell of sewage which was upsetting market traders.
‘I presume all this is top secret?’
‘Yes.’
‘So I’ll talk in such a way that you can answer “yes” or “no”. Thoughtful, aren’t I?’
‘Yes.’
Helen looked up from her piece on summer hats and blew him a tiny kiss. It floated among the specks of dust in a brief ray of sunshine. He grinned at her. Ted scowled, with mock jealousy that hid real jealousy.
‘I thought about what you said, and I remembered something which hadn’t seemed significant at the time. You remember the compère, Monsieur Emile?’
‘Yes.’
Denzil looked up from his piece on theatre stars who looked forward to the spring because they were keen gardeners, and he also blew Henry a little kiss. Henry grinned.
‘Monsieur Emile and Teddy had a most tremendous row. Did you hear about that?’
‘No.’
Terry Skipton raised his heavily lidded eyes exaggeratedly, his news sense awakened by Henry’s intensity.
‘Teddy caught Monsieur Emile with his hands in the till. He gave him a month’s notice. You never heard about this?’
‘No.’
Gordon gave him a thumbs-up, a tribute to his brevity from the king of ellipsis.
‘I heard their argument. Monsieur Emile didn’t realize I was there. He said, “You’ll regret this.” Teddy said, “Je ne regrette rien.” Emile said, “So! Zis is typical. You mock a great French artiste.” He was livid. At the time I didn’t think there was anything in it.’
‘No.’
Colin gave him a gap-toothed smile, friendly, warm, innocent of all deviousness. It made him feel wretched.
‘Now that I know what I know now, I’m inclined to take a different view.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s it, Henry.’
‘Thank you very much indeed,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve nearly finished the article, but I’ll certainly try to introduce the budgerigar side of things.’ He put the phone down. ‘Bloody pets,’ he announced, to the newsroom at large.
Monsieur Emile had said that he was planning to open a nightclub in Nice. How much might he have taken from the Cap Ferrat on the night of the fire? Was it inconceivable that the solution of Uncle Teddy’s murder lay not in Thurmarsh at all, but on the Côte d’Azur?
Henry packed with renewed enthusiasm.
26 The Real Cap Ferrat
THE DUKE OF Edinburgh was created Prince Philip, a Bedlington terrier became the first dog to be successfully fitted with a hearing aid, and the Americans were permitted to defend their bases with their own guided weapons, cutting across the previously accepted practice that the RAF had sole control of British air space in war.
In the elegant, small dining-room of a small, elegant hotel in the elegant village of St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, three people were attacking grilled sea-bass with controlled greed. How the British love fish when they’re abroad.
The woman had over-painted lips and startling peroxide hair, which emphasized her age although she thought it hid it. The older man had a large nose festooned with blackheads, as if the waiter had gone berserk with the pepper mill. The younger man was short and podgy and had reverted, in these sophisticated surroundings, into a selfconscious English gawkiness which made him barely recognizable as the accomplished lover he had been in Durham.
‘Teddy loved sea-bass,’ said Auntie Doris.
‘Could we possibly have five minutes without mentioning your first husband?’ said Geoffrey Porringer, who often made things worse by protesting about them.
‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them. ‘Henry’s looked forward to this holiday. Don’t spoil it for him by going on and on about Teddy.’
Geoffrey Porringer dropped his knife and fork with a clatter. ‘I’m spoiling his holiday!’ he said. ‘I’m going on and on about Teddy! I was complaining about you going on and on about him, Doris.’
‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Don’t make a scene. There are Italians and Danes and Dutch here. They’ll think we don’t know how to behave.’
‘I’m sure Teddy knew how to behave,’ said Geoffrey Porringer.
‘Please!’ said Henry.
‘Exactly!’ said Auntie Doris.
‘It’s not me who’s been mentioning Teddy every five minutes,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘I’m well aware, Doris, that I can never hope to be to you exactly what he was.’
‘Please!’ said Henry.
‘No, no,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘Now it’s in the open, let’s have it out. I don’t need reminding of my inferiority, in the husband stakes, at every turn, every bar, every café, every pissoir. “Teddy peed there once!”’
‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris.
‘Please!’ said Henry.
‘Subject closed,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘I shan’t mention Teddy again. Teddy who? Can’t remember.’ He resumed the steady demolition of his sea-bass.
‘It’s just that coming here brings it all back,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘I mean, it is a fact that I had happy times with Teddy and those times still exist in my memory. It doesn’t mean I’m not happy with you, Geoffrey. I am. But, I mean, if by any chance you got burnt to death in a blazing building, and of course I hope that never happens, I’d like to think that one day I might meet some man, which of course wouldn’t be the same, but it’d be a consolation in my old age, and that you’d be pleased, if you could see me, which of course you wouldn’t, being dead, because otherwise I wouldn’t be with this other man, but you know what I mean, if I said, to my new man, who wasn’t the same but was very nice none the less, “Geoffrey liked sea-bass”.’
‘Please!’ said Henry.
In the morning, in their villa after breakfast, Henry announced that he was going for a walk. It was bright and quite warm, but heavy clouds were building up over the mountains and Auntie Doris thought it might rain. He didn’t mind. At least it would be warm rain. And he had to get away from the ghost of Uncle Teddy.
He strolled along a path, between the secretive stone walls of sumptuous villas. There were brief glimpses of tiny, pebbly bays licked up by a gentle blue sea. Ahead rose the partially wooded, mainly rocky slopes of the Alpes Maritimes, their contours untouched by man except for the occasional short viaduct on one of the corniche roads. And beyond, burning white against the blue sky, were the Alps proper, the high mountains. He was here at last. He was excited. His walk proved a tremendous success in every respect except one. He didn’t get away from the ghost of Uncle Teddy.
It was walking along the path towards him, gazing at the boats rocking lazily in the bay. Henry stopped, rigid. It couldn’t be.
It was. The ghost of Uncle Teddy saw him. It too stopped, rigid. It went white, as ghosts should. It turned and hurried away. Henry hurried after it in his flat holiday shoes.
‘Uncle Teddy!’ he called. ‘Uncle Teddy!’
The ghost didn’t stop.
‘Uncle Teddy!’ he called. ‘I have to speak to you. I’m here with Auntie Doris and Geoffrey Porringer.’
The ghost stopped. It turned slowly to face him. Uncle Teddy was wearing natty blue shoes, white trousers and a striped fisherman’s jersey. It was a relaxed, spritely, mediterranean Uncle Teddy, the holiday version of the man Henry had known.
‘Trust you to run me to earth,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Trust bloody you! How did you do it?’
‘You aren’t dead!’
‘Ten out of ten for observation.’
‘But … I mean …’
Uncle Teddy looked astounded. ‘Aren’t you on my trail?’ he said. ‘This isn’t just luck, is it?’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Henry.
‘Oh no,’ grumbled Uncle Teddy. ‘That’s not fair. Are you really with Doris and Geoffrey?’
‘Yes.’
‘They mustn’t see me.’
‘No.’
‘You’d better come to the villa.’
Uncle Teddy’s villa, set back behind a row of colour-washed fishermen’s cottages, was larger than theirs but still comparatively modest. The faint smell of last night’s giant prawns still hung over it, mingling with the scents of sea and pine and thyme and the morning’s fresh coffee.
It was cool and dark in the shuttered villa. A few slats of sunlight dappled the marble floor.
He followed Uncle Teddy into the marble kitchen.
‘So … you didn’t die in the Cap Ferrat?’ he said.
‘How long are you staying?’ asked Uncle Teddy.
‘I’m staying a week. They’re staying two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’
‘You mustn’t meet Auntie Doris.’
‘No. No. How insensitive to come here, with me dead.’
‘You aren’t dead.’
‘They don’t know that.’
‘No, and they mustn’t.’ Why mustn’t they? I’m a journalist. ‘What’s happened, Uncle Teddy? You’ve got to tell me what’s happened.’
‘So either I stay in for a fortnight or I go away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh shut up.’
Uncle Teddy took the coffee tray through into the large living-room cum dining-room. A heavy lace cloth lay on a round dining-table, and there were six high-backed ornate dining-chairs.
‘They’re married,’ said Henry.
‘Ah.’
‘I went to the wedding.’
‘Oh.’
‘Cousin Hilda came.’
‘How is the sniffer?’
‘All right. Getting older.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘You look younger.’
‘I feel younger. I feel rejuvenated.’
Henry stood up.
‘Oh come on, Uncle Teddy,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to give me an explanation.’
‘Why?’ said Uncle Teddy, smiling.
‘I’m a journalist.’
‘Precisely.’
‘What?’
‘I may not want my continued existence to be known.’
‘If I don’t get an explanation that satisfies me, i.e. the truth, I’ll be forced to dig. Burrow for facts. Oh come on, Uncle Teddy. You brought me up as your son. You’re supposedly burnt alive in Thurmarsh. I run into you in Cap Ferrat. You can’t refuse to tell me what’s happened.’
Uncle Teddy remained silent.
‘I know some of it already,’ said Henry. He sipped his coffee. It was good.
‘Oh? What do you know?’
‘I know that Councillors Peter Matheson and Howard Lewthwaite and council official Herbert Wilkinson are in cahoots with property developer Fred Hathersage to buy up an area now called the Fish Hill Complex in order to redevelop it to their mutual advantage. I know the Old Apothecary’s House was destroyed and the Cap Ferrat burnt down to get them out of the way.’
‘My God!’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘You know it all.’
‘Not quite. I presume somebody, probably Fred Hathersage, is paying you a good whack to a numbered Swiss bank account for the destruction of the Cap Ferrat, for which, of course, being dead, you can’t claim insurance.’
‘Right so far. As co-owner, Derek Parsonage gets the insurance. What aren’t you sure of?’
‘One. Who’s the mastermind behind it all?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘Bill Holliday?’
‘No! Bill’s nothing to do with it. He’s totally straight. Honest as the day is long. And if he wasn’t, he’s such an obvious suspect nobody’d ever dare associate with him.’
‘Fred Hathersage?’
‘Brawn, not brain. Fred constructs what others plan.’
‘Peter Matheson?’
‘Where do Peter Matheson, Fred Hathersage and Bill Holliday live?’
‘Thurmarsh.’
‘Where do I live?’
‘You! But you’re my uncle.’
‘Henry, don’t look so upset. You were never supposed to get fond of me. Oh God, let’s have some champagne.’
Uncle Teddy set off for the kitchen.
‘I don’t feel much like champagne,’ said Henry, ‘It’s meant to be for rejoicing.’
‘Don’t have any, then,’ called out Uncle Teddy.
‘On the other hand, I need a drink,’ shouted Henry. ‘If you’re having champagne, it’d be less trouble if I had it too.’
Uncle Teddy returned with a bottle of champagne and two elegant fluted glasses. He opened the bottle smoothly, and poured the champagne.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look so solemn.’
‘Uncle Teddy!’ said Henry. ‘A man was murdered so you could drink champagne.’
‘Henry!’ Uncle Teddy was shocked. ‘Nobody was murdered! Thurmarsh isn’t Chicago. I’m not a killer. Property, yes. People, no.’
‘So whose was the body in the Cap Ferrat?’
‘The headmaster of Thurmarsh Grammar School.’
‘What??’
‘His name, I believe, was Crowther.’
‘You … murdered … Mr Crowther!’ Was there the faintest awe alongside Henry’s horror?
‘No! I’ve told you! Nobody was murdered. He died of natural causes.’
‘How?’
‘Of a heart attack, while strung up by a rope from a ceiling, entirely encased in chain-mail, in an exotic brothel run by Derek Parsonage in Commercial Road, Thurmarsh.’
‘Oh my God! Mr Crowther??’
‘Yes. Your respected headmaster got his sexual thrills from wearing armour and being strung up on a rope.’
‘You call that natural causes?’
‘It was natural to him. And it’s not as uncommon a type of thing as you might think.’
‘But he lectured us on moral values!’
‘Hypocrisy is also not as uncommon as you might think.’
‘How dare he work off his guilt feelings on me?’
‘Mr Crowther knew there was a risk,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘It was part of the thrill. He died. Nobody was to blame for his death. We just hushed it up and used it. Well, shame if it had got out. Disgrace for his school. Disgrace for his family.’
‘Closure for Derek Parsonage’s exotic brothel.’
‘Well yes, that too, I suppose. It really was incredibly convenient all round and I saw the possibilities straightaway.’
‘But the body was identified as yours.’
‘Money opens most doors.’
‘What would you have done if Mr Crowther hadn’t died?’
‘Gone missing. Changed my identity. As I have. Much more risky, though, if people were looking for me.’
Henry stood up.
‘What a story!’ he said. ‘Headmaster of grammar school dies strapped in armour in exotic brothel, which poses as international Bible exporters, is subsequently burnt in deliberate destruction of Regency nightclub and is falsely identified as owner of said club, who’s living in South of France under assumed name while Tory and Labour councillors, council official and prominent local businessman, who employ stuntman to destroy another old landmark, carry out his master plan to make fortunes out of destruction and rebuilding of large area of central Thurmarsh. I’ll get an award for this.’
Uncle Teddy poured him some more champagne.
‘Cheers,’ said Henry. He sat down, exhausted, bewildered. ‘Things like this … they don’t happen to people you know. They’re the sort of things you read about.’
‘Or don’t read abo
ut.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t print a word of this, Henry.’
Henry went white. ‘You haven’t been drinking!’ he said. ‘The champagne’s poisoned.’
‘Henry!’ Uncle Teddy shouted. ‘For God’s sake, Henry. I’m not a murderer.’ He regained control of himself. ‘The champagne is not poisoned.’ He took a swig, to add force to his words. ‘Delicious.’
‘Then why am I not going to publish it?’ said Henry.
‘Because of the hurt it’ll cause.’
‘What hurt?’
‘To Mrs Crowther and her family, who’ll be deeply, deeply shocked. To me, who brought you up as my son, and will end my life behind bars instead of living here. To Geoffrey Porringer, who’ll discover he’s married a bigamist. To Doris, who’ll discover she’s a bigamist and will learn that the pathetic illusion that she clings to – viz., that I’d ever have gone back to her after she’d betrayed me – is an illusion and that I have a younger and prettier woman. To Cousin Hilda, whom the family scandal will kill, in spirit if not in body. To your series, “Proud Sons of Thurmarsh”, which will be revealed as the biggest load of crap in the history of British journalism. To Howard Lewthwaite, a good man doing bad things out of love, whose career will be destroyed. To Naddy Lewthwaite, who will die in a year or two in an English winter. To Hilary Lewthwaite, your fiancée, an unstable young lady who has tried to kill herself. To Sam Lewthwaite, who will be brought up in a family ruined by tragedy. For what? A bit of skulduggery uncovered. A two-day sensation. More champagne?’
‘But …’
‘I know. You have a story that’s dynamite, could transform your tottering career, and you can’t use a word of it. Rather a shame. Better drown your sorrows.’
Henry sipped his champagne and thought with rising shame of all the lies he’d been told, from Derek Parsonage fobbing him off about Monsieur Emile to Uncle Teddy planning a champagne reunion with Auntie Doris and … oh god … saying, ‘I love you, son.’
What would he do? Would he go ahead with his story? Should he go ahead? How did you weigh the value of a general principle of truthfulness against the particular sorrows that your action would visit upon the innocent and guilty alike? He felt weakened by all these revelations.