‘What a strange place to choose to live,’ Charlie Vosper whispered loudly.
Paul guided him back onto the path. ‘It has its charm, inspector. Away from the hurly burly of London.’
‘It’s so damned noisy! Listen to that owl.’
It was noisy. The houseboats creaked a lot, and there was a breeze crackling through the trees.
‘I like the hurly burly of London,’ said Charlie Vosper.
The river formed a natural basin in the bow downstream from the weir, and the basin was lined with houseboats. A colony inhabited by weekend people and actors and retired sea captains. About thirty-five people conspiring to keep out the real world, to preserve a life invented by Kenneth Grahame with an added dash of the King’s Road, Chelsea. An exactly suitable place for Willie Price-Pemberton to pass his declining years. He could sit on the poop deck on Sunday mornings and watch the leggy girls in sailor hats empty the sluices and fetch the milk.
Willie Price-Pemberton claimed that you saw all of life from the poop deck of the Gay Deceiver, or at least all of it that he wanted to see; which was very little. A few female bottoms, a hairy male torso once in a while, the sight of a boat rocking on Sunday afternoons in a still river, and his cat Madge. Willie was an observer now, not a doer. A cat lover.
‘It’s never dark like this in London,’ Charlie Vosper whispered.
‘What do you want to see?’
‘Bloody bogeymen, Temple, that’s what. I keep thinking we’re being followed.’
Paul chuckled. Then he stopped chuckling and laid a hand on Vosper’s arm. ‘Stay still,’ he whispered. ‘We’re being followed.’ The snapping of dry twigs and as he came closer the distinct outline of a man confirmed the fact.
‘Let’s go back,’ urged Charlie. ‘I’ve been warned off—’
‘You’re with me,’ said Paul, ‘remember? I haven’t been warned off.’
‘You’re just not supposed to be here.’
‘That’s right.’
A quick flash of Paul’s pencil torch confirmed that they had reached the Gay Deceiver. The gangplank was moving gently beside them as the breeze took the boat downstream and the tension of its moorings pulled it back, a gentle swaying motion that should be lulling Willie into a deeper, fuller sleep.
While they remained by the gangplank indecisively wondering whether to go back or surreptitiously nip aboard, the footsteps caught up with them and a strong torch was shone in their faces.
Paul took out a cigarette and asked the man for a light.
‘Don’t you dare make a fight for it, Temple,’ said the voice from the darkness.
‘Harry! I should have guessed it was you.’
‘And I guessed that this was where you would be coming. Vosper, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘Just keeping an eye on Mr Temple, sir.’
‘I shall forget I ever saw you here. Now sod off back to London.’
They were interrupted by a voice from the direction of the river. ‘I say there, are you going to be talking all night? Move along, there’s someone trying to get some sleep here!’
‘You aren’t going to sleep yet, Price-Pemberton. Unbatten the hatches and let us aboard.’ Harry strode up the gangplank. He pulled back the tarpaulin over the steering cabin and jumped down. Paul followed. The last they saw of Charlie Vosper that night was the flare of a match as he lit his pipe. A few moments later Charlie went.
‘Go away,’ cried Price-Pemberton. ‘It’s gone twelve o’clock!’
Harry sat at the disused wheel of the boat, took out his hip flask and fortified himself against the damp air. He offered the flask to Paul, who shook his head. ‘All right,’ said Harry, ‘you persuade the silly arse to open up.’
Paul introduced themselves through a tiny open porthole. He explained that they’d come to talk because Sir Philip Tranmere had committed suicide. They thought Willie might be in trouble as well, so they’d come to help. Nothing happened inside the boat. Paul explained that the trouble was all because of Margaret Spender’s diary.
‘You’d better come in,’ said Price-Pemberton. He unbolted the hatch and let them through. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘You remember me. I’m the friendly policeman who investigated Lord Delamore’s death in 1947.’
Price-Pemberton was a small, bald and flabby man with a white face and quick nervous movements. His eyes were surprisingly keen in the inert face. He was wrapped in a voluminous dressing gown, so that when he sat on his bunk he looked like a small Buddha. From the way the houseboat was decorated it was obvious that little Willie pampered himself. Expensive drapes on the walls, rare books and old masters, elegant furniture; what there was in the small bedsitting boat was the very best.
‘I suppose you bullied poor Rover into committing suicide.’
‘Rubbish,’ Harry said cheerfully.
Paul watched suspiciously as Harry settled his bulky frame into a Sheraton chair. He wasn’t at all sure what Harry was doing here. But when Harry sat quietly and unaggressively back and let someone else do the explaining it usually meant trouble. Harry always meant trouble.
‘Sir Philip committed suicide because his exploits during August 1947 were recorded in Margaret Spender’s diary.
‘And the diary is about to be published. I suppose he couldn’t bear the idea of living through all that again.’
Willie Price-Pemberton blinked a few times, but he said nothing. A seal point Siamese cat jumped on to Willie’s lap and he stroked it absentmindedly.
‘The diary names you as the murderer of Lord Delamore.’
‘It was all a long time ago,’ said Willie.
‘Were you Lady Delamore’s lover?’
‘Of course not. I was a junior diplomat, and her husband was very high up in the service—’
‘You made love to her on three recorded occasions.’
A few beads of sweat appeared on Willie’s bald dome. ‘That’s not at all the same thing,’ he said pedantically to the cat. ‘Anyway, she made love to me. I didn’t take the initiative.’
‘I know,’ said Harry. ‘Lady Delamore claimed you were sexually inadequate; that was what she told all your friends. There’s a very amusing description in the diary of you taking a bath at the shooting lodge—’
‘Madge used to do it deliberately. She humiliated men to be revenged on her husband. It’s all in Freud, you know, it’s a perfectly standard behaviour pattern. She took advantage of her husband’s rank to humiliate me.’
Harry was laughing unsympathetically. ‘The diary says you were infatuated with her.’
‘I was much younger at the time. I thought she was a nymphomaniac and I let her fascinate me. But she wasn’t, she only claimed to be a nymphomaniac to make herself more interesting. She was frigid.’
‘I don’t need convincing,’ Harry said indifferently.
‘I’m like everybody else, I just enjoy a good joke. Those neighbours of yours will fall into the river with laughing when they read about you. Little Willie, that’s what they’ll call you again.’
Willie’s hands were trembling as he stroked the cat, and as if it sensed that something was wrong the cat stopped its noisy purring. ‘Would you like a drink?’ Willie asked flatly. ‘I think I need one.’
‘I thought you were never going to offer.’ Harry went instinctively to the galley cupboard where the whisky and soda were kept. He returned with the three glasses and officiated himself. He kept the bottle by him.
‘That was the most hellish summer I’ve ever spent,’ said Willie. ‘The world was a better place, marginally, without Lord Delamore. He deliberately made trouble between Rover Tranmere and me. He thought it amusing.’
Willie Price-Pemberton stared at his whisky and became almost tranquil as he remembered the events.
‘Rover Tranmere was Madge’s lover, not me.’
‘What happened?’ Harry asked.
‘He challenged me to a duel.’
; ‘Isn’t that a little out of date?’ asked Harry.
‘Oh yes, totally. I’d never handled a pistol in my life. But Madge Delamore thought it would be amusing, so I had to meet Rover at dawn. I didn’t really know how to avoid the encounter. They were so excited by their game, and they had this pair of antique duelling pistols.’
Paul was taken aback. ‘Did you know about this?’ he asked Harry.
‘Yes, it’s in the diary. But I didn’t know at the time.’
‘How do you know what’s in the diary?’
‘Ssh,’ he said. ‘Carry on, Willie.’
‘Well, Rover and I fought our duel in a clearing in the woods, the clearing where the third Lord Delamore had been killed in 1792. It was rather a nice morning, actually, with the sun melting through the early morning mists. Lord Delamore was the only other person present, he was the referee or master of ceremonies, whatever it’s called. He brought us together and put us back to back. I remember feeling light-headed, because I thought I was bound to be killed. Rover Tranmere was a very famous soldier. But in fact we walked our fifteen paces, turned and fired at each other, and Lord Delamore dropped to the ground with a bullet in his head.’
Little Willie giggled to himself. ‘Rover and I both ran like mad back to the shooting lodge. I wouldn’t know which of us shot him. But it was an accident.’
‘Do you realise what will happen when this story is published?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes,’ said Willie.
‘You’ll be overwhelmed by reporters and we’ll probably see you on the Frost Programme.’
‘I’ll have another drink,’ said Willie. ‘While there’s still some left.’
Paul was still troubled by the reason behind Harry’s visit; he knew that any good defence lawyer would get little Willie acquitted of any charges. And even Harry knew that because he wasn’t about to make an arrest. They were leaving.
‘Is that all?’ asked Willie.
‘That’s all. I only came to see how you were. Just checking to see whether you were fit and healthy. Come on, Temple, let’s get out before the publicity machine descends on him.’ He shook hands with little Willie. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet a man like you, Mr Price-Pemberton, there isn’t much old-fashioned sense of honour left. And I must admit I enjoy a good laugh.’
Paul followed him up onto the deck. They left Willie Price-Pemberton downstairs, ashen on his bunk, stroking the Siamese cat. He didn’t say goodbye.
They felt their way to the bank in the dark and went slowly off along the towpath. Paul didn’t speak for several minutes.
‘Is that what you did to Sir Philip Tranmere?’ he eventually asked Harry.
‘That’s right. Slightly different dialogue, but the end result was the same.’ They walked on in silence until Harry felt that some justification was required of him.
‘Listen, I don’t ask those silly arses to commit suicide. What I ask is that they keep quiet, go into hiding, hire a good lawyer, anything. But I’m not having them go on television making me look a fool or giving extra impetus to a scandal.’
‘You didn’t do that to Kelby, did you?’
‘Of course not. Kelby wasn’t involved in Delamore’s death.’
They reached the ministry car and climbed inside. The driver moved off at once, and Harry barked: ‘Delamore House’ at him before sinking back into his seat.
Well, at least they hadn’t killed him themselves. He felt rather like crying, but instead he lifted Madge up to his cheek and brushed his face against the fur. Poor Madge: she hadn’t done anything to deserve this. He wondered what would happen to her. Perhaps they’d take her to some hospital and experiment on her. He couldn’t bear the thought of that.
He poured the remaining whisky into a tumbler and tried to compose himself. He lit a cigarette. There was no reason why he shouldn’t chain smoke now. Finish the whole packet. No need to be afraid of cancer. No need to fear any of the usual things, like the neighbours laughing at him or falling into the river and drowning. Although drowning was supposed to be a peaceful death. It was what his father used to do to the kittens.
He sipped at the whisky. The warm excitement flowed through his blood. For the first time in years he felt contented, in control of his own life. He didn’t even feel resentment against the grey block of a man who had drunk most of the whisky. Nor against the young man who’d sat in the corner so aloofly.
Sixty years was enough anyway. He had learned all there was to know about himself, done the things he’d been meant to do and given up early. The past ten years on the boat had been pleasant, but repetitive, even boring really. He was grateful for the sudden intrusion of drama. People would find him interesting, try to remember who he had been, and they would call him enigmatic. He didn’t feel like crying. He felt sad, that was all, nostalgic for someone he had never been. Sad at the failure of it all.
‘Come along, Madge,’ he murmured. ‘Your country calls you.’
He finished the whisky, lit another cigarette, and turned out all the lights. He closed the hatches and tied down the tarpaulins as he left the boat. There was no point, but it was tidy. He wondered absurdly whether to cancel the milk. There was a tear running down his left cheek, he discovered as he smiled. But it was sadness, he told himself, not fear.
‘I can’t leave you behind,’ he whispered to Madge. ‘They’d use your fur for those silly fur coats. It isn’t a fit world for a sensitive cat.’
Madge miaowed loudly in reply. Cats are human too.
He set off upstream along the towpath. He was glad it was so dark. It meant that nobody would see him crying. The couple in the next boat were quarrelling again. Normally he enjoyed listening to their rows. The young man always ended by beating her, and next morning she would appear on deck with some interesting bruises. But tonight he felt that their quarrels were such a waste of life. The girl was young and red haired and full bosomed. She was yelling for help as she always did.
There was a stockbroker in the next boat. He was old, more than sixty-five, grim faced and ruthless. One of these evenings he would die of a heart attack, his false teeth buried in that dull secretary’s buttocks again. It was an inevitable comedy. People spend so much of their time and ingenuity in hard pursuit of love, even stockbrokers, he reflected. Even Mrs Dalgleish, who lived alone in the boat beside the stockbroker. She was the only atheist he knew who bought altar candles and called out Christ in the night. Even the young married couple along the moorings hadn’t settled down to watching television; they swopped partners at weekends with trendy friends from the London suburbs. He wondered whether to feel sad for them all. The big boat belonged to Captain Blair, who drank a bottle of rum every day and kept falling off the gangplank. Captain Blair missed the life of adventure he’d been used to at Gosport. A small man with ginger whiskers and red eyeballs.
All of life, he murmured to himself as he looked back at the thirty-five boats concealed in the night. There wasn’t really anything more, except the diplomatic corps and shooting holidays and the world behind the television screen. Maybe there had been, in the early years of the century, but not since 1947.
Madge was struggling to get away. It was the noise of the weir that frightened her. But the noise was partly why they had come to this spot: it would drown the shouts if his nerve at the last moment failed him. He knelt on the ground by the iron causeway across the weir and tied a piece of cord to Madge’s collar. He tied a brick to the other end of the cord. It was a heavy brick from the derelict wall of the old lock, already soaked with water.
‘It’s all for the best,’ he said to the cat. ‘You’ll be safer.’
He carried her and the brick to the centre of the iron causeway. She was beginning to panic; the deep pool of water beneath them was black and invisible. The falling water roaring over the weir reflected white shimmers and stars from somewhere. The cat suddenly wriggled free, scratching his hands in a final determined leap. She fell nine feet into the water, but he didn’t hear the splash
.
That was what happened, he thought self-pityingly, to people who depended on him. He tossed the last cigarette away and wished he had drunk some more whisky. He was a coward. He wiped the tears away, and then realised it was unnecessary. No point in taking off his clothes either. He put up his hand to hold his nose and jumped.
The cries for help were lost in the deafening roar of the weir, and by the time his body drifted away from the swirling water below the falls he was dead.
The little grey-haired old lady was as daunting as Steve had described her. She kissed Harry on the cheek, which showed nerve, and as she offered Paul a frail hand to shake she told him he was too good looking. ‘I prefer my men a little more rugged,’ she said. ‘You look more suitable for the drawing room. Why don’t you sit down?’
Paul sat down.
‘I’ve sent poor Simpson to bed,’ she explained. ‘Young people need their sleep, I seem to remember. And when Simpson is kept out of his bed after one o’clock he smashes plates and yawns as he opens the door. Harry, darling, will you pour Mr Temple whatever he drinks and help yourself to the whisky?’
Harry poured the whiskies.
‘I had the pleasure of meeting your wife, Mr Temple, yesterday or last month. Such a charming girl, and very persistent. I hope she discovered whatever she wanted to know from me?’
‘Yes, she did,’ said Paul. ‘She confirmed that you had Margaret Spender’s diary.’
She laughed. ‘My son gave it to me. He thought I’d be hurt by what poor Margaret had written of Dickie and myself. He’s a dutiful boy, but conventional in a rather tiresome way. I sometimes wish I’d never gone through with all that messy business of childbirth. I might have kept my youth now. I found the diary highly amusing. And it brought back so many fond memories. Didn’t you think, Harry?’
‘I feel happier now that the gossip can’t be authenticated.’
‘I’d forgotten how amusing my late husband was. He used to make love in his socks and vest, which apparently Margaret Spender hated. That was something I had forgotten.’
‘Come on, Madge,’ said Harry, ‘let’s get it over with.’
Paul Temple and the Kelby Affair Page 9