Publish and Be Murdered

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Gavin Wells, our then editor, was losing his grip slightly. Tended to turn up in the office drunk sometimes after lunch. Now, he still did the job reasonably well, the journal came out on time and there was no reason for the trustees even to have known unless Willie told them. And in the normal course of events they probably wouldn’t have minded much. In those days, journalists were allowed to be a bit raffish and badly behaved.

  ‘However, there was the matter of Gavin’s savage attacks on aspects of Establishment behaviour. The trustees saw him as the severest critic of the Right and failed to grasp that he was also its best friend. So with Willie dropping poison in their ears they geared themselves up to the “a-word-in-your-ear-my-dear-chap-don’t-you-think-perhaps-it’s-time-to-make-way-for-someone-else?” version of the bum’s rush. So exit Gavin and enter Willie.

  ‘It wasn’t a nice way to treat someone who had given him a second chance and always been encouraging and kind, but then Willie wasn’t a nice person.’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with him?’

  ‘Distant. He dished out the work and I did it.’

  ‘Would you describe him as a considerate employer?’

  Phoebe Somerfield let out a yelp of laughter. ‘What a hilarious idea. Willie had a very simple view of employees. They were there to do his work as well as their own, while he got the credit. It was one of the reasons he was so keen to keep all the leaders anonymous. It enabled him to take the credit for any that attracted praise, and to cover up how little work he actually did.’

  ‘But was he considerate in terms of pay and benefits and so on?’

  ‘For some reason that is quite beyond my understanding, having paid me very little for years, Willie doubled my salary a few weeks ago. I know Robert Amiss had something to do with it, but I can’t imagine how he persuaded Willie. But double it he did, so I suppose you could say he was treating me twice as well as usual.’

  ‘Are you likely to succeed him as editor?’

  She laughed again—this time scornfully. ‘The Wrangler is not the sort of place that would choose somebody like me.’

  ‘I understand there were tensions within the paper over a change of direction which Mr Lambie Crump appeared to be conducting.’

  ‘No doubt of that. A vivid example of Willie’s lack of scruple.’

  ‘You minded, then?’

  ‘I minded. But I don’t murder people, even if I disagree with them. I hoped it would be just a passing phase. As indeed, it has proved to be.’

  ‘And do you think any of your colleagues might have minded enough to murder?’

  ‘None, Mr Milton. With all our failings, journalists are somewhat more tolerant than that. I think you’ll have to look elsewhere.’

  ***

  When she had left, Tewkesbury looked solemnly at Milton. ‘Of course there is one exception to the ideological argument. I mean, if you look at who has gained most from the death of Lambie Crump, it is Robert Amiss, whom we haven’t yet talked to at any length.’

  ‘I’ve talked to him at considerable length.’

  ‘But there’s no record of the conversation, sir.’

  ‘No. I didn’t consider it necessary. He hadn’t any information other than what he gave in his original statements. And he has no more idea than we have why anyone should have wished to murder either Potbury or Crump.’

  ‘But he would really seem to be our Number One suspect, wouldn’t he? He had the best opportunity to murder Potbury, if Potbury was murdered. And it’s pretty suspicious that he hit the same obstacle as Lambie Crump but didn’t fall. And then he ends up as editor.’

  ‘Two problems there, Sergeant. Why should he have gone out of his way to discover Lambie Crump’s body? And how could he have known he would become editor? Or, to be precise, acting editor. He’s only holding the fort, after all.’

  ‘He could have decided it would be a clever bluff to find the body.’

  ‘The cleverness is lost on me, Sergeant. However, go on. How do you deal with the fact that he cannot have expected to become editor?’

  ‘That’s what he says, sir.’

  ‘That’s what Lord Papworth says.’

  ‘But how can he have known what Amiss was thinking?’

  ‘He knows that the solution of having him as editor hadn’t occurred to any of the others he consulted, so it would have been bizarre for Amiss to have gone to such lengths for such an incredibly long shot. And, incidentally, he tried hard to turn the job down.’

  ‘Or appeared to, sir.’

  Milton felt weary. ‘Tewkesbury, it is admirable that you explore every option, however improbable. But I really recommend that you forget this one. Apart from anything else, I’ve know Robert Amiss for some years. And indeed he has in the past been of considerable assistance to us. In so far as one can say it of anyone, he’s above suspicion.’

  ‘In so far as one can say it of anyone, sir. So we should not rule him out.’

  Visions of head-butting this git floated wistfully through Milton’s mind. Instead, he said, ‘Thank you for that advice, Sergeant. I shall bear it in mind.’

  Irony, he noticed, was lost on Tewkesbury, who sat back looking pleased with himself. Milton dialed Winterton’s number.

  ***

  ‘Wilfred Parry and Dwight Winterton were as useless as Phoebe Somerfield,’ reported Milton to Amiss. ‘Parry didn’t seem to have a clue about anything. He genuinely didn’t seem to know about Piers Papworth and the trustees and he certainly had no motive for knocking off Lambie Crump, with whom he said he had always got on well. You’ve obviously been upsetting him: he said The Wrangler was going to pot now that an arrogant amateur was throwing his weight about. I never thought I’d hear you described as arrogant.’

  Amiss chuckled. ‘He’s going to be more upset when I’ve finished with him. Willie had let him use the literary pages to promote himself, his chums and those he wanted to get on the right side of. I’ve just begun the process of clipping his wings, and if he doesn’t play ball he’ll be out.’

  Milton gazed at him in amazement. ‘You’re certainly toughening up fast.’

  ‘Wilfred makes it easy. He’s such a pretentious shit. I threw back at him today a sneering and pseudy denunciation of Trollope as a pedestrian clock-watcher and told him if he didn’t understand that the glory of Trollope is his humanity, he shouldn’t be writing for The Wrangler. Bugger him. Anyway, how did you find Dwight?’

  ‘Amusing, but he didn’t know any more than you’d already told me. Tewkesbury couldn’t stand him, of course, and now has him as Number One ideological suspect. Now I want to talk to Ben and Marcia and just want your advice on whether to see them them together or apart.’

  ‘Depends what you’re looking for. That is, if you’re seeking to trip them up on alibis or whatever—as presumably you fuzz always do—you will prefer to see them separately, but if you want news, views or opinions, my guess is you’re better off with the two of them together. I’ve had the odd conversation with them individually and it’s been dull. They spark off each other like gunpowder and matches.

  ‘I’d suggest too that it might do no harm to see them on their own territory. They’re more relaxed there.’

  ‘OK,’ said Milton equably. ‘Thanks, Robert.’ And with a, ‘be seeing you,’ he went back to his office and dialed 14. ‘Mr Baines?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said a voice, which sounded extremely cheerful despite the shout of ‘halfwit’ coming from further away.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Milton here. Would it possible for me and my colleague to pop in and see you and Miss Whitaker?’

  ‘Yes, sure. Any time.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Baines. My colleague and I will be along shortly.’

  Tewkesbury looked at him with b
afflement. ‘Do I gather, sir, that we’re going to the room of these two…proofreaders? Yet more senior people came here. Isn’t that a little…’

  ‘…Egalitarian, Tewkesbury? I thought you’d be in favour of that. What’s bothering you?’

  ‘It just seemed inappropriate to me, sir.’

  ‘I’m not with you, Tewkesbury. I thought snobbery had been abolished along with everything else, under the government of which you are so proud.’

  Tewkesbury looked at him resentfully. Milton felt a stab of guilt at the realization that he was beginning to sound like a gung ho right-winger. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. I was just pulling your leg. Perhaps I should explain that I have been advised that these people will talk best on their own territory. So that’s where I’m going to see them.’

  ‘Advised by…?’

  ‘Robert Amiss.’

  ‘And you don’t think that he had an ulterior motive?’

  ‘No, I don’t. And I really don’t wish to have this conversation once more. You’re clutching at straws. If you’re going to be a successful policeman, you have got to let your pet theories go, along with your prejudices. And you have to have the humility to listen to people who know things you don’t and have qualities you don’t have. Among the virtues which are undervalued by the police are intuition and imagination and I commend them to you. And one of the reasons I trust the judgement of Robert Amiss is that he has shown himself to have considerable stores of both. I have also always found him trustworthy.’

  He stood up. ‘Now, are you coming with me?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Tewkesbury. He sounded almost meek.

  ***

  Milton knocked and was bade ‘enter’ by a contralto and bass duo. He looked around him disbelievingly at the vast spread of paper and the fog of smoke. ‘I’m Chief Superintendent Milton and this is Sergeant Tewkesbury.’

  ‘Just call us Ben and Marcia,’ said the small man who peered over the huge desk. ‘Do sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, but…’

  ‘Tell them where to sit, you silly bugger,’ said the hennaed woman. ‘How are they supposed to know?’

  ‘Well,’ said Ben, considering the matter judiciously, ‘if I were you, Chief Superintendent, I would perch over there on the Financial Times pile while your sergeant sits opposite you on The Economist.’

  Tewkesbury looked nervously at the pile to which he was directed.

  ‘It’s all right, Sergeant,’ said Marcia. ‘You’ve got a small enough bum to be accommodated here.’

  Milton seated himself easily, Tewkesbury gingerly. As a militant anti-smoker, he was clearly in a state of outrage. Ben and Marcia looked at them benignly.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you…’

  ‘But you’re conducting an investigation,’ said Ben.

  ‘Into the recent unfortunate incidents,’ proffered Marcia.

  ‘Concerning our late lamented employer,’ said Ben. ‘William Lambie Crump, gentleman of letters…’

  ‘And boulevardier,’ added Marcia.

  They both burst into sniggers.

  ‘It sounds to me,’ said Milton mildly, ‘as if you don’t lament him much.’

  ‘Mourn,’ said Ben. ‘Lament isn’t a transitive verb.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Marcia.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘It fucking is.’

  Ben started to shout as loudly as Marcia, and then caught sight of Tewkesbury’s horrified face. ‘I’ll look it up,’ he said in a mollifying tone.

  There was a pause in the proceedings for a few moments, and then, in a chastened voice, he said, ‘Sorry, Marcia. Don’t know what got into me. It’s both, of course.’

  He threw down the dictionary and turned his attention back to Milton. ‘Where were we?’

  Milton tried and failed not to smile. ‘You were not lamenting him.’

  Ben smiled back. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Though we miss him a bit,’ said Marcia.

  ‘We were used to him,’ said Ben.

  ‘You can miss anyone when you get used to them,’ said Marcia.

  ‘Even if you don’t like them.’

  Marcia considered the statement judiciously. ‘Even if you despise them.’

  Ben nodded. ‘It was different with Henry.’

  Marcia nodded. ‘We lament him.’

  ‘Really,’ added Ben, ‘when you come to think of it, if you’re making comparisons, Willie Lambie Crump wasn’t fit to breathe the same air as Henry.’

  ‘Henry was a great man,’ offered Marcia.

  ‘With style and substance…’

  ‘And bottom.’

  They sniggered appreciatively once more.

  Milton thought it was time he joined the conversation. ‘Do you think Henry Potbury was murdered?’

  ‘Put it this way,’ said Ben. ‘Anyone who murdered Henry was a bastard.’

  ‘Like anyone who murdered Lambie Crump was a public benefactor,’ said Marcia.

  ‘Therefore,’ added Ben, ‘it’s just a question of looking for bastards with a motive to kill Henry.’

  ‘If there aren’t any,’ pointed out Marcia, ‘it means he wasn’t murdered.’

  ‘Any suggestions?’

  Marcia and Ben looked at each other, Ben compressed his lips. ‘You want a list of bastards or a list of bastards with motives.’

  ‘Preferably the latter.’

  ‘Can’t help you with motives,’ he said.

  Marcia nodded. ‘Can’t help you much with bastards either.’

  ‘We don’t get involved with office politics.’

  ‘Really, the only serious bastard we knew round here was Willie himself, but I’m buggered if I can think of any reason why he might have wanted to get rid of Henry.’

  ‘There’s Wilfred Parry,’ said Marcia thoughtfully.

  ‘Doesn’t really count. You only think he’s a bastard because he’s so supercilious.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. He wouldn’t rob his dying granny.’

  ‘Unlike Willie.’

  Milton came in again. ‘Do you know about the attempt to change the terms of the trust?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marcia, and, ‘No,’ said Ben, simultaneously. He looked at her suspiciously. ‘What are you talking about, you old bag?’

  ‘Oh, come on, you idiot. You must remember that. Henry mentioned it.’

  ‘When? What? I don’t remember.’

  Milton wondered if he were imagining it or if Marcia really looked nervous.

  ‘I don’t know when. Maybe some time he came in here. Maybe at the party. I’m sure I remember him saying something about an attempt to water down the trust that he said he’d see off if it killed him.’

  ‘If you heard it, how come I didn’t? Or didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Marcia. ‘I only remembered it now the chief superintendent said it. I suppose I just forgot about it.’

  Ben glowered at her. ‘It would be just like you, stupid bitch. Bloody can’t remember anything, can you? I mean, for God’s sake, fancy forgetting the Finnish employment statistics.’

  ‘I didn’t forget them, you miserable old sod,’ said Marcia, her voice rising with every word. ‘I was merely wrong by one per cent.’

  ‘Being wrong is forgetting,’ said Ben.

  ‘Please,’ said Milton, in a relaxed voice. ‘Do you mind if we get back to what we were talking about?’ He observed to his pleasure that Tewkesbury was looking increasingly ill at ease. ‘Do either of you think there might have been someone with a vested interest in getting Henry Potbury out of the way because of the business of the trust?’

  ‘Haven’t a fucking clue, mate,’ said Ben amiably. ‘Since I never heard of it before now, owing t
o this old cow having a head like a colander, I wouldn’t have any theories about it, would I?’

  ‘And you?’ asked Milton of Marcia.

  ‘All I know is he said he’d see them off. He wasn’t making a fuss or anything, so I never gave it another thought till now.’

  ‘And Lambie Crump?’

  They looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve talked about it, obviously,’ said Ben.

  ‘Incessantly,’ said Marcia.

  ‘Ad infinitum,’ said Ben.

  ‘And the upshot is…’ said Marcia.

  ‘Bugger-all,’ said Ben. ‘He was a greedy, lazy git and pompous to boot.’

  ‘No doubt about that.’

  ‘But not murder material, I should have thought.’

  ‘Not bloody worth the price of the wire,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, come on, that’s a bit unkind,’ said Marcia. ‘He had some good qualities.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He let us be.’

  ‘That’s because he was lackadaisical. That’s not a good quality. He was just too shagging lazy to care.’ He stared at her. ‘What’s getting into you, girl? Don’t start getting sentimental just cos the cops are here or they’ll think it suspicious.’

  ‘Speak as freely as you like, Marcia,’ said Milton.

  ‘Sorry. I had an attack of tact for a minute. The truth is we’re quite glad Willie’s dead.’

  ‘Bloody well saved The Wrangler. Who’d have wanted to read it with Henry dead, Dwight castrated, Phoebe reined back, the literary pages getting more and more pseudy by the week and his lordship’s weekly leader brown-nosing the government?’

  ‘It was only Troutbeck,’ said Marcia, ‘would make anyone want to pick up a copy of the bloody thing the way it was getting.’

  ‘Look at this,’ said Ben and produced a letter in crabbed handwriting. ‘This is from a geezer who writes to us every week if there’s any errors. He’s fanatical about standards on The Wrangler. It came last Monday.’

  He passed it to Milton, who, for Tewkesbury’s benefit, read out the entire document. ‘“Ha-ha. Fucked up on the Finns, didn’t you?”’

  Marcia pouted. Ben looked triumphant.