by J M Gregson
This was one of those days. Even with the slowly consumed cheese on toast sitting comfortably within him, he found it difficult to relay anything positive about his morning. Instead, he contented himself with gazing fondly at his empty plate and muttering with feeling, ‘Bloody lawyers!’
Christine smiled. ‘I’m willing to bet that some senior barrister who is enjoying a much better lunch than you is now saying, “Bloody superintendents!”’
Lambert was cheered by that thought. It had been a no-win situation, but he hadn’t done badly. He’d defended his goal stoutly; now it was up to the Crown Prosecution to score a late breakaway goal and win the game. They’d had all the right service from the police, if they could only produce a striker to kill the match off. He abandoned his over-strained metaphor, took an appreciative mouthful of tea from his favourite china beaker, and said again before he was aware of the words upon his tongue, ‘Bloody lawyers!’
It was good to see John’s safety valve working and being used so efficiently, Christine Lambert thought. She said with a smile, ‘I know all about you, John Lambert. What you need to stretch your talents is a good juicy murder!’
Lambert knew himself well enough not to disagree with the thought. He didn’t endorse it directly, but he shook his head and said, ‘Fraud cases are a damned nuisance. The minds lined up against you aren’t just unscrupulous, they’re clever as well. The investigation takes months, and just when it’s getting interesting you hand it over to the Fraud Squad.’
Christine slid him a plate with a generous slice of the sponge cake with lemon curd filling she had made that morning. ‘You need something else to interest you.’
He should have sensed the danger, but he was replete and relaxed, perhaps even a little drowsy. He looked out at the garden, at the industrious blackbird on his lawn, and said affably, unthinkingly, ‘You could be right there.’
‘We’ve been getting on with plans for the Oldford Literary Festival.’
He smiled. ‘I can hear the capital letters as you speak. It sounds very impressive.’
‘It is, for a small place. You’ll be surprised at some of the speakers we’ve got. Authors who are nationally famous, even internationally famous, some of them. It’s a tribute to the industry of Mrs Dooks.’
‘And of her energetic committee,’ he said loyally.
‘There might even be a role for you.’
At last, too late, he was on his guard. ‘Oh I don’t think I could—’
‘Just a small role. Nothing that would need much preparation from you.’
‘Nevertheless, I think I’d reluctantly have to decline your—’
‘Mrs Dooks herself suggested you. I must say I was quite pleased by that.’
‘But even with the formidable Mrs Dooks behind you, I think it’s only fair to say—’
‘It’s the kind of thing the Chief Constable would approve of. Didn’t you say he was very much in favour of senior policemen being visible presences in their local communities?’
It wasn’t a phrase John Lambert would have used himself, though he remembered it from some official bulletin. ‘I don’t think I ever said I agreed—’
‘Official policy, you see. You’d be helping to improve the police image. Endorsing the policies of your Chief Constable.’
Lambert smiled benignly, marshalling his defences. ‘The days are long gone when I needed to pay lip service to the latest police manifesto.’
‘You’ve never done that, even when you should have done. It’s one of the reasons why I’m still here.’
He was affected by flattery when it popped up in unlikely places, and Christine knew it. Most children are. He smiled and said, ‘I’m glad to hear there is more than one reason.’
If he hoped she would indulge him with others, he was to be disappointed. She said, ‘It’s only a small spot we’re talking about, as I said. All we want you to do is to introduce an eminent speaker. A couple of minutes about his life and achievements, at the most. You’d be much the most appropriate person to do it.’
He tried to resist the notion of such distinction. He said with a rather patronizing air, ‘What is this mysterious assignment which demands me and only me?’
With the advantage of hindsight, he saw within minutes that he should never have asked that. Hindsight, as everyone agrees, is a wonderful thing.
TWO
Marjorie Dooks was the driving force behind the Oldford Literary Festival. Everyone knew that and everyone was content that it should be so. No one would have dared to mount an assault on her pre-eminence. More importantly, no one wished to do that. Everyone recognized her ability, her vision, and, most important of all, her energy.
She was fifty-five now. She had taken early retirement from her senior position in the Administrative Department of the Civil Service with the advent of coalition government after the hung parliament of 2010. You couldn’t serve two masters, she told anyone who would listen. It would compromise your principles; she would never do that. Her husband had a senior position in industry, so finance was not a problem. The country’s loss was the local community’s gain. Marjorie Dooks departed to apply her formidable talents to the benefit of Oldford, in the sleepiest part of Gloucestershire. The burghers of that small but ancient market town took deep breaths of anticipation, whilst the Civil Service mandarins breathed a long sigh of collective relief.
Mrs Dooks was a parish and district councillor, but she found local politics frustrating; she had been concerned with implementing national policies in her Civil Service days. ‘Irredeemably parochial’ was her dismissive phrase, ignoring the fact that parish council affairs in particular were meant to be exactly that. The truth was that she was used to being in charge of her own department and her own staff and to issuing orders that would be instantly obeyed. Marjorie needed to use her considerable gifts to shape and direct something of her own.
The Oldford Literary Festival was exactly that. The town had a connection with Ivor Gurney, a worthy but almost forgotten poet of World War One, who had survived that cataclysm but in a sadly diminished state. The first festival celebrated this local connection. Subsequent ones went for broader themes and brought an unexpected distinction and cultural acclaim to the small country town that few outside Gloucestershire and Herefordshire had previously heard of.
The distinguished local writer who had been the original motivating force behind the Ivor Gurney festival was dead now. Marjorie Dooks had stepped into his role and provided new force and energy when it was most needed. She had quickly identified those people among the volunteers who could be most helpful to her. Enthusiasm was not always accompanied by efficiency; Marjorie knew that and acted accordingly. She didn’t mind treading on prominent local toes, if it was for the general good. And you didn’t work for twenty-five years in Whitehall without developing a pretty thick skin, as she reminded people with a hearty guffaw when they bridled at her more ruthless suggestions.
She was gradually getting used to the idea that voluntary helpers must sometimes be wooed rather than brusquely ordered to do things. In the Civil Service, rank was supreme. Everyone who reached any degree of eminence understood that completely. Tact was a welcome quality, but not an essential one. Making her way in what had still been essentially a man’s world when she entered it, Marjorie had found energy and efficiency much more effective weapons than tact. Often bloody-minded determination had been more effective than diplomacy. It was difficult for her to play down the qualities that had served her so well in her working lifetime, especially when they were still so effective against local government bureaucracy.
But Mrs Dooks was an intelligent woman; she saw the need for new techniques in this new situation. You couldn’t simply dragoon volunteers as you could professionals. These people were giving many hours of their time to help you to implement your grand design. Sometimes you had to persuade and convince your troops before you led them into battle.
Today she was chairing a meeting of the Oldford Li
terary Festival committee, and here her incisive mind and brisk approach were generally welcomed. Most of the people assembled with her in the room behind the library had endured meetings that dragged on for three hours and achieved no more than could have been decided in one. Marjorie’s efficient dispatch of the agenda items was collectively welcomed. Two people had already been arrested in full flow, but each time that had been a relief to the other people in the small, overheated room.
‘Item four. Speakers. Mrs Lambert, please.’
Christine cleared her throat a little nervously. ‘Good progress, I think. This year’s theme of “Law and Order through the Centuries” has left us a wide range of possibilities, which was our intention when we chose it. Dr Grainger, the Secretary of the Trollope Society, has suggested the topic of “Trollope and Urban Crime in the Nineteenth Century”. Jack Straw, the former Home Secretary, has agreed to speak about his recent book on people who have held the office since its inception. He plans to speak principally about six of the most influential holders of that office. The title of his talk is still to be finalized, but his attendance is guaranteed.’
Christine Lambert looked round the table. ‘These two talks we may take as definite. I think there is progress on other fronts also, but there are people here who can give us the most up-to-date information on that.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Lambert.’ Mrs Dooks completed a note on the pad in front of her and looked imperiously round the table. In truth, this was the section of the meeting where she felt least at ease. This was where she had to deal directly with ‘creative’ people, who were notoriously temperamental and unpredictable. She tended to use the word ‘arty’ herself, in private at least. It had a greater ring of scepticism about it, and implied that such people weren’t to be relied upon in practical matters.
No one seemed about to help her out by speaking. Marjorie looked round the ring of expectant faces and said firmly, ‘Now, who would like to begin?’
A confident, almost bored voice said after a second, ‘I suppose that had better be me.’ Peter Preston nodded his distinguished head a couple of times as if to endorse this decision, since it seemed no one else was going to do so. He had a broad, lightly lined face and large brown eyes, which the rimless glasses he had lately adopted seemed to accentuate and make even more impressive. He was a well-known local figure, though there were conflicting reports about his achievements. His opinions were frequently quoted in the local press and occasionally on Radio Gloucester; he was invariably described there as ‘a freelance BBC producer and director’, though no one was able to say confidently what was the last thing he had produced or directed.
Nevertheless, he spoke with authority on drama, poetry and opera, and was invariably ready with an opinion on anything ‘cultural’ – in the older and proper sense of that word, as he was wont to assure anyone who would listen. Preston could be tiresome, but he had contacts, and a little judicious flattery would easily persuade him to use them. Flattery wasn’t a weapon Marjorie Dooks cared to employ, but she recognized that Peter Preston might well have his uses when you were trying to set up a worthwhile literary festival with little know-how and very limited funds.
He paused, looked round the table, apparently satisfied himself that he had everyone’s attention, and announced, ‘Denzil Carter thinks he can fit us into his schedule. In the light of the derisory fees we are able to offer even the most eminent of our speakers, I had to call in a personal favour to get him, but I think he will come. I should be able to confirm this after further contacts in the coming week.’
‘Thank you, Mr Preston. As I am sure you will remember from the minutes of our meeting on February fourth, our fees are no longer a matter for discussion. We all understand that we are working to a tight budget, but the acceptances we already have are beginning to shape into a promising programme. Ms Charles?’
Whilst Preston bristled in silence, the woman on his left nodded and looked at her notes. ‘Please call me Sue. I’m not used to the formality of meetings, but I think we’ll make more rapid progress if we speak frankly and informally.’ She glanced round the table and found two or three heads nodding agreement and support.
Sue Charles was sixty-eight now, and unconsciously asserting the deference due to age and seniority in a gathering like this. She had written twenty crime novels, lived in the town for thirty years, and was a respected local figure. She carried her celebrity lightly and wasn’t ostentatious with her money, her neighbours said approvingly. Not many of them realized how modest the returns from writing were for all but the fortunate few. Sue had helped to found the literary festival, recognizing correctly that many authors would attend for modest fees. Some of them had an evangelical streak and were eager to spread the word about their particular kind of literature; others were natural mixers and speakers who welcomed an audience as a variant to the lonely process of writing. All were anxious to publicize and talk about their latest masterworks.
Sue Charles was more conscious of the realities of the literary life than anyone else in the room. She had spoken at the first Oldford Literary Festival herself and been well received. Now she was using her acquaintance – she modestly declined the word friendship – with one of the most eminent and well-known crime writers to persuade him to speak at this year’s event. ‘David Knight has agreed to come in May. My only reservation is that I know he is not in good health. But I will pick him up from the station and he will stay with me. He can now be included in our programme. I should be delighted to chair that session and to introduce him myself.’
Marjorie Dooks nodded. ‘That is good news indeed, Sue. Thank you for your continuing efforts on our behalf.’
From the other side of the table Peter Preston offered his most patronizing smile. ‘Whilst in no way wishing to denigrate the efforts of Ms Charles – or indeed her own literary productions – I think I should query once again whether we wish to include detective fiction and its practitioners within our programme. I don’t wish to appear a snob, but are we not affecting the prestige of our little cultural celebration by including the whodunit among more serious novels?’
‘What would you call yourself, if not a snob, then?’
The question burst abruptly and shockingly from the youngest person in the room, twenty-two-year-old Sam Hilton. Preston allowed himself a shake of the head and a supercilious smile. ‘Dear boy, I am an unashamed elitist, not a snob. I have standards. As one who has suffered the delights of modern state education, you would perhaps not understand the difference between snobbishness and elitism, but I assure you there is one.’
Marjorie Dooks spoke decisively from the chair. ‘This question has been debated in this committee several times previously, and I think each time at your insistence, Peter. With the possible exception of romantic fiction, the detective novel is more widely read than any other form of literature. At its best, it stands up beside the serious novel and certainly warrants a place in our programme.’
‘I am aware that this has been discussed before and also that I seem to be a lone voice for the civilized ethic. Perhaps I shall have to consider my position.’
There was a sudden profound silence, in which tiny sounds such as breathing and the rustling of paper seemed miraculously enlarged. Then Mrs Dooks said evenly, ‘Perhaps if you hold this view so strongly you should do just that, Peter. Your resignation would be regrettable, but I’m sure we should all understand.’
Preston had not expected to have his bluff called like this. He had no real wish to resign. Indeed, his continued involvement in the success of the festival was necessary to his pose as a leading cultural presence in the area. He shrugged his shoulders, sighed elaborately, and said, ‘I have said my piece. I appreciate mine is not the popular stance, but minority views need voicing, unless we are to proceed along the lines of the fascist suppressions of the thirties.’ Having voiced this outrageous parallel, he nodded sternly and studied his agenda.
Sam Hilton was on the point of renewing his att
ack, but the chair took decisive action. ‘Sam, could we have the latest news on your own efforts, please?’
Young Hilton felt his protest cut off at source, almost as if he had been physically checked. He dragged his thoughts back to why he was here and contented himself with a last glare of molten hatred at Preston. ‘Yes. I’ve been in contact with three poets. I’m happy to say that Bob Crompton has agreed to come. He will read some of his verse and try to explain how he goes about achieving his effects.’
Peter Preston had snorted when he mentioned the name. Hilton glared at him as if daring him to voice a challenge, but the older man contented himself with a renewal of his patronizing smile. Sam Hilton was not used to committees and the more formal language appropriate to them, but he strove to discipline his feelings and speak as moderately as he could. He found himself breathing unevenly as he did so. ‘Bob comes from a very different background from that of most people in Oldford. He is from a one-parent family in a great northern city. Manchester is producing a group of young poets who may well rival the influence of the Mersey poets in a previous generation. He writes about love and sex and politics with a raw edge, which many of his listeners here will find very challenging. I am sure the experience will benefit them greatly.’
He stared round the table as if inviting a challenge, but Marjorie Dooks said swiftly and smoothly, ‘I am sure it will be a mutually beneficial exchange. Many of the speakers at our last literary festival said how important it was to them to have an audience and to hear the feedback on whatever form of writing they were producing. Thank you, Sam. I’m sure that without your personal contact we should not have been able to secure the attendance of so well-known and eminent a contemporary poet as Bob Crompton. She glanced automatically at Peter Preston, but that pillar of tradition was nursing his previous wounds and had more sense than to speak again. ‘Ros, could we have your report, please?’