Thus Was Adonis Murdered

by Sarah Caudwell

  ‘Benjamin,’ I asked, ‘is all this probable or merely possible?’

  ‘It is not,’ Benjamin answered, ‘improbable. It’s more or less exactly what happened with Van Meegeren. With whom, indeed, the point has now been reached at which people are forging Van Meegeren forgeries.’

  ‘Meanwhile in Verona?’ I said.

  ‘Meanwhile in Verona, as you so astutely say, Hilary, everyone knows that the third picture on the left after the first transept is not one of their valuable Old Masters but just a rather nice picture by a comparatively modern local artist. Which would be, no doubt, what they would tell the police when it was stolen.’

  Ragwort was rather carried away by the story: he asked Benjamin if he really believed that the painting stolen from Verona might be valuable as a forgery. Benjamin found this a sufficient pretext to pat him indulgently on the shoulder.

  ‘Desmond dear, I don’t think anything of the kind. I haven’t the faintest idea why that particular painting should have been in the Church of Saint Nicholas and I have no reason whatever to suppose that it is the work of a celebrated copyist or forger. Giovanni Fabbro is entirely my own invention. My hypothesis is a meretricious little thing, hired out to you, as it were, for half an hour’s casual diversion: it is only Bob Linnaker, we hope, who may be sufficiently persuaded of her virtue to take her in marriage.’

  Back in Islington, feeding the cats, I reflected on the possible significance of Eleanor’s denial that she knew anyone called Bruce. One wondered if she had suspected, after all, that the story of the postcard was a fabrication, and it crossed my mind that she might, if so, telephone my college to seek confirmation of my bona fides. Had she done so, she would not, of course, have found anyone to confirm that I was authorized to invest the college funds in the purchase of works of art; on the other hand, in view of the happy indifference of most of my colleagues to the financial affairs of the college, she was equally unlikely to have found anyone to deny it. Remembering the chillness of her gunmetal-blue eyes, I found this a remarkably comforting thought.

  15

  Bags I do the Major,’ said Cantrip.

  Over coffee on the following morning, that is to say on the Wednesday, I had added my own impressions of Eleanor to the account already given by Ragwort. We were considering what was next to be done.

  ‘It is to be remembered,’ said Selena, ‘that we are assuming the Major to be a possible murderer. If we were not making that assumption, there would be no point in seeing him. If we are making it, I am not quite happy about any of us seeing him alone.’

  ‘If you’re going to go and buy a load of stolen goods,’ said Cantrip, ‘you can’t take a whole crowd of friends with you. The presence of third parties reduces the prospective seller to a clamlike condition.’

  ‘Well,’ said Selena, ‘couldn’t Benjamin go with you, as a professional adviser?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I asked him last night. He’s flying to New York today for some exhibition or other.’

  ‘Bother,’ said Selena. ‘How very heartless of Benjamin.’

  ‘So one of us’ll have to go alone,’ said Cantrip. ‘And why I bags it’s me is because I’m the only one that knows karate. If the Major cuts up rough, I shall leap upon him with panther-like swiftness, crying “Hoocha” – old Japanese war-cry – and stun him with a single blow of incredible precision. Oh, I say, frightfully sorry, Ragwort.’

  Attempting to demonstrate the proposed movement in the confined space provided for our accommodation by the coffee-house, Cantrip had brought his left elbow into abrupt contact with Ragwort’s shoulder, at a moment when Ragwort was raising his cup to his lips.

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ said Ragwort, ‘don’t worry for a moment. I had rather been hoping that this suit might last another week or so before it had to go to the cleaners; but no doubt I was wrong. In referring, however, to karate, are you quite sure that you’re not confusing it with some new kind of dance?’

  ‘Just because you’re miffed about your suit,’ said Cantrip, ‘there’s no need to be offensive about my karate. I’m jolly well up on it. I knew a chap at Cambridge who was a black belt and he showed me how to do it, one weekend when it was raining.’

  Proficiency in the ancient art of the Samurai requires, as I understand it, some years of rigorous training. It even involves, I have been told, a certain cultivation of the soul: the question whether Cantrip has such a thing is a matter, as my readers may recall, of some dispute. Still, he has a good deal of agility and natural aggression – it did not seem to me that it would be seriously irresponsible to allow him to interview the Major alone. I nonetheless felt obliged to raise an objection.

  ‘Cantrip,’ I said, ‘it won’t do. He saw you at the airport, when you were looking at the luggage. He might recognize you.’

  ‘Well yes, I expect he will,’ said Cantrip. ‘And if he doesn’t, I’ll remind him. I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll go into his shop and pootle around for a bit, the way you do in antique shops. And after a while he’ll come up to me and ask if I’m looking for anything in particular. And then I shall give a tremendous start of surprise.’

  ‘Cantrip,’ said Selena, ‘you won’t overdo it, will you?’

  ‘I shall give a tremendously natural and convincing start of surprise and say, Good heavens, wasn’t he at the airport on Saturday when I was making such a frightful ass of myself? And he’ll say, Good Lord, aren’t you the frightful ass who couldn’t find his suitcase? And I shall say, Yes, what an extraordinary coincidence. And then I’ll go on to say what a frightful ass he must have thought I was. And he’ll say yes, as a matter of fact, to be perfectly frank he did think I was rather a frightful ass.’

  ‘And when,’ said Ragwort, ‘a consensus ad idem has been reached on this point?’

  ‘Well, then I’ll go on to say that why I was in such a stew was because I was supposed to be meeting my Uncle Hereward for lunch and my plane was late. I’ll try to get the idea across that I’d been in Paris with a girl my uncle didn’t approve of and I didn’t want him to know I’d been away at all – it’ll add what we in Fleet Street call human interest.’

  ‘Is your Uncle Hereward,’ asked Selena, ‘the one with eccentric ideas about pure womanhood?’

  ‘That’s right. Anyway, I’ll tell him that my Uncle Hereward has a tremendous thing about punctuality, being an ex-military man. And the Major, hearing that I’m related by blood to a brother officer, will fall on my neck and embrace me. Metaphorically, I mean, because I see this as a jolly English and manly sort of scene.’

  ‘Quite so,’ I said, ‘but how are you going to get in the business about the picture?’

  ‘Well, after we’ve chewed the fat a bit about regiments and brigades and so forth, I’ll slip in something about my uncle being interested in collecting pictures and antiques.’

  ‘That,’ said Ragwort, ‘will certainly carry more conviction than any claim that you yourself are an amateur of the fine arts.’

  ‘Right. And I’ll go on to say that my uncle is specially interested in forgeries, like things by this Van Megawatt chap. I’ll tell the Major that if he ever comes across anything in that line I’d be jolly grateful if he’d let me know about it, because if I can put my uncle on to it it’ll put me in good with him.’

  ‘You will imply, I suppose,’ said Ragwort, ‘that you have expectations?’

  ‘Yes. Subtly, though. It’d sound a bit off to say outright that I thought the old boy was going to leave me a packet. Not that he is, of course, because he thinks I’m the generation that’s betrayed his ideals – but the Major’s not to know that.’

  ‘Cantrip,’ I said, ‘about the picture— ’

  ‘Don’t flap, Hilary. What I’ll say is that last week my uncle was frightfully miffed because he read in The Times that someone had swiped a picture he’d specially have liked to get his hands on himself. I’ll say he was in Verona on holiday last year and identified this painting as something by this February cha
p.’

  ‘Fabbro,’ I said anxiously.

  ‘Don’t worry, Hilary – it’ll be all right on the night. And the thing that miffs him most, I’ll say, is that if he’d realized they didn’t know its value and hadn’t got it wired up to alarm bells and things, he’d have swiped the thing himself. Jolly subtle, don’t you think?’

  ‘You mean,’ said Selena, ‘that this will indicate to the Major, should the picture in fact be in his possession, that your uncle would have no moral objection to acquiring stolen property?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cantrip. ‘Of course, if he actually knows anything about my uncle, he’ll know that anyway. But I suppose there must be people in the Army who’ve managed never to hear of the old boy.’

  Selena remained uneasy about allowing Cantrip to go alone. Eventually we reached a compromise. We would all go together to Fulham. When prudence required, the rest of us would separate from Cantrip, but only to the extent of walking on the other side of the road. We would find a vantage point opposite the Major’s antique shop and keep Cantrip under careful observation. Cantrip for his part undertook that he would avoid, if at all possible, being lured from the front of the shop into any rearward den in which a murderous attack upon him might pass unobserved.

  ‘The only thing is,’ said Cantrip, ‘it may take me a bit of time to get the Major to break down and confess everything and if the solicitors for the Duke of Whatsitsname or someone like that suddenly need the services of a Chancery junior, it won’t do them much good asking at 62 New Square. Henry’s not going to like it.’

  ‘My dear Cantrip,’ said Selena, ‘if you are prepared to engage in a solitary interview with a possible murderer, it will be a poor thing indeed if Ragwort and I lack the courage to tell Henry that we are all going to a most important lunch and may be gone some little time.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Ragwort. ‘Besides, with any luck, Henry will leave for lunch before we do and we can leave a message with the temporary typist.’

  Remembering the tedious complexities of reaching the New King’s Road by public transport, Selena, that morning, had prudently brought her motor-car to Lincoln’s Inn. At the hour when the members of 62 New Square would usually have gone to lunch, we set out in it for Fulham. Having negotiated, with that brisk insouciance on which I have previously commented, the complexities of the one-way system between Lincoln’s Inn and the Thames Embankment, she drove westwards through Chelsea.

  Ragwort, because he has a house there, contends that Fulham is going up in the world. I do not quite like to argue with him about it. I must confess, however, that the New King’s Road, at any rate, always gives me the impression of moving in the reverse direction. Those substantial terraced houses can never, I suppose, have been intended for occupation by the indigent; but the state of their paintwork and pointing suggests that they were acquired some years ago in a period of actual or expected affluence which afterwards proved short-lived or illusory.

  There are, in this part of London, numerous establishments dealing in second-hand merchandise, declining, with more or less regularity as one proceeds westward, from antiques to bric-à-brac to junk. The premises occupied by Major Linnaker were in the doubtful no-man’s-land between the first and the second. We observed with satisfaction that his shop was situated almost directly opposite a public house whose landlord had had sufficient confidence in the warmth of the September weather to place outside on the pavement a wrought-iron table and chairs.

  Selena drove past the shop. Turning right, some hundred yards beyond it, she brought her motorcar to a halt in a quiet side-street.

  ‘On leaving,’ she said, as she locked the vehicle, ‘I think, Cantrip, that it might be prudent— ’

  ‘I am not,’ said Cantrip, ‘a complete imbecile. If a chap’s going east and stops casually to look in an antique shop, it’s definitely fishy if he turns west again when he comes out of it. I’ll turn left, left and left again and rendezvous here. When I leave— ’

  ‘We’ll give you two minutes’ start,’ said Selena, ‘to make sure you’re not being followed.’

  ‘Roger,’ said Cantrip. ‘Over and out. See you all later.’

  ‘Cantrip,’ said Selena, ‘you will be careful?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Cantrip.

  He left us and began to stroll back along the New King’s Road. Crossing to the other side, the rest of us maintained an even pace with him and, as we hoped, an equal appearance of nonchaleur. Reaching the public house, we sat down at the wrought-iron table and watched him. As if his eye had been caught by some object of interest in the window, he paused outside the Major’s antique shop.

  The Major, in displaying his wares, had made no attempt at uncluttered elegance. He had evidently been happy to surround a Jacobean sideboard with a set of Sheraton chairs – I supposed, in the light of what Benjamin had said, that they were all faked; but close beside them there was a china umbrella stand in a sort of willow pattern, which I thought must be genuine – it seemed too hideous for anyone to have wished to copy it.

  ‘Our presence here,’ said Ragwort, ‘would appear more natural if we were drinking something. Shall I get some beer?’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Selena. ‘And some sandwiches. It may be all we’ll get for lunch.’

  Ragwort went indoors in search of food and drink. Selena and I, remaining seated in our chairs on the pavement, saw Cantrip enter the antique shop and begin to pootle. There emerged in due course from the interior a figure whom we readily identified, even with the width of the road between us, as the Major: his bristling white moustache and bronzed complexion were easily recognized. We saw him approach Cantrip, asking him, presumably, whether he was more particularly interested in the Sheraton chairs or the china umbrella stand. Cantrip looked up.

  ‘Ah,’ said Selena, ‘that’s Cantrip’s start of surprise.’

  Ragwort returned, carrying three pints of beer and a plate of sausage rolls: the barman had greeted with derision his request for sandwiches, reminding him, in a manner which Ragwort had found offensive, that the bread delivery men were on strike. Sipping the beer and nibbling cautiously at the sausage rolls, we continued to observe the forefront of the antique shop.

  ‘Agreement has now been reached,’ said Ragwort, ‘on the question whether Cantrip is a frightful ass.’

  The sausage rolls were even nastier than the sandwiches would probably have been. I began to wish that the sausage roll deliverers had also been on strike.

  ‘I think,’ said Selena, ‘that the moment has now been reached at which the Major metaphorically falls on Cantrip’s neck in a metaphorical embrace.’ I agreed that this seemed a reasonable conclusion – the Major had produced from some cupboard or other a bottle and two glasses.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Ragwort, ‘that there’s no danger of him trying to poison Cantrip?’

  ‘I hardly think,’ I said, ‘that Cantrip can have said anything so far to provoke him to such extremes. Besides, he is drinking from the same bottle.’

  The relaxed and convivial attitude of those in the antique shop suggested that their conversation was concerned rather with military anecdote than with any overtures for the purchase of stolen property. We could not in fairness blame Cantrip for taking his time – we had warned him to be slow and subtle. I confess, however, that I began to feel that he was taking longer than was altogether necessary: comfortably ensconced and drinking at the Major’s expense, he had become, it seemed to me, a little forgetful of the tedium and discomfort endured by those watching over him.

  On account of the bread strike it was the time, as my readers may remember, when the exchange of recipes for baking at home had displaced the economy as the chief topic of light conversation. Ragwort had a recipe, obtained from his grandmother, infinitely superior to any which had appeared in the public press. Selena asked him to write it out for her. Watching him engaged on this task and listening to his lecture on the importance of accurate measurement, we forgot for several min
utes to take any notice of what was happening in the antique shop.

  When we next looked the Major was holding a gun.

  Julia is no doubt right in attributing Ragwort’s unconquered virtue to the expression of aloof disapproval which he adopts when confronted with anything in the nature of a proposition. It is also true, however, that he can run extremely fast: on Sundays during the cricket season he is in great demand in his native Sussex village on account of his speed between the wickets. While Selena and I were still waiting impatiently at the kerbside for a safe passage through the traffic, Ragwort, with no worse mischief than might befall his immortal soul from the curses of a startled lorry driver, was across.

  Selena’s impatience was, I confess, rather greater than my own. Little as I liked the prospect of the evening newspaper containing the headline ‘Barristers Shot in Fulham Fracas’, I did not think it would be improved by the insertion of the words ‘and Oxford Don’. This seemed to me precisely the sort of moment at which the proper course is to summon a constable. Unfortunately, there was none at hand; and Ragwort and Selena, with the impetuous enthusiasm of youth, seemed unlikely to wait until one arrived. I could not, I felt, with any semblance of decorum, remain on one side of the New King’s Road while the junior members of 62 New Square struggled with an armed maniac on the other.

  For a few moments our view of the antique shop was obscured by the passage of an articulated lorry. When we could again see the interior, the scene had changed dramatically: it was now Cantrip who was holding the gun. I perceived that I must have wronged him in doubting his skill at karate. With a movement of amazing swiftness, he had disarmed the Major and would now lead him forth into the New King’s Road; and would keep him covered while Ragwort, now standing slightly disconcerted outside the shop, summoned assistance from the appropriate authorities.

  Nothing of the sort occurred. After a few moments, Cantrip put down the gun. He turned so that his back was towards us. Ragwort continued to stand outside, apparently lost in admiration of the umbrella stand. A driver who had slowed down to let Selena and myself cross the road banged impatiently on his horn: we waved apologetically and stepped back from the kerbside – there no longer seemed any point in crossing.