He would have a chance of examining the contrast more closely that day when he visited Greenmansion again to make discreet inquiries about the man he had met coming out of the house on Saturday. The man called Munro. The man who had stood and faced him in the headlight’s glare on the far side of the ridge last night.
As far as he had been able to check without arousing Liz’s curiosity by making a formal inventory, nothing was missing from the cottage. He considered the problem as he trudged along the lane. (It would have been quicker to enter the field through his back garden, but Liz’s curiosity was again the obstacle.)
Munro might have found what he was looking for. Or he might have been disturbed too soon. Or he might have been mistaken and what he was looking for just wasn’t there. Like most reasoned analyses of alternatives, this one did not help at all.
Presumably Munro was the other man inquiring about him at the local. Len, the landlord, had described him as being the ‘same kind’ as Vickers. Yet though it had been easy in the heat of the chase to accept cynically that the police were capable of anything, now in this clear washed-out morning it proved more difficult. Certainly if Munro had anything to do with the police it would look most suspicious if no report of the break-in was made.
Of course, the police might not be the only interested party. If Housman were Hebbel then he might have left friends, friends of a very peculiar nature. Goldsmith shivered. The idea was fantastic. But even the idea of receiving the attentions of a neo-Nazi group was enough to make him feel uneasy.
The Land-Rover started first time and he was able to back away from the sapling and traverse the ridge once more without trouble. The terrain this morning looked very easy and the Gothic grove on the crest had shrunk and bent into three rather pathetic dead trees.
He put the Land-Rover into the firm’s repair shop, telling them not to worry about damage to the bodywork but to concentrate on getting the lamps back in working order.
The bump on his forehead ached all day and midway through the afternoon he used it as a part-genuine excuse for leaving the office early. The Land-Rover was ready, still slightly battered, but with the lights repaired, and he pointed it south towards Sheffield. He realized that so quick a return might appear curious to Mrs Housman and there was the danger that her curiosity might be passed on to Vickers. But the trail of Munro had to be followed while it was hot. In any case the obvious motive for visiting an attractive, wealthy and recently widowed woman might easily be attributed to him.
He sampled this idea for a while and found it surprisingly distasteful. He analysed this reaction further and discovered it was caused by a reluctance to have Jennifer Housman believe him capable of such indelicate cupidity. To his estimation in the eyes of Inspector Vickers he felt quite indifferent.
In the event, matters were made very easy for him. Dora opened the door before he could knock.
‘I knew you would come,’ she said. ‘Come in, please.’
Puzzled, Goldsmith followed her into the house.
‘Walk this way, please,’ she said over her shoulder, adding, ‘There’s a joke. I just mean “follow me” but you might imitate the way I’m walking if you wanted.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Goldsmith laughing, not too artificially he hoped.
Mrs Housman was sitting in the lounge. On a coffee table before her was a cylindrical cake thickly iced. Some words had been piped on to the faintly concave surface. Upside down, Goldsmith read Happy Birthday and remembered.
‘How do you do, Mr Goldsmith,’ said Mrs Housman, completely self-possessed. ‘I’m pleased you could come after all.’
‘Happy Birthday,’ said Goldsmith awkwardly. Dora was looking at him expectantly.
‘I made the cake and bought Mummy a bottle of scent,’ she said. ‘She didn’t get much else, but Uncle Rodney bought her that bracelet.’
Goldsmith looked at the thick corrugated gold band whose expensive weight seemed to be pinning the fragile wrist to the arm of the chair.
‘Your brother?’ he said. Or Housman’s – the only child?
‘No. Just an honorary uncle,’ said Mrs Housman. Suddenly Goldsmith felt a pang of something he distantly identified as jealousy. He realized Dora was still watching him expectantly. The reason why was now clear.
‘I couldn’t think of any present to buy, I’m afraid,’ he said. A shadow of disappointment passed over the girl’s face.
‘So I thought perhaps, instead, some kind of treat,’ he went on, extemporizing awkwardly. ‘For both of you, I mean.’
It seemed important to include the girl. Her mother smiled politely but Dora was very excited.
‘You mean, go out somewhere? Oh, where? On my last birthday, Daddy took me to the Tower of London in the train.’
“You’re very kind, Mr Goldsmith,’ said her mother. ‘Did you have somewhere special in mind?’
‘Well, if the Tower’s out,’ said Goldsmith, emboldened, ‘I thought the cinema perhaps. Or a meal. Or both. Of course if you’re busy this evening …’
The woman thought a moment, then shook her head, smiling.
‘No, I don’t think so. Dora, why don’t you fetch the local newspaper so that we can see what’s on? Unless Mr Goldsmith had some particular film in mind, that is.’
She regarded him quizzically and he shook his head. Dora was back in a minute, the paper already open at the entertainment page.
‘There’s Summer Holiday,’ she announced, ‘and not terribly much else.’
Goldsmith’s gaze met Mrs Housman’s over the girl’s head and they exchanged smiles.
‘It seems,’ said Mrs Housman, ‘that if our choice is so restricted, then we must go and see Summer Holiday, whatever that is.’
There was an early evening performance in half an hour. Dora and her mother went to get ready and Goldsmith took the opportunity of ringing Liz. There was a ward meeting that night and he had promised to take her for a drink afterwards.
She listened in cold silence to his unconvincing explanation.
‘Yes, I’ll see they get your apologies,’ she said. ‘What good they’ll do, I don’t know. It must be pretty important, Bill, this “private business”. It could cost you a great deal.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ he began again, but she cut through him.
‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘I’ve cleared your place ‘up a bit. Don’t think you’ve been burgled, but I took a couple of your suits to the cleaners. And I got the GPO to fix your phone.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That was quick!’
‘Yes. I told them it was essential to your vital council business. I managed to sound quite convincing. See you, Bill.’
She rang off abruptly. With a sigh, Goldsmith replaced the phone and returned to the lounge to wait for his guests.
He did not enjoy the cinema much. While he could see the two females, observe Dora’s pleasure and her unsuccessful attempts to contain it, and her mother’s much less revealed pleasure in that pleasure, all was well. But in the darkness of the cinema thoughts and images arose to blur the cheerful pictures flickering on the screen.
At Mrs Housman’s prompting, he bought fish and chips after the cinema performance and they ate them in the Land-Rover on the way home.
Back in Greenmansion they drank cocoa and listened to Dora talking about school. She was at a private school at the moment but now at the age of secondary transfer a decision had to be made. Housman, it seemed, had planned a continuation of private education for her. His widow was not so clear in her mind. Goldsmith offered the official party line, aware as he always was of the difference between official policy, and practice at all levels. She listened politely but he felt he had made no impression on her.
Dora had yawned several times but her mother made no attempt to send her to bed and she herself probably felt it too undignified to volunteer in the presence of a visitor. Finally recognizing that Dora would remain downstairs as long as he stayed, and uncertain whether to be flattered or offended by this, Goldsmi
th joined in one of the girl’s yawns with deliberate parody and rose to go.
‘It’s been a lovely birthday,’ said Dora. For Mummy, I mean.’
‘It has indeed,’ said Mrs Housman. ‘All the nicer for being such a surprise. Thank you, Mr Goldsmith.’
She showed him to the Land-Rover. As they stood together in the chilly autumn darkness, Goldsmith said, ‘By the way, when I was here on Saturday, there was a chap leaving; Munro, I think it was. I’m sure we’ve met and I’ve been trying to place him ever since.’
He paused, interrogatively.
‘I hope you didn’t come all this way just to check a memory,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Of course not,’ he said, rather over-sharply. ‘It just came back to me as we came out of the door’.
He climbed into the Land-Rover. She held the door open.
‘You may well have met him. It depends what you’ve been up to, Mr Goldsmith’.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Munro is an enquiry agent, a private detective you might say. I employed him to look into a small matter on my behalf. Does that fit with your memory of him?’
‘Yes, yes. In a way I think it does.’
She shut the door and stepped back. He raised his hand in acknowledgment and moved slowly down the drive. His last remark had not been a lie. He recalled now where he had first seen the man.
They had bumped into each other outside the Kirriemuir Hotel on the night of Housman’s death.
It all fitted, he thought as he drove home. She had suspected her husband was fishing in other ponds and hired Munro to check on him. He must have just seen Housman safely to his room that night and been on his way to whatever seedy boarding-house private detectives slept in when they bumped into each other. And presumably their second encounter at Greenmansion had stirred some responsive chord in his mind also.
But it did not explain why he had decided to break into the cottage. If the coincidence had appeared suspicious to him, the simple thing to do was tell the police. Perhaps, thought Goldsmith, he had some naïve Boy’s Own idea of showing how clever he was by presenting the police with a neatly solved murder. But his own brief acquaintance with the man did not suggest he was a Boy’s Own type.
The puzzle was still unsolved when he got back to the cottage. The place was transformed. He realized he had not noticed how untidy it must have become, and he felt that mingled pang of guilt and irritation the unasked-for but necessary services of others always gave him. Even his clothes must have been neglected for longer than he recalled. Liz had neatly stacked the rubbish from his suit pockets on the dressing-table top and it formed a sizeable pile.
He thought of ringing to thank her. She deserved better treatment than he’d been giving her lately, he told himself, but he recognized that the state of incipient sexual excitement he found himself in had a lot to do with it also. He glanced at his watch. Only 9.45. Time for a drink on neutral territory, then they could see which way the wind was blowing.
She answered the phone rather irritably, saying she had just got in after a hard night. He found himself persuading her to meet him and when she finally capitulated he was angry rather than triumphant. His head had begun to ache again and the sexy feeling had evaporated completely, but it was impossible not to go.
The noisy, smoky atmosphere of the crowded bar convinced him still further it had been a bad move. There was no sign of Liz, but for the second time in two days he came face to face with Cyril Fell. This time the man was full of beer and made no attempt at evasion.
‘Councillor,’ he said. ‘Councillor Goldsmith, Protector of the Weak.’
‘I’ve told you before,’ said Goldsmith irritably. ‘Not here. I asked you to my cottage for a chat the other Sunday but you didn’t come.’
‘Changed my mind,’ said Fell. ‘Had a chat with someone else. Made me think. I can put two and two together.’
He nodded sagely and glowered accusingly at the same time.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Don’t swear at me, Councillor. Your little game’s just about up. They’re on to you, I reckon. You and all these other sods. I never thought your finger’d be in the pie too, but there’s no telling.’
‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying,’ said Goldsmith helplessly. But Fell pushed by him and disappeared through the door, passing Liz on her way in.
‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘Fell still wanting you to be the people’s champion?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘He seems to be trying me for quite another role at the moment.’
He laughed, but he felt far from humour. He felt alone and menaced and Liz’s company was suddenly very desirable. Something of this must have sounded in his voice when he suggested that she should come home with him, for she looked at him strangely before answering.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But you asked me, remember.’
‘I’ll remember,’ he said.
CHAPTER XIV
THEY PASSED the night in a violence of passion which surprised Goldsmith and might, he thought wryly, even have satisfied Templewood. The bedclothes were a disaster area in the morning, but Liz’s impulse to order his life was so strong that when he returned from the bathroom he found her, still naked, making the bed with hospital expertise. On an impulse more iconoclastic than erotic, he pushed her forward on to the smooth counterpane, but she rolled aside and away from him and resumed her work.
‘No time,’ she said. ‘Now for God’s sake, Bill, try to keep this place tidy. It’s not difficult, just a little effort every day.’
She began pulling on her clothes with more speed than care. Her complete lack of the usual feminine narcissism had once seemed attractive, but now he found himself saying bitingly, Tidiness should begin at home.’
She missed the point and nodded.
That’s right. Look at that junk there. All out of your pockets. Now, are you just going to let it lie there till the suit comes back from the cleaners and then put it in the pockets again?’
‘Probably.’
But he was beginning to feel that angry-guilty feeling again and he sat down to sort out the rubbish hoping to salve both irritations. After a while the task assumed a certain archaeological interest and he made a separate pile of ‘finds’. The most ancient positive identification was of a ticket for the Labour Club’s Christmas Draw in 1956, but he suspected that a scrap of flaking card might be the remains of a genuine Festival of Britain Exhibition ticket.
“This lot rubbish? Right,’ said Liz, and swept his past into a paper bag.
‘Oh, dump the lot,’ he said irritably.
‘What about this?’ she asked, and handed him a blue envelope folded in half.
There was a name on it. He stared in disbelief then looked assessingly at Liz to see if she had any idea what she had done. But she had turned away with her spoils safely trapped in the bag.
Written on the envelope was Mr N. Housman.
Now he remembered taking the letter out of Housman’s briefcase, hesitating about reading it, being diverted by the discovery of Housman’s passport, and finally having the thing put completely out of his mind by the appearance of Housman himself.
He heard Liz descending the stairs and quickly he opened the envelope. It was dated ‘Saturday’ and written on Kirriemuir Hotel paper.
Dear Mr Housman, he read. I’m sorry you were unable to wait in for me this morning. I shall try again after dinner tonight, but regretfully that will be our last chance of meeting as I must travel north first thing in the morning. I trust you have combined business and pleasure today as profitably as you did yesterday.
Yours etc.,
P. K. Munro
He read it through twice, then lay back on the bed to consider its implications. It took him only a few minutes to come up with a theory. Methodically he checked through it, testing its viability.
Munro is hired by Mrs Housman to check up on her erring husband. He amasse
s evidence of Housman’s misdeeds, but does not pass it on. Instead he takes the opportunity of Housman’s visit to London to contact the object of his investigation and invite a deal. Probably the initial contact was by phone. In fact, thought Goldsmith, conjuring up the details of his Friday night vigil at the hotel, he may have seen Housman take the call.
But Housman is a cool customer, not to be panicked. On Saturday he goes his own way, ignoring Munro’s request that they should meet. Munro does not give up so easily, but, calling at the hotel and finding that Housman is out, he scribbles this note, its phrasing expertly innocuous, but containing threats that must have been clearly apparent to its receiver.
So Munro calls that evening. The interview must have gone badly to judge by his angry appearance outside the hotel. It also explained a certain cryptic quality about Housman’s reaction to his presence, thought Goldsmith. How many of you are there? he had asked in mock incredulity: No, he was not a man who would panic easily.
Nor was Munro, but he must have felt considerable unease when he heard of Housman’s death. If the police came across the letter in Housman’s belongings, their interest in him could have been embarrassingly keen. But nothing happens. He must have been very relieved, and just as puzzled. Doubtless when he visited Greenmansion to give his final (negative?) report, he had created some chance to take a look at Housman’s belongings, sent up from London. Among them he would find no letter.
Then came the chance meeting with Goldsmith and he must have begun to wonder. He had left Housman alive, possibly derisively amused by his attempted blackmail. On the hotel steps he meets someone he now discovers to be connected with his client’s husband. And minutes later, the husband is dead.
Curiosity, as well as possible self-interest, must have induced him to search the cottage. But at least it was understandable and a lot better than having one of Vickers’s men crawling around the place.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ said Liz from the door. ‘What’s the point of my making the bed if you’re going to wallow all over it before you go to work?’
“Sorry,’ he said. ‘Is that the time? I must rush. I’ll see you tonight.’
A Very Good Hater Page 12