Give a Corpse a Bad Name (10 page)

‘No one's bothered to mention anything much about you up to the present.'

Adrian put on a look of exaggerated disappointment. ‘What a thing to say to the local celebrity. Why, my name's familiar to the homes of England—at least five hundred of them. My novel sold five hundred copies. You, I take it—' he gave Toby a sidelong glance—‘haven't got a home?'

‘Quite right,' said Toby. ‘Now about Mrs Milne. Her money comes from …?'

Adrian made a resigned gesture. ‘Her money comes from the same place as mine ought to—Paternoster Row. We draw it from different numbers and in different quantities, and, I like to think, for different reasons, but—'

Toby interrupted: ‘You mean she writes?'

‘Writes, gets money: speculates, gets more money. That's the story. Or, if you like it in fewer words still—luck! Unholy, undeserved luck.' This time there was a cut in Adrian's soft laugh. ‘Heard of Wendy Bartlemy?'

Toby whistled. ‘Is
that
who she is? I don't mean I've read any of them, but one sees them everywhere. Sex boiled in treacle, that's the formula, isn't it?'

‘And dished up lukewarm on a plate of Devon pottery. She's damn clever, really. It's a deliberate game, tongue well in cheek, and she hits it off perfectly.'

Toby frowned, strolling on at the same slow pace.

I sort of remember—wasn't there a stunt some years back?—seem to remember being mixed up in it myself. A newspaper outcry suddenly about Who
Is
Wendy Bartlemy? It was the usual publicity racket, but, for once, nothing came out. She'd got herself remarkably well hidden.'

‘Reckon you can't have been
really
interested in the case, Tobe,' said George.

Toby admitted that that was probable. Adrian said indifferently: ‘I don't remember anything about that. I confess that normally I'm not much interested in the Wendy Bartlemys. But when I discovered I knew her—it was Daphne who told me—I was rather intrigued. Fitting the books and the woman together, you know. In the process I've come to—admire her, shall I call it, enormously.'

‘Oh, yes?' said Toby.

‘Yes, really,' said Adrian blandly.

‘She doesn't reciprocate, does she?'

‘Well, d'you know—I dare say you won't believe it—she's extraordinarily jealous of me.'

‘Oh, yes?' said Toby again.

Adrian smiled at him. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, she with her God-knows-how-many editions, and me with my measly five hundred copies. But she knows I've got something she hasn't.'

‘Artistic integrity?'

Adrian took it without self-consciousness. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, you often come across the same thing in these business people—an amazing sense of inferiority when they meet a man whose soul is still his own.'

‘Grand for the soul-capitalist,' said Toby.

Adrian went on: ‘Of course, it's really that that's at the bottom of the trouble. She's fiendishly jealous of me, and that makes her furious that I of all people should be getting influence over Daphne. Poor girl, it's time somebody did. All the same, I do admire—'

‘I do admire, yes, I do admire my girl's mother—she's more than a mother to me!' The end of the sentence turned into song.

Adrian, tight-lipped, turned a furious face on Toby. But in a moment the anger had slid off it. There was a good-natured, ironic light in the eyes behind the spectacles. The three of them walked on for a while in silence.

They were almost at the house when Toby suddenly asked: ‘D'you know why she does it?'

‘Does what?'

‘Hides up the Wendy Bartlemy business. There's never even been a photograph in the papers.'

Eyes still good-natured and ironic met Toby's, but the voice had an insulting bite in it. ‘I'm not sure,' said Adrian, ‘that if I knew I'd tell you.'

Toby shrugged. They went on up to the house.

A vast, cold hall, an acreage of polished floorboards, a wide, carpetless, highly polished stair, a number of tall, mahogany doors, an oak chest with the date 1631 carved on it, a bad painting of a stream, a few rocks and some heather—that was all there was to see when Adrian pushed open the door. There was a radiator to one side, but it made the place no warmer than it would have been had someone lit a gas-ring for a few minutes to boil a kettle. The place had the unfriendliness of one of the older tube stations.

Adrian said: ‘You'd better wait here while I go on and talk to Aunt Emmeline. I'll make the story fit the way she takes the idea of seeing you—you won't mind, will you?' And he left them, disappearing through one of the mahogany doors.

Toby strolled towards the picture and stood in front of it.

‘George—' he was speaking only just above a whisper—‘what d'you think of that young man? Cares a hell of a lot about having no money, doesn't he?'

‘Eh? Well, who doesn't?'

‘Oh, quite. Vain too, wouldn't you say?'

George said nothing, but a movement of his ear signalled a caution to Toby. A door behind them opened, and Adrian came quickly across the hall.

‘Hullo, admiring Uncle Joe's handiwork? This house is full of his execrable paintings of Dartmoor. No other pictures in it except a few photographs of the Acropolis, taken with Uncle Joe's own little camera and enlarged in the village. Well, she'll see you; in fact, she's wild to see you. I've told her that you're a reporter and that you've got hold of the story of her saying that it wasn't Bish who was killed. There was a reporter here from the local paper yesterday, and old Joe turned him out without letting her know; she's mad about it. She hopes you're from one of the
very
big nationals. Come along.' Adrian led them into the drawing-room.

There was a fire there, and the room was not really cold, but because of its size and its austerity, the uprightness of its chairs, the harsh blue of the linen curtains and its extreme cleanliness, there was the same chill in its atmosphere as in that of the hall. The little woman who sat on the settee close to the fire had a fur wrap round her shoulders.

She rose and came with her small, doddering steps to greet them.

‘I feel I've met you before, haven't I?' she said, keeping hold of Toby's hand and peering up into his face. Her blue eyes looked as if they were struggling, through a lifetime's absent-mindedness, to concentrate. ‘Well, it doesn't matter, does it? I'm so grateful to you for coming, and to Adrian for thinking of bringing you. He has such—' she smiled with a sort of roguishness, as if she were about to bring out a very daring slang expression—‘such “bright” ideas sometimes. I've been so bewildered—yes, and very much hurt—by the extraordinary things that have been happening. Hurt by the pigheadedness of people, you know. Now come and sit down and let's discuss the whole matter.'

Pattering back to her seat, she indicated chairs for Toby and George. But when Adrian sat down on the arm of her settee she gave him a look which showed that she had not expected him to remain. Adrian, however, disregarded it.

‘Now where shall we begin?' she asked Toby eagerly.

There was a perplexed look on his face. He took a moment to answer. Then he gave an amused smile.

‘One place is as good as another, I should say. I'd rather like to go right to the beginning, but you'd prefer the middle, I imagine. Well then, why is it you don't think that the man who was killed is your son?'

She gave a reproving shake of her head. ‘It really isn't a question of think, Mr Dyke. I
know
.'

‘All right, then: on what do you base your knowledge?'

‘Not,' she replied immediately, ‘on what you're expecting. I know you're expecting me to say on woman's intuition. That's the way my husband's been trying to put me off; he says I've been trying to oppose a mere intuition to his unprejudiced judgment. As if I should dream of doing such a thing! Why, Mr Dyke, d'you know that my Christian name is the same as Mrs Pankhurst's and Mrs Pethick Lawrence's? I don't mean,' she added hurriedly, ‘that I want to put myself on a level with them; my part in the great struggle was a
very
small one; with my health it couldn't have been otherwise. But what I mean to say is that I consider myself quite as able to look at the facts that are staring at me as any man, or at any rate—' the shrewdness that sometimes lit her face glinted there for a moment now—‘as my husband.'

‘Good,' said Toby. ‘Now, if I remember rightly, when you went to view the body, as they say, you touched one of the hands …'

Her face was startled, her wrinkled cheeks were suddenly flushed with red. ‘Why, how very, very—' But she broke off and said: ‘Of course, that's where I saw you—and your friend, Mr—er …?'

‘Porphyrus,' muttered George.

‘Yes, I remember you both quite clearly now.'

‘The hand …' Toby repeated.

But she would not take the lead. She settled the fur wrap closer about her shoulders, and in doing so remarked: ‘I expect you think it's odd of me wearing a wrap like this in the house, but I find it so hard to keep warm. And this fur is really very cosy—though it's very old. It belonged to a dear aunt of mine. My husband disapproves of my wearing fur, but I find that sentimental. I have the deepest aversion to blood-sports, and of course I'm a vegetarian, but there my reasons are purely dietetic. Now where was I? … Ah yes, I was going to give you some facts. First, then: that poor man was dead drunk, also he was almost without money. My son would not have been in either condition.'

‘I see,' said Toby. He looked at the floor, at the shining boards that sent up a faint odour of wax polish. ‘How many years is it, Lady Maxwell, since you saw your son?'

With a trace of defiance in her voice she answered: ‘About ten.'

‘And you're sure that after ten years …?'

‘I've told you I'm going entirely on facts, Mr Dyke. I've been hearing from—from a friend, at quite frequent intervals, a friend who knows Shelley. He assures me that during the last few years Shelley's altered into an—an altogether more serious person. You know, that was all that was the matter when he was younger; he wasn't serious. Of course, seriousness is very important; flippancy, insincerity, they're detestable qualities, aren't they? But perhaps when one's young …' She looked with a kind of appeal at Toby. There was a deep sadness in her voice and she left the sentence inconclusive.

Adrian leant over her and put an arm round her shoulders. There was a teasing smile on his face. ‘You know, Aunt Emmeline, you're talking as if Dyke knew the shadier side of our family history.'

‘Adrian!'

His teasing smile broadened. ‘After all, we've kept it so carefully from the village gossips, haven't we?' He looked up at Toby. ‘Or haven't we?' he asked softly.

‘Yes and no,' said Toby.

Her blue eyes were puzzled, her sunken lips worked together nervously. ‘I don't understand. Why need we go into all that?'

‘I'm afraid I don't know,' said Toby. ‘It's Mr Laws who seems to like the idea.'

‘Me?' said Adrian. ‘Oh no. Oh no, no, no.'

She looked at him suspiciously. His face was bland. She turned again to Toby. ‘
Do
the village people know about it, Mr Dyke? Have they been telling you things?'

‘I haven't talked to many of the village people,' he replied, ‘except Eggbear, who's an old friend of mine, and his wife. From their slightly curious insistence on how little they knew about it I rather jumped to the conclusion that it was something it would have been a bit inconvenient for them to know. After all—they
are
the police.'

She sighed. ‘Adrian,' she said suddenly, ‘I think some tea would be very pleasant. Would you please go and tell Harvey that we'd like some tea? I often like tea in the middle of the morning, don't you, Mr Dyke? You don't mind going, do you, Adrian dear? I never ring for Harvey if I can help it; he's so very busy.'

Adrian slid off the arm of the settee. ‘All right, Aunt Emmeline, and I won't be too quick about it.' He lounged out of the room.

She made a fluttering gesture with her small hands. ‘I'm afraid I'm not very good at young people, Mr Dyke. They fluster me. I—' She was distraught for a moment, staring at the door that Adrian had closed behind him. She was fingering the chain round her neck, the same chain of carnelian, amber, topaz and agate that Toby had noticed before. Realizing that she was fingering it, she suddenly took it off and held it out to Toby, asking him if he didn't think it an interesting necklace. ‘The topaz came from Cornwall; an uncle of mine—he was a clergyman—collected them for me. And the amber came from the east coast, where my sister used to live. She was married to a clergyman. There are an
extraordinary
number of clergymen in my family.' She gave an unexpected little titter.

As Toby handed back the chain she began again: ‘Now I've made up my mind I'm going to tell you all about that wretched old business. I know I can trust you not to repeat it. Yes, somehow I know I can trust you. And after all, from me you'll hear the correct story, not the dreadful misrepresentation you might be given by other people. Well, our son Shelley was a very wild boy, always. High-spirited, hot-headed. He enjoyed life tremendously. But he never got on at all well with his father. I don't really think it was the fault of either of them. It was just that they were two such very different people, you see. I dare say there've been cases in your own experience just like that?'

Toby admitted that there had.

She went on: ‘As Shelley grew older—perhaps I should say, as my husband grew older too—the quarrels became more serious. Sometimes they were
very
disquieting. I used to worry a great deal. Shelley was always running into debt. There were—other things too, I think, but it was only his debts he brought home to us. He was really very good at managing his own difficulties, very self-reliant and independent. But when he couldn't pay his debts and there were people clamouring at him, well, he had to come to us, hadn't he?' She paused for Toby to nod agreement. ‘Well, my husband paid his creditors two or three times. He wouldn't have liked other people to suffer, you see, for his son's recklessness, but the last time he gave Shelley some very solemn warnings. Yet it happened again. That time my husband said no, and was quite, quite firm; neither of us could have any effect on him. Shelley went away in a dreadful rage, saying he'd never come near us again—of course, he didn't mean it. And then … then, you see, Mr Dyke, Shelley wrote his father's name on a cheque, and—wrote it rather badly. The person he asked to cash the cheque took it without saying anything, cashed it for him, then sent it to my husband. My husband, of course, sent him the money he had, so to speak, loaned our son, but he told Shelley that unless he went abroad he would put the cheque in the hands of the police. Oh, of course he wouldn't have really done it, Mr Dyke—my husband isn't as hard as that, indeed he isn't hard at all, only limited in some directions. But that's ten years ago, and …' She sighed again, very deeply.