Angrily cursing himself for an idiot, he walked for miles about Chelsea. Soon he would have to face Howard. By now Clements would have told him and he would be reflecting how unwise he had been to let family feeling and sentimentality persuade him into seeking his uncle’s help. Baker would be told and Baker would shake his head, inwardly derisive.
At last he went home to Theresa Street, hoping there would be no one there, but both women were at home and a third with them, Denise’s sister-in-law, who asked after his health, told him he could expect nothing else at his age, and assured him she could get any number of copies of
Utopia
he might desire from her bookshop.
‘We all make mistakes, Reg,’ said Howard gently when they sat down to dinner. ‘And, Reg . . . ? We’re not all competing for some sort of national forensics certificate, you know. It’s just a job.’
‘How many times have I said that, or something very like it, to my own men?’ Wexford sighed and managed a grin. ‘You can laugh if you like, but last week I really had some sort of idea that I was going to step in and solve the baffling case that eluded the lot of you. An elderly Lord Peter Wimsey. You were going to sit back and gasp in admiration while I expounded.’
‘I daresay real life and real police work aren’t like that.’ He might have added, Wexford thought, that his uncle had, however, given them some useful tips. But he hadn’t really, so Howard couldn’t. Instead he said almost as generously, ‘I’d have felt the same if I’d come down to your manor.’
‘It’s odd, though, how convinced I was about that girl.’
‘And you convinced me, but Baker would never go along with it. I know you don’t like him and I admit he’s a peculiar character, but the fact is he seldom does make mistakes. Even when his wife went off and there was that business about the unborn child, he went emotionally to pieces but his work didn’t suffer. If he say Gregson’s guilty – and he’s got a beein his bonnet about it – the probability is Gregson
is
guilty.’
Wexford said rather sourly, ‘He doesn’t seem to be getting very far with proving it.’
‘He’s a lot further than he was. He’s breaking up that Psyche Club alibi. Two of the men who were there with Harry Slade have cracked and admitted they never saw Gregson after eight o’clock. Andanother thing. Slade’s girl friend – remember the one he was supposed to be playing Monopoly with last Saturday? – she’s got a record. Baker’s having another go at Gregson now without, we hope, the damping presence of Mr de Traynor.’
Wexford took two of his tablets and noticed how far the level in the bottle had gone down. No one could say he had failed there, at any rate.
‘I don’t think I’ll come in with you tomorrow, Howard,’ he said. ‘We’re off on Saturday and there’ll be the packing and . . .’
‘Come off it. Dora will do all that.’ Howard surveyed his uncle’s burly figure. ‘Besides, the only thing you could pack is a punch.’
Wexford thought of Lamont. Had he avoided seeking a further interview with him because he was physically afraid? Perhaps. Suddenly he realized how deeply his illness had demoralized him. Fear of getting tired, fear of getting wet, fear of being hurt – all these fears had contributed to his failure. Wasn’t it really fear of over-exerting himself that had made him waste the morning at Garmisch Terrace rather than go to Somerset House where a quick examination of records would have prevented today’s
faux pas
? Kenbourne Vale police station was no place for him and Howard, for all his kindness, knew it.
‘Well, I seem to have time on my hands for once, Reg. May as well catch up on my reading and dip into those Russian short stories my sister-in-law brought round. Curious stuff, but interesting, don’t you find? One of these days I’d like your opinion . . .’
Literary chit-chat.
Four short stories and two hours later, Howard got up to answer the phone. Gregson had confessed, Wexford thought. The relentless Baker, Baker with the bee in his bonnet, had finally broken him.
But when Howard came back into the room, he could see from his nephew’s face that it wasn’t going to be as simple as that.
Howard didn’t look at all pleased. ‘Gregson’s bolted,’ he said. ‘Baker was having a go at him in that Psyche Club, Gregson apparently doing his customary dumb act, when suddenly he found his fists if not his tongue, clouted Baker one and made a getaway in a stolen car. Baker fell off the bar stool and cut his head open on, of all things, a glass of advocaat.’
‘Oh, poor Mr Baker!’ said Denise, coming in from the kitchen with a white urn full of African violets.
‘You weren’t supposed to be listening. Here, let me take that thing, or give it to Reg. It’s too heavy for you.’
‘Gregson shouldn’t take you too long to find,’ said Wexford.
‘God, no. He’ll be under lock and key by morning.’
‘Will you have to go over to Kenbourne, darling?’ asked Denise, still hugging the urn.
‘Not me. I’m going to bed. My days of running round in squad cars chasing little villains are over. Will you mind that thing?’
Each put out his arms to grasp the urn which looked as if it weighed half a hundredweight. It was partly the idea that Howard had already got hold of it, partly a sudden terror of the effect on him of supporting so heavy a weight, that made Wexford draw back at the last moment. The urn crashed on to the carpet with a ponderous juddering thud, sending earth and broken leaves and pink and mauve petals flying against the walls and the pale hitherto immaculate Wilton.
Denise screamed so loudly that Wexford didn’t hear Howard’s hollow groan. Muttering apologies – although all apologies were inadequate – falling to his knees among the mess, he tried to scoop earth up in his hands and only made matters worse.
‘At least the vase thing isn’t broken,’ he said stupidly.
‘Never mind the bloody vase,’ said Howard. ‘What about me?’ He had collapsed into a chair and was nursing his right foot. ‘That landed fair and square on my toes.’
Denise had burst into tears. She sat in the middle of the wreckage and cried.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’, said Wexford miserably. ‘I’d like to . . . I mean, is there anything I can . . . ?’
‘Just leave it,’ said Denise, drying her eyes. ‘I’ll see to it. Leave it to me. You go to bed, Uncle Reg.’
Ever polite, although he was white with pain, Howard said, ‘Forget it. You couldn’t help it, Reg. You’re not fit enough to cope with things like that yet. No wonder you dropped it. God, my foot! I hope nothing’s broken.’
He got his shoe off and limped towards the door. Denise fetched a dustpan and brush and began rescuing those of the plants that were still intact while Dora, summoned from upstairs by the uproar, picked grains of soil from the wallpaper.
Watching them disconsolately, Wexford reflected on his nephew’s last remarks and upon their double meaning.
17
You must not forsake the ship in a tempest because you cannot rule and keep down the winds.
In the morning Howard’s foot was worse, but here fused to see a doctor, saying that it was imperative he arrived on time in Kenbourne Vale.
‘But you won’t be able to drive, darling.’ Denise had stayed up until the small hours cleaning the carpet and she had an exhausted air. Transferring her gaze from a large ineradicable stain to her husband’s swollen instep, she said, ‘You can hardly put that foot to the ground.’
‘Never mind. I’ll phone for a driver.’
‘Unless Uncle Reg would . . .’
They looked at Wexford, Howard doubtfully, Denise as if she considered that anyone fit enough to reject yoghurt in favour of bacon and eggs was quite capable of driving a car through the London rush hours. Wexford didn’t want to go. He had lost all interest in the Morgan case, and plain cowardice overcame him when he thought of meeting Baker and Clements, both of whom would know of his exploded theory. Why had he ever been so stupid as to go and poke about in the Montfort vault in the first place? Let Howard send for a driver.
He was going to plead a pain in his eye – and for the first time in days he could feel it aching and pricking again – when Dora said unexpectedly, ‘Of course Reg will take you, dear. It’s the least he can do after dropping that thing on your foot. He can come straight back and have a rest, can’t you, darling?’
‘Give me the keys,’ said Wexford resignedly. ‘I hope you realize I’ve never driven in London traffic.’
But it wasn’t as bad as he had feared, and concentrating on being one of the honking, thrusting herd, charging wild beasts which made Kingsmarkham motorists seem like sheep, made him forget his eye and, briefly, that stronger trepidation. They arrived to find Gregson safe in a cell, having been discovered taking refuge at his sister’s house in Sunbury. Howard, sure of him now on the grounds of assault on a police officer and of taking and driving away a vehicle without its owner’s consent – offences which even Mr de Traynor couldn’t dispute – limped off to talk to him. Wexford decided to make his escape and get home before the threatening rain began and he made for that semi-secret exit into the mews. It had occurred to him happily by this time that if Howard’s injury was insufficient to keep him from work, Baker’s wouldn’t be, so he was much disconcerted when, marching confidently down one of the bottle-green caverns, he came face to face with the inspector, his head swathed in bandages.
There was nothing for it but to stop and ask him how he was feeling.
‘I’ll survive,’ Baker said curtly.
The only polite answer one can make to this churlish response is a muttered, ‘I hope so.’ Wexford made it, added that he was glad things were no worse and moved on. Baker gave a dry cough.
‘Oh, Mr Wexford . . . ? Still got a few days of your holiday left, haven’t you?
This sounded like the first move towards a truce. Wexford’s spirits were so low that he was grateful for any show of cordiality. ‘Yes, I’m in London till Saturday.’
‘You want to try and take in Billingsgate, then. Plenty of red herrings there, and you’ll find the wild geese at Smithfield.’
Like a goose himself, Baker cackled at his joke. His laughter with an accompanying patronizing pat on the shoulder didn’t rob the remark of insult. It simply made it impossible for Wexford to take offence. Immensely pleased with himself, the inspector went into the lift and clanged the doors behind him. Wexford went down the stairs. No point now in avoiding the front entrance.
Suddenly it seemed even more futile to avoid Clements. There, at least, the deference due to rank would forbid any witticisms of the nature Baker had indulged in. Wexford came down the last flight and caught sight of his own reflection in a window which the brick wall behind it had transformed into a huge and gloomy mirror. He saw a big elderly man, a wrinkled man in a wrinkled raincoat, whose face in which some had discerned wisdom and wit, now showed in every line the frustrated petulance of a spoiled child and, at the same time, the bitterness of age. He straightened his shoulders and stopped frowning. What was the matter with him to let a small reverse get him down? And how could he stoop to comfort himself with his rank? Not only must he not avoid Clements, but must seek him out to apologize for his behaviour of the previous day and – this was even more imperative – say goodbye. Had he really thought of quitting Kenbourne Vale for ever without taking a formal leave of the kind sergeant?
The big outer hall was deserted but for the two uniformed men who presided over a long counter and dealt with enquiries. One of them courteously offered to see if the sergeant was in the building, and Wexford sat down in an uncomfortable black leather armchair to wait for him. It was still only ten o’clock. Rain had begun to splash lightly against the arched windows which flanked the entrance. Perhaps the meteorological office had been right in its forecast of a deep depression settling over South-East England. If the weather had been more promising, he might have telephoned Stephen Dearborn and reminded him of the tour he had suggested. It would be doing the man a favour rather than asking for one, and Wexford felt he owed Dearborn something. Not, in this case, an apology – for you cannot apologize to a man for suspecting him of murder – but a friendly gesture to make up for harbouring such absurd and unfounded suspicions. Wexford was well aware of the guilt one can feel for even thinking ill of a man, although those thoughts have never found verbal expression.
He wasn’t sure whether it was this reminder of his folly that made him go hot and red in the face or Clements’ sudden appearance at his elbow. He rose to his feet, forgetting self-pity and self-recrimination. In a couple of hours Clements would be eating his lunch with his wife and James, his last lunch with James as a probationary father. Or his last lunch with James?
‘Sergeant, I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you.’
‘That’s all right, sir. I’d forgotten all about it.’
Of course he had. He had other things on his mind. Wexford said gently and earnestly, ‘Tomorrow’s the great day, isn’t it?’
As soon as he had spoken he wished he hadn’t brought the subject up. Until this moment he had never quite realized the tension under which Clements lived and worked, the strain which daily grew more agonizing. It showed now in the mammoth effort he made to keep his face ordinary and civilized and receptive, even stretching his mouth into a rictus smile. Wexford saw that he couldn’t speak, that anxiety, invading every corner of his mind and his thoughts, had at last dried up that tide of moralizing and censorious criticism. He was empty now of everything but the animal need to hold onto its young.
They stared at each other, Wexford growing embarrassed, the sergeant, all garrulity gone, dumb with panic and the dread of tomorrow. At last he spoke in a thick dry voice.
‘I’m taking the morning off. Maybe the whole day.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘Depends on . . . My wife . . . On what they . . .’
‘We shan’t meet again, then.’ Wexford held out his hand and Clements took it, giving it a hard painful squeeze as if it were a lifeline. ‘Good-bye, Sergeant, and all the very best for tomorrow.’