Murder by Numbers

by Eric Brown

  ‘About the wisdom of your continuing to work as a detective. I fear for you, I really do. And now Maria has been dragged into the dangerous mire of underworld shenanigans.’

  Langham smiled at his agent’s hyperbole. ‘The fact is that this has nothing to do with my work, Charles. Fenton would have invited her whether I worked as a PI or as a choirmaster.’

  ‘Even so, you cannot deny that, in your line of work, you do face danger on a daily basis.’

  Langham frowned. ‘Make that monthly,’ he corrected.

  Charles waved. ‘My point still stands. You would be better off resigning and concentrating on your novels.’

  ‘But would I? I think that my experiences as a private detective feed well into my books.’

  ‘But I worry for you, my boy! I worry!’

  Langham reached out and patted his agent’s plump hand. ‘I assure you, Charles, that you have absolutely no need. I can look after myself.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘Right, I’d better be making tracks. Is Albert well?’

  Charles beamed. ‘Never better,’ he said. ‘Did I mention that we’re taking a little break before Christmas?’

  ‘Maria did say something. Tangiers, isn’t it?’

  ‘A week of midwinter sun will do wonders for my spirits. But we’ll be back in time for Christmas. And don’t forget, you’re invited up to Suffolk for the festivities.’

  ‘We’re looking forward to that,’ Langham said, and moved to the door. ‘Oh, one more thing,’ he said. ‘If anyone comes sniffing around here, asking for Maria or enquiring about her address, would you please contact me immediately?’

  Charles’s expression of woe intensified. ‘I certainly will, my boy. I certainly will.’

  Langham thanked him and left the office.

  He found the bound manuscripts Maria had mentioned, said goodbye to Molly and drove to Earl’s Court.

  At the office, he warmed himself by the radiator and stared through the window. The sky was as dull as pewter and a fine rain fell ceaselessly. Three big Leyland double-decker buses ground slowly along the high street, one after the other, and old Alf was taking his mongrel mutt for its morning walk.

  Langham was wondering what was delaying Ralph, who was usually in the office before him, when the phone rang and his partner’s Cockney tones sounded down the line. ‘Don, would you ruddy Adam and Eve it – the tank’s dry. That geezer down Chiswick I told you about – well, he ain’t got a drop to spare.’

  ‘We could always siphon some from my tank.’

  ‘Thanks, but don’t bother. I’ll come in on the Tube. Be a pal and meet me at Charing Cross in an hour, would you?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Langham said.

  ‘Oh – one more thing. I did some digging yesterday when I got back, and found the address of the Kersh and Cohen Theatrical Agency.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘Then I rang round two or three agencies who hire out butlers and suchlike, and struck gold. They were contacted a couple of weeks back by one Mr Smith from Winterfield, Essex, who hired a butler by the name of Joseph Gittings. I have his address in Battersea. We could nip along to his gaff this morning, then talk to the bods at the theatrical place later.’

  ‘Good work,’ Langham said, and rang off.

  An hour would give him time to have a cuppa at the Lyons’ tearoom next door and a glance at the morning paper. He was about to leave the office when the phone rang again.

  ‘Ryland and Langham—’ he began.

  ‘Don, Jeff here,’ Mallory said.

  ‘Developments?’

  ‘Not as such, but I need your help.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I went round to see the Goudges at their Chelsea apartment last night. Odd couple.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘I explained the situation, told them about Bryce’s murder and said that, taking into consideration Maxwell Fenton’s threats and the doctor’s subsequent death, it would be wise if they were to lay low for a while. I suggested they leave the city and book into a hotel somewhere until I contacted them with the all-clear. God knows, judging by the pile they live in, they could afford a hotel.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  Mallory grunted a laugh. ‘The woman did all the talking, while her husband flapped around her like a nursemaid with St Vitus’s dance. I’ve never met a woman who could load every word she speaks with such acerbity.’

  Langham smiled as he recalled the art critic from the evening at Winterfield.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mallory went on, ‘the upshot is that they refuse point-blank to believe that Bryce was murdered, and certainly not by anyone connected to Fenton.’

  ‘Despite his threats?’

  ‘Despite his threats,’ Mallory said. ‘Hermione Goudge pooh-poohed the whole idea and said that the notion that they were at risk was preposterous. I think her husband was alarmed, but too afraid of his wife to open his mouth and object.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Go and see them and stress the danger. Lay it on thick. Shock the silly woman into seeing sense. Here’s their address.’

  Langham made a note of it and smiled to himself. ‘I think I know exactly how to do that,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, one other thing. We contacted this Crispin Proudfoot chap and told him to make himself scarce, but we drew a blank when we tried to contact the actress, Holly Beckwith.’

  ‘Strange. Didn’t she give her address to Riley the other night?’

  ‘She did – a boarding house in Peckham. But when we checked yesterday, we were told she’d moved out that morning and hadn’t left a forwarding address.’

  ‘She did say she was rehearsing something in London,’ Langham offered.

  Mallory sighed. ‘Thanks, but do you know how many plays – professional and amateur – are running in the city at any one time? It’ll take us days to plough through the programmes.’

  ‘Just a sec, Jeff. Beckwith said something yesterday about exchanging addresses with Maria. You could check with her; of course, the address she gave might be the Peckham place.’

  He gave Mallory Pamela’s telephone number, then said, ‘What’s the situation concerning police protection for the guests?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m just about to pop along and see my Super about it,’ Mallory said, and rang off.

  Langham glanced at his watch. Almost nine thirty. So much for a quiet cup of tea while poring over the morning paper.

  He locked the office and hurried down the linoleum-covered stairs, pulled his hat down against the rain and ran across the pavement to the Rover.

  One good thing about the petrol shortage was that there were fewer vehicles on the road; on the minus side, profiteering garage owners were hiking their prices. He still had half a tank remaining, which, if he was careful, might last a couple of days. He drove from Earl’s Court to Charing Cross, a journey which, thanks to the light traffic, he completed in fifteen minutes.

  He parked across the road from the Underground station and watched the dour, bedraggled-looking commuters emerge from the exit in their droves. Another thing he wouldn’t miss about London, aside from the traffic and the smog, was the cattle-like hordes of grim-faced citizens who thronged the public transport system. With the move to the country imminent, he wondered how he’d tolerated the capital for so long.

  Ralph emerged from the Underground looking like a drowned rat in his tatty grey raincoat and trilby pulled down low over his narrow forehead. He crossed the road and slipped into the passenger seat with a curse.

  ‘So I phoned Irish Pat, didn’t I, and all he said on the petrol front was “No can do, bejesus.” Just like that – and me an old customer!’

  Langham commiserated and pulled from the kerb. ‘Oh, change of plan. Jeff called – you might like this.’

  He went on to tell Ralph about the sceptical Goudges and his idea to put the frighteners on the couple.

  ‘Sounds just my cuppa,’ Ralph said, rubbing his hands. ‘
I like the thought of putting the wind up a pair of toffs.’

  Langham found himself trailing a double-decker all the way along the King’s Road, its black exhaust fumes adding to the smog, then turned off towards the Thames. Presently they pulled up outside the Tivoli Mansions. The rain was still teeming down.

  Ralph slipped the revolver from the glove compartment and followed Langham along the pavement.

  ‘Just a mo,’ Langham said, pointing across the road to a young man who had just emerged from the driver’s seat of a black Ford Popular. Crispin Proudfoot saw Langham, waved frantically and hurried across to join them. The poet looked beside himself with fear.

  ‘Langham!’ he cried. ‘Am I glad to see you!’

  Langham found it impossible to tell whether it was rain or tears streaming down the young man’s wan face, but he suspected the latter.

  ‘The police came to see me yesterday,’ Proudfoot said, taking Langham’s arm in a desperate grip. ‘They said Doctor Bryce was dead – murdered! – and that I should make myself scarce.’ His face crumpled. ‘And then, this morning, I received this …’

  He pulled a sodden card out from beneath his gabardine mackintosh and waved it under Langham’s nose. ‘I was going to talk to Hermione, to see if she might reassure me.’

  Langham looked along the road and saw a café. He turned to Ralph. ‘I’ll meet you in the foyer of the Tivoli. Give me five minutes while I …’ He gestured to the poet, who was dripping in the street and looking pathetic.

  ‘Righty-ho.’ Ralph nodded and hurried into the red-brick and white stucco pile. Langham took Proudfoot’s arm and propelled him along the street to the café.

  They removed their coats and hats and sat down at a window table. ‘You don’t know how relieved I was to see your friendly face,’ the poet said. ‘The way you took charge of the frightful situation the other evening, before the police arrived …’

  Langham ordered two coffees from the waitress while Proudfoot pulled a silk kerchief from the pocket of his beige jacket and mopped the tears, and the rain, from his face.

  ‘Do you mind if I take a look at that card?’ Langham asked.

  The poet passed it across the table. Langham said, ‘What did you do with the envelope?’

  ‘It was sopping wet, so I discarded it,’ Proudfoot said. ‘I was taking the card to Hermione to see what she might make of it.’

  The card was identical to the one Dr Bryce had received, illustrated with a single white lily and bearing the words, With sincere sympathy.

  ‘When did this arrive?’

  ‘First post this morning,’ Proudfoot said, lifting his coffee cup. His hand shook, and it was all he could do to steer the cup to his lips without spilling its contents. ‘But if Doctor Bryce was murdered—’

  ‘Keep it down,’ Langham said, aware that a couple of customers were looking askance at the poet’s hysteria.

  ‘I’m sorry. This is all a bit much to take in, Mr Langham.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said soothingly. ‘It isn’t every day one finds oneself caught up in a situation like this.’

  ‘But you, as a private detective …’

  Langham smiled. ‘In my real life, I’m a writer. Thrillers. I work as a detective part-time. Underneath this calm exterior, I’m as worried as you are. Perhaps more so. My wife is threatened, too.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I take it you’ve arranged for her to stay somewhere safe?’

  ‘We’re staying with a friend for the time being,’ he said. ‘Until all this blows over.’

  Proudfoot smiled in uneasy camaraderie. ‘What I don’t understand, Mr Langham, is who can be doing this. Maxwell Fenton is dead. We saw him shoot himself. But his threats …’ He took another trembling sip of coffee. ‘You don’t believe in revenge from beyond the grave, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then what do you think—?’

  Langham interrupted. ‘It’s pretty obvious. Fenton had an accomplice, and it’s he – or she – who’s carrying out his dirty work.’

  ‘But that’s fantastical!’ the poet cried.

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s the obvious conclusion.’ Langham hesitated. ‘I take it you took the advice of the police and moved from your usual address?’

  ‘I found an attic room in Muswell Hill and moved in last night.’

  Langham stared at the poet, alarmed. ‘But you said you received the card this morning.’

  ‘That’s right – I had to pop back to my place in Knightsbridge for a few things and found this waiting for me.’

  ‘You’d better give me your new address so I can keep in touch. Does it have a telephone?’

  The poet nodded, then scribbled the address and phone number in a notebook, tore out the page and passed it across with shaking fingers.

  Langham recalled the evening at Winterfield and Maxwell Fenton’s acrimonious listing of his guests’ supposed misdemeanours. The artist had said something about Proudfoot’s theft.

  ‘Look here, I need to build up a picture of Maxwell Fenton – get to know the kind of person he was in order to understand his motivations. He mentioned, the other evening, that you’d stolen something from him.’

  Proudfoot turned bright red and stammered, ‘I–I, that is …’

  ‘This will go no further than you and me,’ Langham assured the young man. ‘I need to know why he felt so aggrieved, what motivated the man.’

  Proudfoot took a deep breath. ‘Fine, very well. I’m not at all proud of what I did, Mr Langham, but in my defence I must say that I was penniless at the time, and desperate. This was five years ago, just before my move to Paris. I’d fallen on hard times; I was reviewing in order to subsidize the pittance I earned from my poetry and short stories, and I needed money so that I could get away from London.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Max often invited me down to Winterfield. He held weekends where artists, literary types, actors and the like would gather. They were … some of the parties were rather wild, though I never went in for anything like that myself.’

  ‘And?’ Langham prompted, suppressing the urge to smile.

  The poet shrugged and looked forlorn. In the heat of the café, steam rose from his fair hair. ‘I was a little drunk at the time. I was in Max’s study. This was in the early hours. The party was winding down. Max and I were the last ones left drinking. We’d been discussing something – I can’t recall what – and Max said he was turning in and staggered off.’

  Proudfoot swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing, and looked everywhere but at Langham. He continued in an undertone, ‘I knew where he kept his money – in a drawer in his desk. I honestly don’t know what made me do it. As I said, I was drunk – and desperate. I opened the drawer and took what was in there.’

  ‘How much?’

  Proudfoot shrugged, swallowed and said almost inaudibly, ‘Two hundred pounds.’

  Langham whistled. ‘Quite a tidy sum.’

  ‘So I took it, God help me, and left the house at dawn before anyone was up, then boarded the train to Dover, en route to France.’ He sighed, regarding his thin, long-nailed fingers on the tabletop before him. ‘Obviously, Max worked out that it was I who stole the money, and had held it against me ever since.’ He looked up, staring at Langham. ‘But I swear that I always intended to pay it back, just as soon as I had the funds.’

  Langham took a sip of his coffee, considering the young man’s words. ‘As you say, Fenton found out and held it against you ever since. However …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’

  Langham shrugged. ‘While the theft of two hundred pounds is no small matter, Fenton’s desire to see you dead because of it is something of an overreaction, don’t you think?’

  ‘But you don’t know Fenton,’ Proudfoot almost wailed. ‘He had a hair-trigger temper and took offence at the slightest provocation. I’ve seen him flying into a rage if he found one of his paintings hanging at what he considered to be the wr
ong height, and he’d accuse gallery owners of attempting to thwart his career. He was paranoid.’

  ‘Insane?’

  The poet hesitated. ‘I’ve heard that charge levelled against him,’ he said, ‘though I’m in no way qualified to give an opinion.’

  ‘Do you know if Fenton was married?’

  Proudfoot shook his head. ‘I’m sure he never married, though I’ve heard he had multiple affairs.’

  ‘I understand he had a child, back in the thirties?’

  Proudfoot widened his eyes as if in surprise. ‘If so, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. He never spoke of anything like that – his personal life, his affairs. He kept his cards close to his chest in that department.’

  ‘Did you like him, Crispin?’ Langham asked, watching the poet closely as the young man blinked and turned his empty cup in his long fingers, around and around.

  ‘I respected him, and I was grateful for everything he did for me, his championing my poetry, the people he introduced me to.’ He reddened, staring across at Langham, and went on, ‘I can see what you’re thinking. I respected him, and yet that’s how I repaid him, by taking two hundred pounds from his desk.’

  Langham shrugged, watching the poet. ‘Do you know if Fenton had friends, acquaintances, who were so close to him that they might carry out his wishes posthumously?’

  The young man shook his head. ‘He had few really close friends, Mr Langham. His paranoia tended to drive people from him, after a time.’

  ‘And yet there’s a very real possibility that someone, or more than one person, has seen fit to carry out his threats.’

  Proudfoot screwed his eyes shut. ‘Don’t! Please … don’t … say … that!’ he almost sobbed. ‘Christ knows, I’m well aware of what’s happening. What do you think it’s like, suffering like this?’

  Langham felt like slapping the poet across the face but restrained himself. ‘You’ll be fine if you take the advice of the police and lie low. Don’t tell a soul where you are, and try not to go out, certainly not to your usual haunts, wherever they may be.’

  Proudfoot swallowed, nodded and smiled his thanks. ‘I wonder … You’ve been so good, Mr Langham. Could I have your number, so that if I need to contact you in an emergency …’