“Oh, yes, that of course. But he was also working on a book, you know.”
“Was he?” said Henry thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t know that. Something pretty erudite, I imagine.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Talbot. “It was a history of Oppenshaw and Trilby, the publishers. Old Oppenshaw more or less commissioned it, I gather, and of course they’re—that is, they were going to publish it. Most of it is eighteenth-century stuff about Richard Trilby and the early days—but Harry was bringing it right up to date. The firm nearly failed after the Second World War, you know, and Oppenshaw stepped in and saved it. He was quite a junior member of the business at that time, but he had this great vision that if only he could buy the firm before it went bankrupt, he could make a great house of Trilby’s again.” Talbot’s voice had taken on the fervor of someone expounding on his favorite subject. “It was touch-and-go, you know. If Oppenshaw hadn’t been able to find the money just when he did, Trilby’s would have gone bankrupt and simply disappeared.”
“You seem to know a lot about the subject,” said Henry.
“Well, I was doing research for Harry on it, actually.” Talbot paused, and blushed again. “Actually, the money came from Oppenshaw’s wife, although Harry’s rather soft-pedaling that. I mean he was. You see, it was just after Oppenshaw got married that he was able to buy the firm. Another few weeks, and it would have been too late. But in Harry’s manuscript, he just says that Robert Oppenshaw managed to raise the money at the last moment.”
“What other research have you been doing for Vandike?” Henry asked.
“Oh, old documents and things. I was looking up facts about Carnworth—that’s his estate on the Isle of Wight, you know. Harry used to go and stay there.”
So this is the link I’ve been looking for, Henry thought. How easy, once you know. Quite casually, he said, “I expect you looked up for him how Sir Robert came by the property—just like the money, through his wife. Francis Warfield’s will and all that.”
“Yes, I got him a copy of the will. Didn’t read it myself. As I told you, Harry was going gently on the fact that the money and the property came through Oppenshaw’s wife. After all, it was Oppenshaw himself who pulled the firm together and made it what it is today. Who cares where the finance came from?” Talbot paused and cleared his throat. He said, “I think I know just how Harry was going to handle it. I even thought I might try to finish the book myself, now that Harry’s…gone.”
Henry said, “Well, I wish you luck. Now about the actual accident. You’d been at the Mountainside with Vandike for about a week?”
“Six days, actually.”
“Did he get a lot of mail?”
Roger looked surprised. “Letters, you mean? No, nothing that I remember. Of course, he called the college and his London club several times to get messages.”
“And were there messages?”
“I don’t know. If there were, he never told me. He did make several phone calls, but I don’t know to whom.”
“I see,” said Henry. “Now, about climbing gear.”
“I hired mine from a shop in Aberwithy, but of course Harry had his own. First-rate stuff.”
“But he didn’t travel down to Wales in climbing kit?”
“Good Lord, no. He was wearing a dark suit, like a city gent. He had all his gear in a big suitcase.”
Henry pretended to make a note. “It was on the Monday evening, was it, that he told you he was going to do the Devil’s Chimney?”
“Yes. He’d cycled into Aberwithy to do some shopping after we came back from the mountain. He got back at dinnertime, and that was when he told me. I wanted to go with him, but he said it was much too difficult for a beginner like me. I don’t suppose I could have saved him, but I’ll never forgive myself for not going, all the same.” The young man sounded near tears. “At least I’d have been able to raise the alarm sooner. As it was, I didn’t do anything until nearly dinnertime, when it was far too late.”
“He left the hotel early, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know when he left. I was asleep. He was certainly gone when I woke up at eight.”
“Would you have expected the climb to take so long?” Henry asked.
“Not the Chimney itself, no. But there’s quite a climb—well, more of a walk, really—to get there. Some people even do it by car, which Harry always said was cheating. And he said he was taking a picnic to eat at the top, and would take his time coming down. He said he might even stop off in the village for a beer. So I wasn’t worried.”
“Well, I think that’s all, Mr. Talbot,” said Henry. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Talbot smiled shyly. “I don’t feel I’ve helped at all,” he said, “but I must say I’ve enjoyed talking to you, sir, which is more than I expected.” He flushed again. “I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean…that is, I never thought I’d enjoy an interview at Scotland Yard.”
“Most people don’t,” Henry assured him with a grin. “At least not the guilty ones.”
When Talbot had gone, Henry telephoned the offices of Oppenshaw and Trilby. He seemed to remember that this was one of the two days in the week when Sir Robert was driven to London in the Bentley and actually did some work in his office. He was right, but Henry had to fight through a battery of secretaries and personal aides before he was finally connected with Oppenshaw himself.
Sir Robert was friendliness itself. “My dear Tibbett, how kind of you to call. What can I do for you?”
Remembering Emmy’s account of her talk with Barbara, Henry was surprised at this geniality. He said, “Spare me a little of your valuable time, if you can, Sir Robert. I know you don’t have very long in London, so I suppose that to suggest lunch would be—”
“Not possible, I’m much afraid, dear fellow. I am lunching with”—he mentioned a world-famous, bestselling American author—“who is here for a few days, and thinking of changing his publisher. This is in confidence, of course. He feels that his present people do not project a sufficiently—how shall I put it?—a sufficiently high-class image. I have ventured to suggest to him that Oppenshaw and Trilby might be just what he is looking for. So…”
Henry stemmed the flow. “That’s why I was going to suggest a quick drink before your appointment. The bar of the Orangery, perhaps, if that would suit you.”
There was a hesitation. Henry knew that Sir Robert must be curious to know what he had to say. He also knew that the choice of rendezvous, one of the most expensive and elegant restaurants in London, would intrigue him. It did. Sir Robert made up his mind. “Very well,” he said. “I could make it at twelve, for half an hour or so. You did”—he hesitated—“you did mean the Orangery? The place just off Park Lane—never can remember the name of the street—”
“That’s right,” said Henry. “Thank you very much, Sir Robert. Twelve o’clock in the bar.” He hoped very much that he would be able to charge the bill to petty cash.
Henry then put through a telephone call to the Isle of Wight, and had a pleasant conversation with Mrs. Turnberry. He intended to suggest to Oppenshaw that the Turnberrys should be invited to the weekend gathering, and he felt that they should be warned in advance that they might receive such an invitation. He imagined that since Peter’s death there had been little communication between the two families.
Then, at twenty to twelve, he went out into Victoria Street to find a cab to take him to the Orangery.
Henry and Emmy were by no means part of the gilded aristocracy—nor of anything else gilded, for that matter—and he did not go to places like the Orangery every day. However, it had figured in a few other cases where he had dealt with wealthy people, and it was a place where he felt at home. The doorman greeted him like an old friend, and soon he was sitting at the empty bar (expense-account lunches started later than midday), waiting for his guest.
Sir Robert arrived at ten past twelve (the one-up position of the slightly late). The two men ordered drinks and
took them to a corner table. Sir Robert glanced fleetingly at his slim gold watch.
Henry said, “This is really kind of you, Sir Robert. I know your time is precious, but I felt I must see you personally. You know that Barbara visited my wife yesterday afternoon?”
“She did mention it.”
“With a very kind invitation for Emmy and me to spend next weekend at Carnworth. Naturally, we’ll be delighted.”
Sir Robert muttered something patently untrue about the pleasure being his.
Henry went on, “She said something else, however—something that has worried me very much.”
“Indeed? What was that?”
“She said that you and Lady Oppenshaw, not to mention Barbara herself, were all very upset about some of my activities.”
There was a ponderous silence while Sir Robert sipped his drink. Then he said, “Barbara always exaggerates a little—the artistic temperament. However, Tibbett, I don’t mind telling you that I am a little disquieted. Not on my own account,” he added hastily. “As you know, I’ve neither seen nor spoken to you since the inquest. No, my concern is for my authors.”
“What have they been telling you?” Henry asked.
“Nothing directly. But they keep in touch—the members of the Guess Who club in particular—and I get news of them through Barbara. It seems that you have visited or spoken to them all, making insinuations that Peter Turnberry’s death might not have been an accident. This has distressed them, very understandably. It provoked some sort of row between Bill and Fred; with the result that the new Freda Wright is badly behind its deadline. Myrtle got hold of some ridiculous idea that I am displeased with her work, and had a telephone conversation with my junior partner, which was highly unpleasant, not to say abusive. She is talking about taking her new book to another publisher. I think I shall be able to bring her around, but she’s very temperamental, you know, despite her placid exterior.”
“And poor Harry Vandike—” Henry began.
“A tragedy. A great tragedy.” Sir Robert sighed heavily. “I feel it deeply and personally, for he was an old friend. As far as Oppenshaw and Trilby is concerned, however, I hope you won’t think me callous if I say that he is not such a loss as some of the others would be. The Elaine Summerfield books have a certain following, but Gothics are not in the tradition of the firm.”
“I understand,” said Henry, “that he was writing a book for you, under his own name. A history of Oppenshaw and Trilby.”
“That’s quite true,” agreed Oppenshaw. “Fortunately it was almost complete when he died. I can easily find a competent authority to finish it off from Harry’s notes.”
“The young man who was doing the research for Harry is very keen to—” Henry saw no harm in putting in a word for Roger Talbot.
However, Sir Robert cut him short. “I said an author, Tibbett. I have received a letter from the boy. He is a mere undergraduate, with no expertise, no technique. Out of the question.” He paused and cleared his throat, indicating a change of subject. “Now, to revert. Of all my authors, my greatest anxiety is for Barbara. I am speaking now as a publisher, not as a father. The Lydia Drake books are enjoying a considerable vogue at the moment, and she has told me in so many words that she finds it impossible to write under these conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“To be blunt, Tibbett, the fact that Scotland Yard seems to think that a member of the Guess Who club may be a murderer. I have told her not to be silly, that no official steps have been taken or even hinted at, that the verdict of the coroner’s jury was final, and so on. But it’s no good. The doubt remains. She has not written one word since the Carnworth week.”
“I’m awfully sorry about all this,” said Henry meekly. “I do realize that my pesky curiosity may have upset people. I’m afraid I didn’t stop to think of it like that. However, I can assure you that the whole thing is now cleared up in my mind.” He paused. “Since I have offended these people, I really wanted to see you in order to ask a favor of you.”
“A favor?”
“You have kindly invited Emmy and me for the weekend, and I understand that Barbara will also be at Carnworth. Would it be asking too much if you were to reconstitute the Carnworth literary weekend—as far as that’s possible?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Tibbett.”
“I feel I owe you and your authors an explanation,” Henry said. “If I could meet them again, all together, I could set their minds at rest. If you would indulge me, and invite—”
“I can’t reconstitute that weekend,” said Sir Robert, “as you know very well. Peter Turnberry and Harry Vandike are both dead.”
“That’s unfortunately true,” said Henry, “but you could invite Fred Coe and William Cartwright and Myrtle. And—I hope I’m not presuming—I think it would be a gracious gesture to let Peter’s parents in on this. Then everybody concerned can go about their business with no worries. Everything will be over.”
“Everything will be over,” Sir Robert repeated. There was a long silence. Then he said, “There’s something in it, I suppose.” Another hesitation, then he made up his mind. “Very well, Tibbett. I’ll do it. Of course, I can’t guarantee that they’ll all be free to come.”
“I think they’ll accept,” said Henry.
Ignoring this, Sir Robert said, “And now I really must be off, or I shall be late for my luncheon guest. Thanks for the drink, Tibbett. I’ll get my secretary to arrange the other matter. Oh—and just let her know what time you’ll be arriving on Saturday, and whether you want to be met. She’ll fix it all. Good-bye till then, Mr. Tibbett.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HENRY AND EMMY did not need to be met. They drove down on Saturday morning, taking the now familiar car ferry from Portsmouth to Fishbourne and the beautiful coast road.
Carnworth Manor looked as serene as ever in the pale sunlight of early September. As before, the Tibbetts were met at the front door, but this time by Sowerby, the butler. There was no sign of the Oppenshaws.
As before, their suitcases were whisked away, and their car was driven around to the parking area near the stables.
They had been given the same blue bedroom, and it was with a shock of déjà vu that Henry, looking out of the window, saw two figures on horseback riding through the dappled greenery of the park. Indeed, one was Barbara—but beside her, instead of Peter Turnberry, was Sir Robert himself, mounted on the big bay.
Combing her curly brown hair in front of the dressing-table mirror, Emmy said, “I’m still completely in the dark, darling. What are you going to do?”
Henry grinned. “I told you. Stage a classic detective story ending.”
“I don’t see how—”
“You don’t have to see how.” Henry kissed the back of her neck. “It would spoil it all. Just leave it to me.”
“I know,” said Emmy gloomily. “You think if you told me, I’d go and put my foot in it and give everything away.”
“I never said that.”
“You meant it, though.” Emmy turned to him, smiling. “All right, darling, play it your own way. I’m just here for the ride.”
“Oh, no,” said Henry seriously. “You have an important part to play.”
“I do? Then you might tell me about it.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he assured her. “Now let’s go down and see if we can get a drink before lunch.”
Fellow guests from the mainland had evidently made an early start, or perhaps come down on Friday evening, for Fred Coe, Bill Cartwright, and Myrtle Waterford were already in the drawing room, chatting over drinks with Lady Oppenshaw.
“Ah, there you are! The guests of honor. Come on in, Henry and Emmy. No need for introductions. Let me get you a drink.” Pamela sounded lighthearted enough, but it struck Emmy that there was a brittle edge to her voice. “That means that when Robert and Barbara come in from their ride, we can have lunch. Now, what’s it to be?”
Pouring two gla
sses of pale sherry for the Tibbetts, she went on, speaking almost in an aside to Henry, “The Turnberrys aren’t coming until after lunch. And they’re not staying here, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Henry agreed. He accepted his drink and turned back to the rest of the party.
“So, no more sleuthing, eh?” remarked Coe genially.
“No, that’s all finished,” Henry said.
“Quite a relief, although we might have got a book out of it. Ah, well, Bill will be coming up with a good plot for Miss Twinkley once all this is over. Isn’t that so?” he added to his co-author; any bad blood between the two men seemed to have vanished.
“I will do my best.” Dr. Cartwright was as prim and precise as ever.
Myrtle said, rather too loudly, “Such a shame that Harry can’t be with us.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Fred. “He’d have enjoyed hearing the Chief Superintendent’s exposition no end. Fitted it all together like a crossword puzzle, have you, Tibbett?”
“Something like that,” Henry agreed.
Lady Oppenshaw was saying to Emmy, “I can’t tell you what a relief it will be to have all this wretched suspicion out of the way. Don’t think I’m blaming your husband—he has his job to do—but I’ve been really worried about Robert and Barbara. And the others, of course.”
Soon afterward, Sir Robert and Barbara came in, still in their riding clothes. They had a quick drink and went up to change. A few minutes later the whole party sat down to a cold lunch. Although the subject of Peter Turnberry was not mentioned, there was a general air of expectancy throughout the meal. Only Myrtle seemed nervous. She ate little, and when she spoke, it was too loudly. Lady Oppenshaw, however, kept up a flow of easy conversation, while Barbara looked both angry and sulky. The others all appeared to be in good form.
After the meal, they went back into the drawing room. It was arranged as it had been for the Guess Who meeting, with chairs in a semicircle facing the same little Georgian table. This time, however, there was also a chair at the table. The lecture was expected to be less formal than that of the previous occasion.
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