*
Keith spent another half hour questioning Andy Carluke, without managing to learn anything more. He gave up and made his farewells.
Andy came with him to the car. ‘Any time you’re over this way after the geese,’ he said, ‘drop in for breakfast.’
‘Don’t think that I won’t.’
‘You heard that Foleyhill won a conservation award?’
Keith laughed wryly. ‘I hadn’t, but good luck to them anyway.’
‘They mean well,’ Andy said. ‘And they worked at it.’
The road was treacherous and the car, labouring against a wind which was determined to shake it off the road, was skittish, but Keith drove without concentrating. There was too much on his mind.
His previous ideas, he now realized, were no more than theories, confirmed only by the words of those who were best suited to them. Instead of belief, he now had certain knowledge. Sir Henry Batemore, on top of his other sins, had destroyed Creepy Jesus.
Keith wiped mist from the windscreen, adjusted the heater and scowled out at a grey and white world. He decided that nothing on earth would induce him to accuse Sir Henry of conspiracy to murder. There was no physical evidence; the charge would depend on the testimony of Andy Carluke, who had already refused to give it; of the Duguid-sons whose interest might well be in silence; and of Creepy Jesus who was no longer in a position to testify to anything except the existence or otherwise of a life after death. The very thought of being the man who had unsuccessfully accused the Home Secretary of murder made Keith’s intestines cringe.
He found, to his surprise, that while he was disapproving he was not in the least shocked. He had met with murder before and had nearly been its victim. On one occasion he had had full knowledge of the murder of a blackmailer by a victim who had been manoeuvred into a vulnerable position and then pressured beyond endurance; and Keith had helped to bury for ever the evidence of that deed. He did not hold all human life to be sacred, not even his own; although, if he had had to think about it, he might have perceived sanctity in the lives of Deborah and Molly.
But if Keith could condone murder in the abstract, the circumstances surrounding the death of Creepy Jesus he found unforgivable. It had been mean and unnecessary, a mere precaution against the chance of a loose tongue; and it had been committed, or at the very least ordered, by a man in a position of power, a contender for the highest office in the government and a man, moreover, who had shown almost a genius for predicting the reactions of others. Such a man would, quite literally, get away with murder. And if ever he were esconced in Number Ten. . . .
Snow was lying across the road on the high ground above Newton Lauder, and the tail of the car skidded suddenly. Keith was jerked back from his reverie and wrenched the wheel. The car whipped the other way, and again he caught it. This time he retained control and drove on, more attentively. His heart was thumping.
When he was on clear road again he let his mind drift back on to his previous line of thought. Either the respite or the surge of adrenalin had swirled away the mists, leaving the issues clear. Sir Henry Batemore was not to be trusted with power. He was guilty of a heinous crime, although the chances of his ever being convicted of it were negligible. But for a Home Secretary to stand accused, on incontrovertible evidence, of a petty crime must at the very least damage his chances of higher office. His petty gesture of revenge would be his undoing. He had taunted Keith by placing the éprouvette table-lighter in the forefront of his official photograph, confident that Keith would feel bound by his promise. Keith, having come well out of their business dealings, would have let the matter go . . . but for the killing of Creepy Jesus.
Keith slapped the steering wheel and nearly lost the car again. ‘I’ll connach the bastard,’ he told himself aloud.
Chapter Thirteen
He was spared any agonizing over breaking his word. He returned to Briesland House, intending to change into clothes suitable for relieving Wallace at the shop. He found Molly, as she would have put it ‘up to High Do’.
‘There was a man on the phone,’ she said breathlessly. ‘He was speaking from London, one of those posh shops in Piccadilly. He asked whether you’d lost an ornament.’
Deborah looked up from her picture book. ‘Onnalmink,’ she confirmed.
‘What did you say?’ Keith asked.
‘I described the eprouvette thing,’ Molly said defiantly. ‘I said that it had been taken. He said that it had been brought in for attention and what did I want him to do about it? I told him I’d call him back. Keith, what’re you going to do?’
‘I’m not going to do a damn thing,’ Keith said. ‘It was your lighter and you’re the one who said you’d call back. Do whatever you’d do if it was just up to you.’
‘If it was just up to me I’d tell him to take it straight to the police.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Well, I’ve got two geese to bring in from the car,’ Keith said. ‘And a duck.’
Deborah scrambled to her feet. ‘I come fetch’m,’ she said. Her parents were beginning to wonder whether she didn’t think that she was a labrador.
*
Keith had expected an infinity of repercussions ranging from police harassment to an action for defamation.
In the event, the matter was handled with such discretion that it was almost an anticlimax. Sir Henry, it seemed, had made himself hated at all levels in the police and also in Downing Street. Chief Inspector Munro, who had learned the facts through some police grapevine, told Keith later that the allegation had found its way rapidly to a very senior police officer who had taken it straight to the office of the Prime Minister.
Sir Henry Batemore was allowed to retire on grounds of ill-health. He took up residence on his wife’s estates in France, where he was again much disliked.
Wallengreen Castle was bought by an Italian industrialist.
Creepy Jesus never knew what an upheaval had been precipitated in his memory. He had met an Argentine heiress of great wealth and singular ugliness and the two were living in Casablanca, eternally stoned out of what was left of their minds.
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Postscript
Newton Lauder is a fictitious town somewhere between the Pentlands and the Cheviots. Its inhabitants and the other characters in the book are wholly fictitious.
I have tried to be accurate in all factual matters but acknowledge that I have taken mild liberties with history: the antique guns which figure in this story do not exist, but they could have done. I also admit to simplifying the necessary procedures for gaining access to the information stored in the Police National Computer.
G.H.
Cousin Once Removed Page 15
