7
A Reunion
To say that I was surprised when Hera and I received the invitation is to put it more than mildly. That we accepted it seems, with hindsight, to have been the mistake of a lifetime. It came three weeks before the late August Bank Holiday and was for a reunion of those of us who had met on The Way, to be held the Saturday in that weekend. Had it come from Carbridge or Todd, I feel sure we would have turned it down, but it came from the students and was signed by all four of them, Lucius Trickett, Coral Platt, Freddie Brown, and Patsy Carlow.
“We must go,” said Hera decisively. Although she had mellowed considerably towards me after she had read the Scottish newspapers, she still vigorously asserted herself.
“We shall be bored rigid,” I said.
“Nonsense. Student parties are always fun and I expect they have gone to no end of trouble to organise this one. We can’t let them down. They will be giving up a lot of their summer vacation to lay on the festivities and goodness knows how much they’ll have to scrimp up out of their grants to pay for a party.”
“We’d better take a couple of bottles along to help out, in that case, and let them know we’re bringing something,” I said.
“You will accept, then? Oh, good! I’ll send the answer in both our names, if you like. I know how you procrastinate over everything except business letters. I suppose they got our addresses from the telephone book.”
“Or from the Scottish Youth Hostel registers while they were up there. All right, you answer for both of us and I’ll note down the date in my diary and see about the drinks.”
“I wonder what we’ll be expected to wear?”
“Casuals, of course.”
The function was to be held in one of the polytechnic’s halls of residence, a large house in Bloomsbury. Hera thought we might spend the afternoon at the British Museum and go on to the party from there. It would make for conversation, she said, if the going was sticky at first.
“They are such serious children, that lot,” she explained. “I wonder whether anybody besides The Way people will be there?”
“Probably more of the poly students in order to make things go, but no doubt Carbridge can do that on his own—at least, he’ll think so. I expect he’ll assume charge of the whole proceedings unless the party turns out to be a student version of Top of the Pops with time out for potato crisps, salted peanuts, little sausages on sticks, mousetrap cheese, sherry which, in the classic phrase, would burn the shell off an egg, and a barrel of beer for the boys,” I said. “How I do hate drinking beer at four in the afternoon!”
“What’s wrong with Top of the Pops?”
“Nothing, if you like that kind of thing. I always switch off the set, because I can’t stick these moronic atavisms.”
“Don’t be so toffee-nosed.”
“Just as you say. I’ll go, but I don’t expect to enjoy myself, that is all I intended to convey.”
“You’ll love it when you get there.”
“So they always told me as a child when I jibbed at going to other children’s Christmas and birthday parties.”
“Well, didn’t you enjoy yourself?”
“No.” Emboldened by my uncompromising use of this splendid negative, I added, “And you need not think you are going to drag me to the Brit. Mus., either. I shall spend the day enjoying myself and then I shall don jeans and a Wild West shirt for the revels.”
“And find that the other men have turned up in immaculate flannels. I shall wear a frock,” she said.
However, her slinky little dress, which I had so admired, looked out-of-place against the slacks, jeans, and, in the case of the student Patsy Carlow—who, with Lucius Trickett, was organising the dancing—Turkish trousers, gold lamé chest-protectors in the shape of little targets, and a sort of Isadora Duncan turban.
The Minches wore kilts of tartan woven in a bold mixture of red and white which, as I discovered later, they were entitled to wear, his with a sporran, hers without, and both sporting vast safety-pins to keep the body and soul of the garment in decent contiguity. Todd had compromised by wearing grey flannels and a soft silk shirt, attire in which he looked both elegant and comfortable. I envied him and wished I had thought of the same clothing for myself.
The only member of the student party who had not turned up was Perth, but that was understandable as his home was in Glasgow, so it would have been expecting rather much of him to travel to London for an occasion which was of only a few hours’ duration. What did astonish me was the absence of Carbridge. Far from being the life and soul of the party, he was not in attendance at all.
The insurance-office women, Rhoda and Tansy, were present though, and had played safe by wearing light summer dresses bought (or so Hera informed me) at Marks and Sparks. I think she regretted her slinky little number and would gladly have exchanged outfits with Tansy, who was much about her size.
The music, if one calls it that—I suppose some people do—was provided by a group of young people whom I took to be fellow-students of Perth’s lot, since every so often they abandoned guitars, a trumpet, a saxophone, a trombone, the piano, a double bass, and the detonation of drums and the clash of cymbals in favour of turning on a gramophone and joining in the dancing.
Our other two students, Freddie and Coral, rushed in with dishes of sizzling chipolata sausages or tin trays of hamburgers, and the food was seized on greedily by the dancers and consumed at lightning speed, to be followed, time after time, by fresh consignments of what seemed a never-ending, inexhaustible supply. There was plenty of beer and bottles of fizz to drink. Hera, Todd, and I were given the gin and tonics I had brought.
What with the fact that the size of the room was not over-adequate for its purpose—because of the area taken up by the piano, the musicians, a table for the gramophone and records, and the amount of space required by each dancer and the necessity for these to keep a clear passage for the everlasting relays of food, not to mention three long trestle tables bearing mugs, tumblers, and bottles—I soon grew tired of the din, the heat, the glistening sweaty faces of the males, and the screaming voices of females determined to converse, whatever odds were stacked against their being heard, and I began to feel the necessity for solitude, peace, and a quiet cigarette. Hera spotted me sneaking towards the door.
“And where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.
“Out for a quiet puff or two, that’s all.”
“You’re not trying to ‘steal away home’ like the singer of the negro spiritual?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t go without telling you.”
“That’s all right, then. Are you hating all this?”
“No, no. I like to see young people happy.”
I slipped out and walked down a long, broad corridor. It was not the way by which we had been taken to what I supposed was the common-room, but the house was a large one and the room had three doors. The corridor was occupied by a bloke near the further end. He was seated behind a small table near a glass-fronted telephone cabinet, reading one newspaper and eating fish and chips out of another.
“Is there anywhere I can go to have a quiet smoke?” I asked him. “I’ve got a bit of a headache with all the row in there.”
“Why, yes, sir. Go along a bit further and on your left you’ll find a passage. There’s a switch on the right as you goes in. Oh, Lor’, though! You’ll have to feel your way, I’m afraid, sir. I’d clean forgot. I recollects now as some clever bugger have removed the electric lightbulb. Wanted it for his own room, I suppose. Some of ’em comes in during the vacations to get on with a bit of college work, you see. I better get around to replacing it. But you’ll find your way all right and the door is straight in front of you.”
It dawned on me that he thought my modest desire for a quiet smoke meant that I really needed the Gents, but I decided that at any rate I could stand outside its door and have my puff, so I thanked him and walked on, as he had directed.
That is to s
ay, I began to walk on as he had directed, but in the little passage—dark as the one in Scotland—I stumbled over a body.
They talk of people who feel they are living in a nightmare. That is not a novelist’s exaggerated way of expressing the extreme of discomfort and terror. I can vouch for its literal truth. Before I struck a match to look at what was on the floor of that dark passage, I questioned whether I was not indeed in the throes of a nightmare and I wondered how soon I could wake myself out of it. I could feel every nerve in my body clicking with electric sparks. “It must be a nightmare,” I thought.
But, of course, it was no nightmare, but a stark and dreadful reality. I rallied with what has become known as the courage of despair, pulled myself together, and struck the match. When it scorched my fingers, I dropped it and went back to the man in the broad, well-lit corridor. I don’t know what I looked like, but he stood up, came out from behind his table, took my arm, and said in a voice of deep concern, “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes—no—yes. Look, could you come with me a minute? There’s a—there’s a dead man in that passage.”
“You sit yourself down in my chair, sir, while I fetches one of the other gentlemen,” he said.
“Good Lord! He thinks I’m mad,” I said aloud.
“There, there! Just you take it easy,” he said soothingly. He almost galloped along the corridor towards the room where the party was being held. I put my elbows on the table and held my head in my hands. Coral and Freddie, who were serving the food, came up with loaded trays and stopped in front of me.
“Hullo, are you all right? Where’s Bull gone?” asked the youth. I looked up and pointed towards the end of the corridor.
“You’d better wait here,” I said. “Something has happened.”
“Oh, well,” said Coral, putting her tray down on the table, “a chance to have a bite ourselves. Been so busy feeding the five thousand that we haven’t had a look in on the bakemeats so far. Have a nosebag yourself. You look as though you could do with it.”
I could no more have done as she suggested than I could have partaken of the contents of a cannibal’s stewpot, but just then the door of the common-room opened and the caretaker came back with Lucius Trickett. The students with the trays picked them up and departed to render service.
“This is the gentleman, Mr. Trickett, sir,” said the caretaker.
“Oh, I say, you’re Melrose,” said Trickett. “Awfully glad you could come. Anything up?” To have attended the party was the last thing I was glad about, but I didn’t say so. He went on: “You’re the chap who totes that awfully pretty woman around, aren’t you? You know—Miss Camden, you know. She is probably wondering where you have got to. I say! You do look a bit peculiar. I’ll call a doctor, shall I?”
“Call the police. There’s a dead man in the passage,” I said.
They both looked at me with deep concern. Bull took the student aside.
“I think we had better take a look, just to humour him, sir,” I heard him say. “Hang on a minute. I’ve got an electric torch in my den.” He went off to get it and Trickett seated himself on the table.
“Are you sloshed?” he asked. I shook my head.
“I wish I were,” I said. “What’s more, I could do with a double brandy right now. This is the second time this has happened to me.”
“Double vision, old man. All doubles, if you see what I mean.”
Bull came back with a torch and an electric bulb.
“You’ll taller than me, sir, so won’t need the step-ladder,” he said, handing Trickett the bulb. “I’d have replaced this here before now, but for the bother of fetching the ladder.” They walked towards the end of the corridor. I got up from my chair and caught up with them, an action which I don’t think either appreciated very much, for Bull said nervously, “Now don’t you fret, sir. Just leave everything to us. We’ll soon fix up a light and then you’ll see as everything is all right.”
But, of course, nothing was all right except the calm behaviour of Trickett. The electric light was only about a third of the way down the passage, so, helped by the beam of Bull’s torch, Trickett was able to reach up and fix the bulb before we came to the body. When he saw it he said, “Well, well! Yes, Bull, you had certainly better call the police.” He took me by the sleeve. “Come up to my room, Mr. Melrose, and I’ll rustle you up a drink. You won’t want to go back to the party.”
We went up some stairs, I remember, and he took me into his study-bedroom. The drink was only vermouth, but it did something for me. I sat in his only chair while he settled himself on the bed and, when I had swallowed the contents of the glass, I told him all about my experience in the ruins on Rannoch Moor.
“Oh, well,” he said comfortingly, “it’s not all that unusual for people to see things before they happen. Time is only relative, after all.”
“But the chap in Scotland was a real chap. I didn’t see a ghost. I just identified him wrongly, that’s all. The really odd thing—well, this chap in the passage is Carbridge.”
“Yes. It looks as though he turned up after all.”
“After all?”
“Yes. He answered the invitation with tremendous enthusiasm, so I quite expected him to come bouncing along and I was most surprised when he didn’t show up.”
“Well, he’s shown up now all right.”
“Yes,” said Trickett, gloomy for the first time, “you’re right there. I don’t know what the warden is going to say. He wasn’t a bit keen to grant me permission to hold the party here out of term-time and, if it hadn’t been a reunion for the Scottish adventure people, he would have turned me down flat. He told me so.” He looked at me sadly, but without animosity. “You couldn’t be a sort of Ancient Mariner, could you?” he asked.
“I haven’t killed the albatross or anything or anybody else. I’ve just got myself caught up in something nightmarish,” I answered; but the reference to the Ancient Mariner brought my previous bad dreams rushing back at me like a flock of vampire bats.
Before I could say any more, Bull knocked on the door to tell us that the police had arrived. Would we please come down? We went down. A policeman was standing by the door behind which the party was held and two others, an inspector and a sergeant, both in uniform, were waiting at the foot of the stairs.
“Which of you gentlemen found the body?”
“I did,” I said.
“Gentleman was on his way to the bog,” said Bull helpfully.
“Well, it looks like a case for the CID,” said the inspector.
“Did you think it was a hoax, then?” asked Trickett sharply.
“We never know, with students.” The sergeant took down our names and addresses and the inspector sent us to join the rest of the party. Everybody realised that something was up. All the noise had died down, the orchestra had laid aside their instruments, and the only sound except for low-toned conversation was made by the pianist, who was strumming very softly some plaintive tunes such as “Swanee River” and “Poor Old Joe.” I suppose he thought modern jazz would be out of place.
We all sat around on the floor, for only the orchestra had chairs. Hera sat beside me.
“So it was you who started all this,” she murmured, under cover of “Massa’s in de cold, cold ground.”
“Who else? Just my abominable luck. Don’t dwell on it. I couldn’t help it, could I?” I said.
“So said the child who swatted the fly on grandpa’s head and caused the poor old man to end up in a lunatic asylum,” she said; and she certainly was not meaning to be funny. “Tell me what has happened,” she demanded.
“I’d rather you heard it from the police,” I said. “You would hardly believe it if I told you.”
“The police? You don’t mean—you can’t mean—?”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s what I mean. Carbridge came to the party after all, in a manner of speaking.”
8
Its Aftermath
When the plain-cloth
es men turned up, they checked all the names and addresses, took each person outside the door for questioning, and ascertained that, except for myself and the two unlucky hash-slingers, nobody had left the party until Bull brought Trickett out to speak to me. Then they let everybody else go, but hauled Trickett, myself, the caretaker, and the two youngsters off to the nick to be questioned.
We were interviewed separately, of course, and they kept me until the last. I can’t say that talking to a policeman who makes it obvious that he thinks you are lying is a pleasant experience. I heard later that they had soon let the youngsters go. All they wanted from them was the assertion that, so far as they knew, nobody except themselves, Bull, and myself had been anywhere near the dark passage while the party was going on.
The interview with Trickett had taken longer. They had wanted full details about the Scottish tour, whether he had known Carbridge before he met him in Glasgow, why the students and Perth had left him and the others before the end of The Way and exactly where, when, and why they had caught up with him again, and, finally, where Perth was and why he had not accepted the invitation to the reunion.
On their part (said Trickett later) they had told him nothing, although he had asked point-blank how long Carbridge had been dead.
“That’s for the inquest,” the detective-inspector told him. We all knew that, before the five of us had been ushered into the police cars, James Minch had been closely questioned, for he had given the rest of us a lively account of the interview before the five of us had been shipped off to the nick. It seemed, according to James Minch, that they suspected him of having had a sgian dubh tucked into his colourful woollen, right-leg stocking.
“You are also wearing a sporran, I see, sir.”
“It’s an essential part of the outfit. No pockets in a kilt, you see.”
“I thought a dagger was also part of a Scotsman’s native attire, sir.”
“A dagger? On the dance floor?”
“One of those small, ornamental knives they wear in their football-style socks, I meant.”
Cold, Lone and Still (Mrs. Bradley) Page 8
