PRAISE FOR JOHN LE CARRÉ
“Le Carré is more than just a great storyteller—he captures the Zeitgeist itself.”
—Tom Wolfe
“Le Carré is simply the world’s greatest fictional spymaster.”
—Newsweek
“He is one of the half-dozen best novelists now working in English.”
—The Chicago Sun-Times
“No other contemporary novelist has more durably enjoyed the twin badges of being both well-read and well-regarded.”
—Scott Turow
“For my money, le Carré is the equal of any novelist now writing in English.”
—The Guardian (U.K.)
“Le Carré is one of the best novelists—of any kind—we have.”
—Vanity Fair
PRAISE FOR JOHN LE CARRÉ’S
BESTSELLING THRILLERS
A MOST WANTED MAN
“Astounding, nearly perfect … beautifully paced, awesomely crafted … desperately readable.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
THE MISSION SONG
“Wrenching, necessary reading on a subject as urgent for us today as it was for Conrad’s readers more than 100 years ago.”
—The Globe and Mail
THE CONSTANT GARDENER
“The book breathes life, anger and excitement.”
—The Observer (U.K.)
SINGLE & SINGLE
“An adventure that takes us to the ends of the earth via the rich but often barren landscape of the human heart.”
—The Times (U.K.)
OUR GAME
“Furious in action … Takes us by the neck on page one and never lets go.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
THE RUSSIA HOUSE
“It is le Carré at his best, and that is the best there is.”
—The Gazette (Montreal)
A PERFECT SPY
“Le Carré is the perfect spy novelist. A first rate espionage novel.”
—The New York Times
THE NAIVE AND SENTIMENTAL LOVER
“Splendid, original … le Carré shows how endowed he is with the gift of storytelling.”
—The Times (U.K.)
A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY
“Brilliant, unforgettable … a masterpiece.”
—New Statesman (U.K.)
THE LOOKING GLASS WAR
“A bitter, bleak, superlatively written novel.”
—Publishers Weekly
THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD
“The best spy story I have ever read.”
—Graham Greene
A MURDER OF QUALITY
“A beautifully intelligent, satiric and witty story.”
—Daily Telegraph (U.K.)
CALL FOR THE DEAD
“Intelligent, thrilling, surprising … makes most cloak-and-dagger stuff taste of cardboard.”
—Sunday Telegraph (U.K.)
PENGUIN CANADA
A MURDER OF QUALITY
CALL FOR THE DEAD
JOHN LE CARRÉ was born in 1931. After attending the universities of Berne and Oxford, he spent five years in the British Foreign Service. The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, his third book, secured him a worldwide reputation. He is the author of twenty-one novels, including Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy; A Perfect Spy; and The Constant Gardener. His books have been translated into thirty-six languages. He lives in England.
ALSO BY JOHN LE CARRÉ
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold
The Looking Glass War
A Small Town in Germany
The Naive and Sentimental Lover
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
The Honourable Schoolboy
Smiley’s People
The Little Drummer Girl
A Perfect Spy
The Russia House
The Secret Pilgrim
The Night Manager
Our Game
The Tailor of Panama
Single & Single
The Constant Gardener
Absolute Friends
The Mission Song
A Most Wanted Man
JOHN
LE CARRÉ
A MURDER
OF
QUALITY
CALL
FOR
THE DEAD
PENGUIN CANADA
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First published in a Penguin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada),
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A Murder of Quality copyright © Victor Gollancz Ltd and Le Carré Productions, 1962
Call for the Dead copyright © Victor Gollancz Ltd and Le Carré Productions, 1961
Copyright for this combined edition © Le Carré Productions and David Cornwell, 2010
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Le Carré, John, 1931–
A murder of quality; Call for the dead / John Le Carré.
ISBN 978-0-14-317139-3
I. Title.
PR6062.E42M87 2010 00823.914 C2010-902840-6
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A MURDER
OF QUALITY
To Ann
FOREWORD
There are probably a dozen great schools of whom it will be confidently asserted that Carne is their deliberate image. But he who looks among their common rooms for the D’Arcys, Fieldings and Hechts will se
arch in vain.
JOHN LE CARRÉ
1
BLACK CANDLES
The greatness of Carne School has been ascribed by common consent to Edward VI, whose educational zeal is ascribed by history to the Duke of Somerset. But Carne prefers the respectability of the monarch to the questionable politics of his adviser, drawing strength from the conviction that Great Schools, like Tudor Kings, were ordained in Heaven.
And indeed its greatness is little short of miraculous. Founded by obscure monks, endowed by a sickly boy king, and dragged from oblivion by a Victorian bully, Carne had straightened its collar, scrubbed its rustic hands and face and presented itself shining to the courts of the twentieth century. And in the twinkling of an eye, the Dorset bumpkin was London’s darling: Dick Whittington had arrived. Carne had parchments in Latin, seals in wax, and Lammas Land behind the Abbey. Carne had property, cloisters and woodworm, a whipping block and a line in the Doomsday Book—then what more did it need to instruct the sons of the rich?
And they came; each Half they came (for terms are not elegant things), so that throughout a whole afternoon the trains would unload sad groups of black-coated boys on to the station platform. They came in great cars that shone with mournful purity. They came to bury poor King Edward, trundling handcarts over the cobbled streets or carrying tuck boxes like little coffins. Some wore gowns, and when they walked they looked like crows, or black angels come for the burying. Some followed singly like undertakers’ mutes, and you could hear the clip of their boots as they went. They were always in mourning at Carne; the small boys because they must stay and the big boys because they must leave, the masters because respectability was underpaid; and now, as the Lent Half (as the Easter term was called) drew to its end, the cloud of gloom was as firmly settled as ever over the grey towers of Carne.
Gloom and the cold. The cold was crisp and sharp as flint. It cut the faces of the boys as they moved slowly from the deserted playing fields after the school match. It pierced their black topcoats and turned their stiff, pointed collars into icy rings round their necks. Frozen, they plodded from the field to the long walled road which led to the main tuck shop and the town, the line gradually dwindling into groups, and the groups into pairs. Two boys who looked even colder than the rest crossed the road and made their way along a narrow path which led towards a distant but less populated tuck shop.
“I think I shall die if ever I have to watch one of those beastly rugger games again. The noise is fantastic,” said one. He was tall with fair hair, and his name was Caley.
“People only shout because the dons are watching from the pavilion,” the other rejoined; “that’s why each house has to stand together. So that the house dons can swank about how loud their houses shout.”
“What about Rode?” asked Caley. “Why does he stand with us and make us shout, then? He’s not a house don, just a bloody usher.”
“He’s sucking up to house dons all the time. You can see him in the quad between lessons buzzing round the big men. All the junior masters do.” Caley’s companion was a cynical red-haired boy called Perkins, Captain of Fielding’s house.
“I’ve been to tea with Rode,” said Caley.
“Rode’s hell. He wears brown boots. What was tea like?”
“Bleak. Funny how tea gives them away. Mrs Rode’s quite decent, though—homely in a plebby sort of way: doyleys and china birds. Food’s good: Women’s Institute, but good.”
“Rode’s doing Corps next Half. That’ll put the lid on it. He’s so keen, bouncing about all the time. You can tell he’s not a gentleman. You know where he went to school?”
“No.”
“Branxome Grammar. Fielding told my Mama, when she came over from Singapore last Half.”
“God. Where’s Branxome?”
“On the coast. Near Bournemouth. I haven’t been to tea with anyone except Fielding.” Perkins added after a slight pause, “You get roast chestnuts and crumpets. You’re never allowed to thank him, you know. He says emotionalism is only for the lower classes. That’s typical of Fielding. He’s not like a don at all. I think boys bore him. The whole house goes to tea with him once a Half, he has us in turn, four at a time, and that’s about the only time he talks to most men.”
They walked on in silence for a while until Perkins said:
“Fielding’s giving another dinner party tonight.”
“He’s pushing the boat out these days,” Caley replied, with disapproval. “Suppose the food in your house is worse than ever?”
“It’s his last Half before he retires. He’s entertaining every don and all the wives separately by the end of the Half. Black candles every evening. For mourning. Hells extravagant.”
“Yes. I suppose it’s a sort of gesture.”
“My Pater says he’s a queer.”
They crossed the road and disappeared into the tuck shop, where they continued to discuss the weighty affairs of Mr Terence Fielding, until Perkins drew their meeting reluctantly to a close. Being a poor hand at science, he was unfortunately obliged to take extra tuition in the subject.
The dinner party to which Perkins had alluded that afternoon was now drawing to a close. Mr Terence Fielding, senior housemaster of Carne, gave himself some more port and pushed the decanter wearily to his left. It was his port, the best he had. There was enough of the best to last the Half—and after that, be damned. He felt a little tired after watching the match, and a little drunk, and a little bored with Shane Hecht and her husband. Shane was so hideous. Massive and enveloping, like a faded Valkyrie. All that black hair. He should have asked someone else. The Snows for instance, but he was too clever. Or Felix D’Arcy, but D’Arcy interrupted. Ah well, a little later he would annoy Charles Hecht, and Hecht would get in a pet and leave early.
Hecht was fidgeting, wanting to light his pipe, but Fielding damn well wouldn’t have it. Hecht could have a cigar if he wanted to smoke. But his pipe could stay in his dinner-jacket pocket, where it belonged, or didn’t belong, and his athletic profile could remain unadorned.
“Cigar, Hecht?”
“No thanks, Fielding. I say, do you mind if I …”
“I can recommend the cigars. Young Havelake sent them from Havana. His father’s ambassador there, you know.”
“Yes, dear,” said Shane tolerantly; “Vivian Havelake was in Charles’s troop when Charles was commandant of the Cadets.”
“Good boy, Havelake,” Hecht observed, and pressed his lips together to show he was a strict judge.
“It’s amusing how things have changed.” Shane Hecht said this rapidly with a rather wooden smile, as if it weren’t really amusing. “Such a grey world we live in, now.
“I remember before the war when Charles inspected the Corps on a white horse. We don’t do that kind of thing now, do we? I’ve got nothing against Mr Iredale as commandant, nothing at all. What was his regiment, Terence, do you know? I’m sure he does it very nicely, whatever they do now in the Corps—he gets on so well with the boys, doesn’t he? His wife’s such a nice person … I wonder why they can never keep their servants. I hear Mr Rode will be helping out with the Corps next Half.”
“Poor little Rode,” said Fielding slowly; “running about like a puppy, trying to earn his biscuits. He tries so hard; have you seen him cheering at school matches? He’d never seen a game of rugger before he came here, you know. They don’t play rugger at grammar schools—it’s all soccer. Do you remember when he first came, Charles? It was fascinating. He lay very low at first, drinking us in: the games, the vocabulary, the manners. Then, one day it was as if he had been given the power of speech, and he spoke in our language. It was amazing, like plastic surgery. It was Felix D’Arcy’s work of course—I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.”
“Dear Mrs Rode,” said Shane Hecht in that voice of abstract vagueness which she reserved for her most venomous pronouncements: “So sweet … and such simple taste, don’t you think? I mean, whoever would have dreamed of putting those c
hina ducks on the wall? Big ones at the front and little ones at the back. Charming, don’t you think? Like one of those teashops. I wonder where she bought them. I must ask her. I’m told her father lives near Bournemouth. It must be so lonely for him, don’t you think? Such a vulgar place; no one to talk to.”
Fielding sat back and surveyed his own table. The silver was good. The best in Carne, he had heard it said, and he was inclined to agree. This Half he had nothing but black candles. It was the sort of thing people remembered when you’d gone: “Dear old Terence—marvellous host. He dined every member of the staff during his last Half, you know, wives too. Black candles, rather touching. It broke his heart giving up his house.” But he must annoy Charles Hecht. Shane would like that. Shane would egg him on because she hated Charles, because within her great ugly body she was as cunning as a snake.
Fielding looked at Hecht and then at Hecht’s wife, and she smiled back at him, the slow rotten smile of a whore. For a moment Fielding thought of Hecht pasturing in that thick body: it was a scene redolent of Lautrec … yes, that was it! Charles pompous and top-hatted, seated stiffly upon the plush coverlet; she massive, pendulous and bored. The image pleased him: so perverse to consign that fool Hecht from the Spartan cleanliness of Carne to the brothels of nineteenth-century Paris …
Fielding began talking, pontificating rather, with an air of friendly objectivity which he knew Hecht would resent.
“When I look back on my thirty years at Carne, I realise I have achieved rather less than a road sweeper.” They were watching him now—“I used to regard a road sweeper as a person inferior to myself. Now, I rather doubt it. Something is dirty, he makes it clean, and the state of the world is advanced. But I—what have I done? Entrenched a ruling class which is distinguished by neither talent, culture, nor wit; kept alive for one more generation the distinctions of a dead age.”
Charles Hecht, who had never perfected the art of not listening to Fielding, grew red and fussed at the other end of the table.
“Don’t we teach them, Fielding? What about our successes, our scholarships?”
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