by John Creasey
“Prosit.”
“Happy paper-making,” she said lightly.
“Paper-mak—Oh, I see.” He laughed. “I’ll drink to that!”
“Oliver,” she said a moment later.
“Yes?”
“Will this year’s conference be as fully attended as ever?”
“More so, I think. Why?”
“I wondered. The interest grows year by year, doesn’t it?”
“In the origin of mammals, yes.”
“In the origins of man,” she countered. “Do you ever wish you travelled as much today as you used to?”
He was startled by the question, and pondered it for a few moments before answering. “I don’t think so, darling. I think if I wanted to travel more, I would. Do you want to travel more?”
“No,” she answered, very quickly and positively. “No, darling. I’m the old Cancerian – I love my home and love to stay in it. I don’t think it would worry me if I never went away from London again! But I sometimes wonder, particularly after you went to Australia earlier this year—”
She broke off, then added: “You found something of great importance there, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Professor Clayton said. “Of supreme importance.” After what seemed a long time, Rosamund said without reproach in her voice but with obvious wistfulness: “And you don’t feel you can tell me what it was?”
Very quietly, he answered: “No, darling. I can’t explain why and I’m sorry if I hurt you by my reticence, but I can confide in no one – no one at all – until I read my paper at the conference. You’ll be there. You’ll understand why, when you hear what I have to say. It is not personal, I swear to you.”
“I want to believe that,” Rosamund said almost reluctantly. “You will never know how much I want to believe that! There are times when you seem to want to shut me out of part of your life, and—” She broke off, and put her lips to her glass, quickly. “Oh, I’m talking a lot of nonsense and you want to get off. Don’t mind me. I know you wouldn’t keep this to yourself without a good reason.”
“But I do mind,” he said. Tonight of all nights, how much he thought of her! In spite of what she had been saying and her rather nostalgic mood she looked relaxed and free from anxiety. Perhaps that was her greatest quality: to be calm and serene and content, never to harass him or make him feel edgy or apprehensive. She was above all things such a complete person, self-sufficient and all-satisfying. “What do you sometimes wonder?”
“Whether you would like to travel more and live alone, but stay at home only because you know I prefer to be here.”
“I stay at home because it’s where I prefer to be,” he answered her.
Something made him look away from her; no doubt a stab of his own conscience. He moved towards the window, a companion one to his, which overlooked a different part of the walled garden. Here were rosebeds and the flowering shrubs and some dwarf fruit trees; it was a small garden but as nearly perfect as could be, and Rosamund maintained it without help of any kind; from digging and mulching to cutting grass and pruning. In this half-light, a strange one because a huge rain-cloud was hiding the afterglow except towards the north, the garden had an ethereal look.
“I half expect to see the little people emerge at this time of the evening,” he said. “It’s quite beautiful, darling.”
“I think it’s going to be a very good year for roses,” Rosamund observed. “And the daffodils – I’ve never seen anything like them. Can you spare five minutes?”
“Of course.”
“Let me top up your glass,” said Rosamund.
It was fresh outside, yet warm enough. They linked arms, while he carried his whisky and soda, and she left hers on a garden stool. The grass, damp but not soggy, was springy underfoot. The perfume from the flowering currants and from two flowering cherry trees hidden from each window, was subtle and yet penetrating. There was a hint of the odour of new-mown grass. On the side where he had first seen her that evening, the clumps of daffodils were massed, thick as tall grass, with the full trumpets waving. Perhaps because it was getting dark, nothing seemed out of place.
“There isn’t even an untidy blade of grass,” he remarked. “You wait until you see it in the light of morning!” she retorted.
Soon, they were back in the house, and a few moments afterwards he was on his way to the garage, where they kept two cars, his a relict of remembered youth, an M.G., hers a new Morris I800. She did not come to see him off. It was an unwritten law in the household that no one was seen farther than the front door.
The engine started at a pull of the self-starter; at first, it roared, but before he was at the end of the next street – Beacon Road – it had settled down. The streetlamps were on and there were lights at many windows, while other cars had parking lights on, or else their headlamps, dimmed. This road curved several times, and it was five minutes before he was on the main road for Swiss Cottage and the heart of London.
Usually, by now, Rosamund was out of his mind; in her own world, which he shared only when with her. But not tonight. She was everywhere he looked. She was in the windows he passed and in the driving seats of cars which passed him. The transition from one world to another, usually automatic and made without any conscious thought, simply did not take place. As he drew near St. John’s Wood and then took the turning through Regent’s Park, he was aware only of Ida, but only because he made himself think of her. Usually, this was her private world; of the open spaces of the park and then the grey houses near the museum itself, a part of London where he seldom brought Rosamund. By the time he reached Mandeville Street, where Ida lived, it was quite dark except for street and car lights. Traffic was light, for this was not a main thoroughfare.
Ida lived at 29, in a top – third – floor flat.
There were spaces for parking nearby and he slipped into one almost opposite the front door of number 29. The light in Ida’s front-room window was on, but the curtains were drawn. He fastened the canvas cover over the seats of the M.G. and turned towards the house. This street was like many in the Bloomsbury area, all the houses having two steps leading up to the front door, most of the walls grey or once yellow brick, the doors and windows painted, black predominating, white and pale blue following. Lights glinted and scintillated from old-fashioned London-style gas-lamps, and reflected on brass knockers, doorknobs and letter-boxes.
This house was his.
The two bottom floors were occupied by a small, exclusive magazine. The upstairs flat, in its way luxurious, was Ida’s – in her name and legally hers even though for so many years he had paid all the outgoings.
The front door was locked.
He let himself in with a key, and then pressed the bell push marked Mrs. Ida Spray and closed the front door quietly. A flight of stairs faced him; there was a partition right across the hall which gave the magazine offices comparative seclusion. At the top of the second flight of stairs was a black-painted door marked Private; and as he approached this opened and Ida appeared.
It was obvious that she had been crying.
That was the more surprising because Clayton could not remember having seen her cry. Angry, yes; bitter, furious, even hysterical, but never tearful. Almost for the first time in his life he compared her with Rosamund, as if the two women were standing side by side. Ida was a head shorter, broader, thicker-set, and in middle-age she had become heavier. She wasn’t fat, and still had a remarkable figure; a little taller and she would have been statuesque. Her features were broad, there was even a hint of the Mongolian about her face, but her skin was without blemish and she was remarkably handsome in a rare fashion.
She put out her hands.
He was two or three steps below her and so could not fail to see her slim ankles and her tiny waist – tiny, in spite of her breadth of shoulder and body. She had small hands, too; and delicate. He took them and she drew him forward on to a half-landing. He pushed the door to with his foot, and they stood very close toget
her. He slid his arm about her waist and tilted her head up by the chin, and then kissed her.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said.
“I know you must be.”
“Is there any news?”
“Not a word,” she answered.
“Why on earth should Kevin do such a thing?”
Ida did not answer, and with his heightened sensitivity he was keenly aware of that omission. She deliberately did not answer his question, and that could mean that she knew why but didn’t want to tell him yet. She twisted round and led the way upstairs.
The flat, he knew, was surprisingly roomy.
There was one large living-room, pleasantly furnished, and a kitchen leading off; then a kind of alcove, off which led one bathroom and bedroom. Up a flight of six shallow steps was a second, larger bedroom and bathroom: Kevin’s. As a child’s and now as a teenager’s it was perfectly equipped.
On a round table in the living-room were bottles and glasses, ready for Oliver. He saw that both the glasses were empty and dry; she was not one to turn to drink for solace. She liked Scotch whisky on ice, in the American style, while he preferred his ‘warm’ with a dash of soda. She wore a pale brown suit of a smooth-textured material; she had natural good taste.
“Have you been able to think of anyone he might have gone to?” he asked as he scooped ice from a bowl.
“I’ve telephoned several of his friends at the college, and none of them knows where he is – or at least, none of them admits to knowing.”
“Girlfriends?” he asked.
“Kevin? He has no serious girlfriends.”
“At his age, that makes him unusual.”
“Yes,” said Ida, looking at him queerly. “He is an unusual boy, Oliver.” She took her drink and sipped; as he drank a third of his at a gulp. It was proving more of a strain than he had expected, and he had no doubt that it was because he had to keep the news of the blackmail to himself. Certainly he had no choice, he could not add to her burden tonight.
“You would know if he had any girlfriends,” Clayton said.
“Yes, I would.”
An idea shot into his head, startling him, one which had never been there before, almost bewildering in its force. He looked at her, startled by himself, but didn’t speak. When she had said ‘He is an unusual boy, Oliver’, could she have meant that Kevin was queer? Homosexual? Could that explain her certainty that he had no girlfriends? Surely if that were so, at some time or other she would have told him, would have wanted advice: or at least, wanted him to approach doctors who could advise. The idea came strongly but he did not want to put it into words.
“Ida,” he asked, breaking the ice, “what was the quarrel about?”
She took another sip, but didn’t answer. He moved close to her and put a hand on the back of hers. Had he hit on the truth? Was Kevin a homosexual, and had she discovered it only last night, thus provoking a quarrel? It would explain everything, even her rare tears.
“Tell me,” he said. “It will do you good to talk.”
“I’m not so sure it will,” she answered.
Half seriously, half in raillery, he said in a stronger voice: “Well if it won’t do you good, it will probably be good for me.”
She stared intently but did not answer.
At any other time it would have been easier to be patient, understanding, kind, but his own inner tension was so great that it was almost a physical effort not to raise his voice. He had never known Ida like this. She had always been the matter-of-fact, down-to-earth person who called a spade a spade; not uncouth and not unkind, but by nature very forthright. Now she was looking at him from beneath her lashes as if she were being deliberately provocative. He must not let himself show his impatience, the greater her need the greater his effort had to be.
He sat down beside her and slid an arm round her shoulders.
“Ida,” he said again, “I am dreadfully sorry. And I did come the moment I knew about what had happened. If there is anything I can do, I will.”
“I don’t think there is,” she said. She did not shrug herself free from his arm but nor did she show any sign of welcoming it, as she would normally. “There might have been a few weeks ago, even a few days ago, but not now. It’s too late.”
“Oh, come,” protested Oliver, tightening his grip and making her turn to face him, “I don’t understand you. I wish I did, but I really don’t understand what you mean. How could I have helped a few days ago but not now? If there is anything—”
She shrugged herself free, and stood up, beginning to pace the room, looking down at him all the time. When she spoke it was in a low-pitched voice which carried him back over the years to their early days.
“We quarrelled over you,” Ida stated. “He’s suspected for a long time that you’re his father, and took me by surprise when he asked if it were true. Just the expression on my face must have confirmed it. He hates you for refusing to acknowledge him and he hates me because I’ve never tried to make you. I won’t go into the things he called me, even without those it was bad enough. He said he would never come back, never spend a night under my roof again. And although at the time I prayed that he didn’t mean it, I feel quite, quite sure that he did.”
About that time, Roger West was still at his office, finishing all he could find including newspaper reports of the three ‘suicides’. One, in fact, might yet be proved to have been accidental death: Norman Akers, one of the up and coming younger men in the British aeronautics industry, had crashed in an old Gypsy Moth in which he had often flown for fun; no newspaper had suggested that it might have been suicide, but two reports, one from Aker’s secretary-and-mistress, and one from his mechanic who had seen him off, both suggested that he had gone off that day in a strangely brittle mood – a savage mood.
The second case was indisputably suicide. Sir Jeremy Godden, a member of a small commercial banking company, had got heavily into debt, ‘borrowed’ from the bank’s account and, apparently knowing he could never hide the facts for long, had thrown himself in front of a tube train. His partners in the firm were making good the losses.
So far, little was known about Sir Douglas Fellowes’s reason except what he had said in his suicide note:
Nothing even remotely connected with my post in Her Majesty’s Civil Service is at stake.
I have every reason to believe that I have cancer of the most malignant kind. This is my one and only reason for what I am about to do.
He had gone from his office to his club, and stabbed himself through the neck.
There were other suicides, of course, but none in this short period from the same class of society; and each one had friends and relatives who were probably pushing the Home Secretary to find out the truth.
Chapter Four
Ugly Truth
Oliver Clayton sat very still as he looked at Ida, after she had told him the simple truth. Years ago the question of acknowledging his parenthood had deeply troubled him, but as time had passed he had come almost to accept the pretended relationship, since anything else would mean that Rosamund would have to be told. Why he had not admitted to himself that Kevin would one day become overwhelmingly curious about the relationship he would never know. His ‘father’ was a shadowy figure; hadn’t it been inevitable that he would one day question the truth of his mother’s story – that his father had died in an accident? In a way, no doubt, he had realised this, but had always pushed it to the back of his mind. Or, more truthfully, persuaded himself that it would never come into the open.
Ida was staring at him; he had no idea what was in her mind. “Did you tell him?” he asked.
“No. But I admitted it when he—he told me.”
“Of course. You had to,” he said mechanically. “Do you know how he found out?”
“No.”
“Was it—” He went to her and held out his hands, but she didn’t take them. “Was it very ugly?”
“Yes,” she replied, “it was a hell of an ugly s
cene, and I felt—” She caught her breath. “Oh, what does it matter?”
Oliver didn’t reply, and after a while, Ida went on: “I thought he might have got in touch with you.” “He didn’t.”
“I bet you’re glad he didn’t,” she said, bitterly. “I bet you’re as glad as hell. Your precious home and your precious Rosamund – they’re safe.”
This time, he took her hands firmly, and then sank down on to the seat beside her, making her turn round; and she showed no hesitation in facing him and made no attempt to pull herself free. Her lips were drawn tightly and he could see the lines of pain at her eyes.
At last, he said: “I need a little time to think, Ida, time to try to help to get him back.”
“He’ll never come back!”
“He might,” Oliver Clayton said.
“You know bloody well he’ll never come back!” She snatched her hands away, clenching them so tightly he thought she would strike him. “He’s been driven away because he found out that his father is ashamed of him because he’s a bastard and ashamed of his mother because she’s a whore. My God, if I had my time over again I’d go up to that precious wife of yours and I’d hold the baby in front of her and I’d cry: ‘Do you want the brat, he’s your husband’s. Do you want him?’.” She sprang to her feet and began to pace the room, hands clenched by her sides, face deathly pale, eyes wild and bright. “If I had my time over again do you know what I’d do to you before I’d let you touch me? I’d castrate you, that’s what I’d do! Dear Rosamund, poor Rosamund, chaste Rosamund – well, she didn’t give you a son, I gave you the only son you’ve ever had, and what did you do? You turned your back on him, spurned him, were ashamed of him. Isn’t that true?” She sprang towards him and shook her tiny, tight-clenched fists under his nose and screeched: “Go on, deny it – deny that you turned your back on him, you never admitted he was your son! Deny it!”
