Inch of Fortune

by Simon Raven

  'I was told I was jolly good,' said Terence. 'Esme was a bit slow at first, but he got into it quite w—'

  'What stations did you take?' asked Mrs Valley.

  'Well,' said Esme, 'Terence used to sit in the front, and I used to sit in the back, and—'

  'Bow and stem,' said Jeremy Clair reprovingly. Esme began to hate Jeremy Clair.

  'I mean, Terence used to sit in the stem, and I used to sit in the bow, and—'

  'But you said,' Mr Valley remarked sternly, 'that Terence used to sit in the front, which is the bow and you—'

  'That's what I meant,' said Esme wildly, 'and the instructor used to do things with the sail, and then we used to do them as well, and—'

  'What did you used to do?' asked Mrs Valley.

  'Well, we used to put it so that it caught the wind,' Desperation drove him to poetry. He remembered something he had once been told. 'Going along was like flying with the birds,' he said.

  Glances were exchanged, but Bellamy, who had a fair idea of what was going on, managed to shift the subject.

  'Has my gun been kept clean?' he asked.

  'I must say I think Bellamy's very lucky,' said Mrs Chaser. 'It's very lucky for everyone,' said Mrs Valley who had been in Sandra's room half the morning harping on the subject, 'because now that there — er — won't be too many people here, Terence and Mr Sa Foy can stay as long as Sandra wants them to. No need for anyone to rush about.'

  'Yes,' said Mrs Chaser, 'everything can be carefully and suitably arranged.'

  'Yes,' agreed Sandra, 'there's a lot to be considered. Dr Trito thinks they ought to motor through France.'

  'That would be great fun,' said Mrs Valley, 'provided the van's repaired in time. They tell me petrol's the most terrific price on the Continent now, but with economy in other directions — like cinemas — they should get along very well.'

  'Terence and Mr Sa Foy would never be happy outside a cinema for long,' said Mrs Chaser, 'Mary says they went every night when they were last here.'

  'There was a crop,' said Esme, 'of excellent English films, two of which Dr McTavish had recommended as "portraying the essence of English culture". They were very stimulating.'

  'I'm sure you'll find the French ones equally stimulating,' said Mrs Valley, and the subject was allowed to lapse.

  Everywhere you looked, thought Esme when they were having coffee, there was nothing but hostility and procrastination. That loathsome Chaser woman with her knitting, the Valley's petting the favourite dachshund and saying how well kept he was, Sandra running up and down after a lighter she'd lost, Bellamy pretending to look for it, and now, on top of it all, Jeremy Clair who liked sailing — and what was he doing? Taking a pill. For his digestion, Esme supposed. Well, he hoped it choked him. It could hardly do that. What else could he hope for? yes. what else?

  That evening he said to Terence, 'What did you do with those pills you gave your mother? The ones that make people's water red?'

  'She threw them away,' said Terence, 'but I've got one odd one in a drawer. What do you want it for?'

  'Can you keep a secret?' asked Esme.

  'Sure.'

  'Well, I rather agree with you about pompous Oxonians — especially when they start showing off about their sailing.'

  'I'll buy that one,' said Terence, 'top right-hand drawer, at the back.'

  Once again it meant choosing one's moment with care. Once he was in the train to Scotland Jeremy Clair could fall down dead for all the good it would do anyone. The shock must not come too soon.

  On Friday night, after the boys had gone to bed, Esme suggested a drink.

  'There's some whisky on the sideboard,' he remarked.

  'I don't usually drink it,' said Jeremy Clair.

  'You want to have just a very little with a bottle of Coca-Cola—you'll sleep like a bomb,' said Esme.

  'Well, I don't suppose it can do me any harm.'

  'Not unless anyone puts something in it,' said Esme jovially. 'You go into the library and I'll bring them in.'

  The next morning at breakfast Jeremy Clair looked worried.

  'You know, it's very odd,' he said to Esme, 'I feel quite all right, but the most peculiar thing's happened.' 'What?' said Esme.

  He whispered in Esme's ear.

  'Oh,' said Esme, looking rather shocked, 'well hadn't you better see a doctor — your own doctor, in the circumstances?'

  'It's not very convenient — isn't there a local man?'

  'He's the biggest gossip in the county,' said Esme, 'he and Sandra spend hours at it.'

  'But what do you suppose is the matter?'

  'Well that rather depends,' said Esme with a meaning look, 'but when it occurred in India, people used to disappear to hospital for several weeks.'

  'Oh,' said Jeremy Clair.

  'Well, if you're going to London or to your own man at home, look in and have a word with Sandra. It may make a difference to her arrangements.'

  'Fibula,' said Sandra over the telephone, 'the most bloody thing's just happened. That ridiculous Clair young man has come in here and told me he's got something wrong with him. He said he couldn't exactly explain what it was, but he'd have to see his doctor and might even have to go into hospital. He looked a bit worried, I must say. But you see what it means? Bellamy can't go off without him, and that means keeping him here with Terence, and you said that was the worst thing poss—'

  'What are you going to do?' asked Trito.

  'I don't know from Adam, darling, but you must come down and help me out. If he goes into hospital it'll just muck up everything.'

  'This is a little sudden, Sandra, and I have got a lot of patients...'

  They both knew the formula.

  'But never mind that, darling, you know it'll be made up. Now please come quickly — I'm very worried and you know that's bad for me.'

  'All right,' said Dr Trito, 'I'll just have a word with my secretary.'

  He rang off and walked into the next room.

  'I'm off for the day,' he announced. 'Please make an addition to the Fairweather account — item £15 services, item £5 expenses, item £10 for appointments cancelled.'

  'But you've only got one app—'

  'Who told you to start thinking for yourself,' snarled Trito and vanished through the door.

  Down at Badlock there was chaos.

  'The trouble is,' said Esme to Sandra, 'it's too late now to engage another tutor. Everyone's gone abroad or something by now. You'll just have to wait till Clair's all right again.'

  'Oh God,' said Sandra, 'that means I'll have to look after Bellamy myself. Oh God, oh God, oh God.'

  'But I'm sure Dr Trito will think of something.'

  'But I can't possibly take Bellamy up to those awful Lanchesters. They all just huddle there — all seven of them — all too drunk, too mad or too poor to leave the place.'

  'I should wait till Dr Trito arrives.'

  'And Bellamy's so stupid it's like living with a kangaroo — a nice kangaroo, of course, but it's torture.'

  'Dr Trito will know what to do.'

  That was what everybody said. They said it the whole morning, till it began to have an hypnotic effect on Sandra — Trito, Trito, Trito — and by the time he arrived he had assumed, for her at least, the proportions of a demigod.

  'Fibula, darling,' she wailed, 'whatever am I going to do? Mr Sa Foy says we shall never get another tutor, I can't take Bellamy to Scotland, we shall just have to wait for that horrible Mr Clair, please say what I must do.'

  'Poor Sandra,' said Mrs Valley, 'you really must try and — '

  'We'll have a little drink and some lunch,' said Trito, 'and then discuss it all — quietly and alone,' he said, looking round at the regiment assembled.

  By the time Jeremy Clair had sheepishly returned with the news that there was nothing wrong with him, everything had been arranged. Sandra, who was beyond the dictates of logic and was attending only to those of panic, had quietly accepted everything that Trito had to say. Yes,
she must stay calmly at Badlock with Bellamy till they knew what was wrong with Mr Clair. If nothing was wrong, then Bellamy could go off to Scotland as planned and only a day or so late. Meanwhile they must assume the worst and take immediate action — Terence and Bellamy had been together quite long enough. There was now no question of the detailed arrangements necessary for a motoring tour, but the secretary must ring up at once and book two air passages to Paris for Esme and Terence and two railway seats from there to Biarritz. She must also arrange for rooms at some hotel — did Sandra know of one? — good, the Hotel du Palais. She could make additional reservations, while she was about it, for Sandra and Trito to proceed there later — after they had settled the business of Bellamy, and Sandra had had a good rest. For he was afraid she was very run down after the strain she had been under — for that, if no other reason, she mustn't think of leaving Badlock for Scotland — and he advised her to stay in bed. He was going to clear the Valleys and Mrs Chaser back to London: they merely cluttered the place up and got right on her tired nerves. Here was something to make her sleep — but she had better give her instructions to the secretary first. After that, she need have no worries at all, he'd take care of everyone, everyone....

  Dr Trito had done a splendid job. The secretary was summoned and told to make the reservations, and then to pack. The Valleys weren't even summoned — they were just told to pack. Esme who with everything else had just received a registered envelope, presumably from Mr Chynnon, containing five pound notes, felt his soul lift within him. The blackest of looks could not come near him now; it was his justification, his triumph, almost his apotheosis.

  'Gunwales to you,' he almost screamed aloud as the Valleys steamed out of the station.

  XIII

  Even in her worst moments Sandra never forgot the need to economize: so that Esme and Terence, in order to get tourist rates, had to get on an aeroplane very early in the morning — Tuesday morning.

  Not until the 'plane was off the ground did Esme feel entirely safe. At any minute, he felt, the figure of Mrs Chaser might be seen rushing across the airfield with the news that Sandra had changed her mind due to the discovery of some new and really appalling iniquity. But nothing happened. They seated themselves right at the front, where, Terence said, they would be served first with any refreshments that might be going; and very soon were circling securely over outer London.

  Now that they were off, there was a great deal to be thought about. The complexities of the intrigue for tickets had been so great that Esme had almost begun to forget there would be anything to do when he arrived. It was rather as though one would alight at Biarritz station to find the municipal band drawn up and the mayor in front of them ready to hand Esme £1,000 in Bank of England notes with a deft word of congratulation. Now that they were actually going there, the whole affair began to assume very different proportions.

  In the first place, there were all the old objections as to the oddity of Chynnon's conduct and the doubtful genuineness of his offer. True, the fact that he had begun to send his £5 instalments when they became due seemed to mitigate these a little. But did they? If you supposed he was up to something different, something for which the whole Acre business was merely a cover, then the continued receipt of payment was not necessarily reassuring — especially as the information he had so far received amounted to nothing whatever save assurances of effort.

  And now Biarritz was more or less a reality, there was a whole swarm of new problems to be tackled: of these the focussing point was, of course, Uncle Bill Gomery. According to the 'Luritania Supplement' he was going to be staying, like themselves, at the Hotel du Palais (presumably for the same reason — i.e. to be within easy reach of the Duke of Panton). Again, since he was Bellamy's godfather and an old friend of the family, there would be no difficulty whatever about getting in touch with him. But thereafter was a complete blank. How did one start pumping him? One couldn't just march up and say, 'I understand you once received Mrs Fairweather's very intimate confidences on the subject of her second husband: I have been offered a high price for these, so I should be obliged to you for a statement.' What was Uncle Bill's line? If he depended solely for support on his poor old novels, he might be glad of a cut. But this somehow seemed unlikely. Was he then of an indiscreet disposition? Did he talk in his cups? And if so, how easily did you get him into his cups? Most Americans were apparently remarkably forthcoming when you first met them, and then, when you really wanted to know something, sealed up like clams. Well there was nothing to be done about this until he had met Uncle Bill. Perhaps — who knew? — his Achilles heel would be as prominent as his nose.

  Then there was another thing that worried him. What was the quality of Uncle Bill's secret? Mr Chynnon wanted something he could use against a woman 'whose life has been erratic but not lubricious . . . something verifiable by myself'. Uncle Bill's secret might be as true as the day but so improbable that it just wouldn't have sales-value without some sort of proof. He might, in short, produce something that, while true, might just as well have been made up — something entirely useless to Mr Chynnon for the execution of 'his act of justice'. Esme, sitting where he was now, over a B.E.A. breakfast and thousands of miles from Palm Beach, could think of five hundred different tales to fit the facts of the Acre suicide. Uncle Bill's would presumably be a true one — if he got it — but would be just as useless as the rest, very likely, unless there were some proof. And even if you dosed Uncle Bill with enough champagne to make him spill the beans, it was hardly likely that he would possess, still less likely that he would produce, the relevant documents, which in any case had probably long since been destroyed. But once again it was no use worrying till he'd seen and heard for himself.

  When they landed in Paris they were swept off in one of the airport buses (a marked contrast to the sedate B.E.A. affair that had brought them out of London) and deposited at Les Invalides. From now on no one took any interest in them at all. They were alone and anonymous. Esme began to have, as he always did on these occasions, a feeling of complete release and safety. No one was watching, no one gave a damn. You did exactly as you chose. Blessed anonymity! Who cared if the taxi-drivers cheated you? Or if your bills in England were stacked a yard high? Here you could do anything — you could even, when the time came, extract intimate secrets from Mr William Gomery, you could even, he told himself, sell them to Mr Chynnon at immense prices and no matter how improbable they were.

  After lunch on the train he preserved, for a time, his feeling of uplift. But it was getting very hot and the countryside was very dull. They had been up early and he was near sleep. One figure, however, kept hovering before his eyes, smiling and elusive, Dr Fibula Trito. There had always been an enigmatic quality about the man, an atmosphere of interrogation lying just beneath the surface — beneath the surface, because somehow the questions were never put, the man had an hypnotic faculty about him which compelled one to accept him at face value and without enquiry. But even his face value was, to say the least of it, very shaky currency. Esme, released at last from the inhibitions caused by Trito's constant imminence and wrapped around by that state of drowsiness combined with clear thinking which often precedes sleep, began, for the first time, to formulate a few of the problems presented by the doctor's really rather extraordinary behaviour.

  In the first place, almost the very moment he had first met Esme he had drawn him slap into the centre of a major conspiracy. He had just sat down over a bottle of claret and, without warning or invitation, held forth, pungently and at length, on ways and means of cheating their joint employer. Well, not cheating her perhaps, but at any rate extracting her juice by the pint. He had then defied all the known rules of professional etiquette by denigrating a colleague in the coarsest terms, and had gone on to make it abundantly plain that, if there was anything wrong with Terence, the good God could take care of that while they took care of themselves. All this he had made appear the most natural thing in the world. Now Esme was prepa
red for a money-grubbing fraud, he was prepared for a voracious shark, but now he came to think of it in something like objective terms, he ought really to have been very shocked indeed to find himself being openly treated with the most villainous complicity. Why didn't Trito keep his villainy to himself? Wasn't it rather a risk to reveal himself? And why had Esme of all people been selected for the revelation?

  And that wasn't all. Trito had continued to give assistance on all occasions and in the most equivocal way: throughout a series of rows, eruptions and rumours he had persistently appeared with sly words of comfort and assurance of renewed efforts at deceit. Above all he had espoused the cause of their journey to Biarritz as though the journey had been a holy pilgrimage and he, Trito, the Pope. In the end it was Biarritz that the whole tiling boiled down to. 'I'm rather taken by the idea of Biarritz,' he had said: and 'I'm afraid this may cause rather a delay over Biarritz' . . . 'don't worry, I'll do my best' . . . 'cheer up — she's bound to send you off when the mood takes her.' And then, at the climax, he had shown unyielding insistence that the time had come and Sandra must at once send them off to Biarritz. It was the most consistent, if not perhaps the most odd, trait in the whole of the man's behaviour. . . . 'Taken by the idea of Biarritz' . . . 'Delay over Biarritz.' ... 'Something to look at in Biarritz.'.. . 'Biarritz'

  ... 'Biarritz.'... He woke up with a start, to find Terence shaking him and saying something about 'Bordeaux' and 'changing'. The taste in his mouth was appalling, the confusion of luggage and patois-speaking porters was frantic. But throughout this discomfort his thoughts, which must have been busy in his sleep, were as plain and insistent as the day. The moment he was woken up, there it was, overwhelming him, ringing through his head, explaining everything. Trito was Chynnon's agent too. It was as simple as that.

  If he were Chynnon, and wanted reliable and intimate information about Mrs Fairweather, to whom, were it possible, would he turn? (Mais Biarritz, où est le voiture pour Biarritz?) To the Valleys? Or Miss Chaser? Too stupid. To the servants? Too indiscreet. To the Tutor? Perhaps — but of necessity only for a short time. (Mais on dit qu'il faut changer: quel étage, je vous en prie, pour Biarritz?) But who was a permanent, intelligent, much trusted and, above all, privileged member of Sandra's entourage? (Merci, merci: they settled in with a sigh.) Now Dr Trito was her doctor and her psychologist, her son's doctor and psychologist, her friend of long standing, her very present hope in every species of trouble. Admittedly it would take subtlety and care to establish, without risk, that he was also sufficiently unscrupulous to undertake the employment Chynnon had in mind, but the task was not impossible.