Murder Takes a Turn

by Eric Brown

  Half a mile further on, Royce turned right and drew up outside a row of plush town houses. Langham overtook the stationary car and pulled into the side of the road a little further on. He turned in his seat and watched as the young man ran up the steps of number twenty-two.

  Langham reversed, stopped just in front of the Morgan, and peered up at the house. A young woman with peroxide-blonde hair appeared at a bedroom window, looked right and left along the street, then briskly drew the curtains.

  So Royce had come up to London to visit a lady friend; he wondered if Annabelle Connaught would want to know the identity of the young woman.

  An hour later, the door opened and Wilson Royce appeared on the threshold. He turned to embrace the blonde, gave her a farewell kiss, and hurried down the steps.

  Instead of ducking into his Morgan, he sauntered along the street past Langham’s car, whistling a spirited ditty as he went. Langham kept him in sight and, when Royce was a hundred yards ahead, rolled up his newspaper and followed.

  He’d lost count of the number of times he’d had the hero of his novels, Sam Brooke, tail villains down the mean streets of the capital. In fiction, Brooke had more at stake from being caught in the act: as a matter of course, he dealt with hardened criminals and psychotic thugs who would think nothing of breaking a nosy PI’s legs for the sheer sadistic fun of it. He doubted if the willowy Wilson Royce could break a pretzel in anger.

  The young man turned the corner and Langham increased his pace; when he came to the end of the street, he was in time to see Royce cross the road and push through the door of a public house.

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost midday. He crossed the road and entered the public bar.

  Wilson Royce was chatting to the blonde barmaid, who was laughing and pouring him a whisky and soda. Langham stationed himself at the end of the bar and ordered a pint of Fuller’s bitter and a pork pie from the publican, then moved to a nearby table from where he could command a view of wherever the young man elected to drink.

  Royce remained at the bar, chatting up the barmaid who seemed flattered by his attention. He paid for his drink, ostentatiously pulling a fat wallet from an inner pocket and flashing a bundle of tenners.

  Langham chewed on his pie, read a preview of the Arsenal’s game against Cardiff City the next day, and bent an ear towards the youth’s witless blather.

  ‘Have you worked here long?’ His tone was Eton-posh, modulated to impress the likes of the barmaid.

  ‘Me? Seems like years.’

  Royce spoke again, his words lost as three businessmen pushed through the door, conversing loudly.

  The barmaid laughed. ‘What do I do for entertainment? I can tell you where I don’t go – pubs like this. I like the flicks, me.’

  She moved off to serve the new customers, and when she returned, Royce said, ‘Have one on me, go on. Make it a double. I’m celebrating, after all.’

  ‘Celebrating? What’re you celebrating, then?’

  Langham would have liked to hear the reply, but one of the businessmen came to the punchline of a joke and the others guffawed.

  Whatever Royce told her, the barmaid looked impressed and poured herself a gin and tonic.

  Royce finished his drink and ordered another, chatting with the blonde between customers as the pub filled up with lunchtime trade.

  This set the trend for the next couple of hours. Royce wooed the woman, made his way through another three whiskies, and even stood drinks for Johnny-come-latelys at the bar.

  Towards two o’clock, with Royce showing distinct signs of inebriation, Langham moved to the bar and ordered a half of bitter. Royce was bragging to the barmaid about ‘pranging’ his last car, a Jaguar, and walking away without a scratch.

  Langham thought he had the young man’s measure: he was the cosseted product of a minor public school who spent all pater’s allowance on nightclubs, fast cars and impressionable young women.

  ‘You were lucky to get out in one piece,’ Langham said when Royce repeated his pranging escapade to whoever would listen.

  He turned and peered at Langham. He reeked of eau de cologne and his cravat was soaked with spilt whisky. ‘Dashed lucky! One second there I was, whizzing along at sixty, and the next thing I knew, this blighter pulled out right in front of me. Totalled the old Jag and almost bought it myself – but I’m nothing if not lucky.’

  Langham raised his empty pint glass. ‘To your luck. Let me buy you a drink.’

  ‘No … No! I insist. My round. Stroke of luck with a little investment.’

  Langham accepted a half and drank it slowly. ‘Stocks and shares?’

  The young man brayed like a stallion. He showed a lot of teeth when he laughed, and Langham saw that his left eye-tooth was embedded slightly higher than the rest of his teeth, giving his face a wolfish cast. ‘Stocks and shares? Beggar stocks and shares. Art’s where the money is, these days.’

  ‘Art?’

  ‘Mark my word. Solid investment. If you know what you’re doing, then art’s where the money is.’ He tapped the side of his nose with a long forefinger. ‘Know what I mean?’

  For the next hour, Langham plied Royce with spirits and tried to learn more about his recent ‘investment’, but the young man was more interested in boasting about the various cars he’d owned.

  At three thirty, with last orders long ago called, the barmaid made her escape, quickly pulling on her coat and hurrying through a back door. Royce made to follow, but the portly publican barred his way and turned him one hundred and eighty degrees with a meaty hand and a couple of well-chosen words.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Royce said when he returned to Langham’s side. ‘Tell you what, I … I know a little club. Member there. I’ll get you in as my guest. What say we tootle up to Soho? I’ll drive.’

  Langham assisted the young man from the pub and along the pavement. ‘I think you’re in no condition to drive,’ Langham said. ‘We don’t want another accident, do we? It might be wise if we forgot all about private clubs and I took you home.’

  Royce stood swaying in the centre of the pavement, hiccupping. ‘You would? You’d do that for me? Drive young Roycey home in his cups? Why, that’s dashed decent of you, sir.’

  ‘This way,’ Langham said, and he led Royce around the corner to his Rover.

  As they drove along the King’s Road and turned left, Langham glanced at his passenger. Royce sprawled in the seat as if it were a chaise longue. ‘So you’re in the art business. Sold anything of any value recently?’

  ‘I’ll say. Nice little piece. Eighteenth century. John Varley. Heard of him?’

  ‘Afraid that’s not my line,’ Langham admitted. ‘How long have you been a dealer?’

  ‘Technically,’ Royce said, ‘technically, I’m not. It’s just something … something I dabble in. A little sideline.’

  ‘Oh … and what do you do the rest of the time?’

  Royce sighed, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. ‘I … I work for a bastard.’

  Langham laughed. ‘We’ve all done that in our time.’

  ‘But I,’ Royce said, ‘I work for the biggest bastard in Christendom.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘One Denbigh Connaught. Soon to be Sir Denbigh Connaught, if the old bastard’s to be believed. A scribbler.’

  ‘A scribbler?’

  ‘Or, to put it more grandly … as he likes to be known … a Man of Letters. He writes big, fat, eru … erudite novels. I run the business side of things for him, for all the thanks I get. The man’s’ – Royce reached out and gripped Langham’s forearm – ‘the man’s a monster of ego … egocentricity. A veritable monster. But I’ll say this for him, he has a rather beautiful daughter.’

  ‘He does?’

  ‘A corker. Annabelle. Beauty and brains.’

  ‘I see,’ Langham said. ‘And have you tried your luck with her?’

  ‘Tried … and failed. My charms didn’t work on that … that particular snake.�
��

  ‘Snake?’ Langham said.

  Royce laughed. ‘Vicious and cold-blooded,’ he said.

  Langham turned on to Fulham Road. ‘Tell me. How did you get the job as his business manager?’

  It was some time before Royce replied. Langham wondered if he was asleep; then the young man said, ‘Was working in publishing, but getting a bit restless. I admired Connaught’s books, so … so one day last year’ – he hiccupped – ‘I wrote to him on the off-chance … asked if he needed a business manager. Went for an interview and – hey presto – got the job.’

  He closed his eyes again and two minutes later was snoring.

  Langham turned into Saddler’s Way and pulled up outside number ten. He shook Royce’s shoulder. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Don’t want to …’ Royce mumbled. ‘Fine here.’

  Langham moved around to the passenger side and took Royce under the arm. ‘Up we get. We’ll get you nicely tucked up and you can sleep it off.’

  He swivelled the young man in his seat, pulled his legs out and assisted him to his feet. Half-carrying Royce, he staggered up the short flight of stairs to the front door.

  ‘Key in my pocket …’ Royce supplied helpfully.

  Langham found a bunch of keys and tried three in the lock before the door swung open on to a small sitting room. A flight of stairs rose to the right, and Langham propelled the young man to the top by main force. On the small landing, he applied his foot to a door and entered a bedroom.

  ‘Owe you one, sir,’ Royce said as Langham laid him out on his side on the double bed.

  The young man reached out as Langham made to leave. ‘One thing! One thing – don’t know your name …’

  Langham smiled. ‘Call me Sam,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’re a fine fellow, Sam!’ Royce said. He buried his head in the pillow and was soon dead to the world.

  After ensuring that the young man was indeed out for the count, Langham left the bedroom and paused on the landing. A second door gave on to a small bedroom, bare but for a single bed. He made his way downstairs and looked around the sitting room.

  The room was sparsely furnished but for a couple of overstuffed sofas and three small bookshelves. He examined the titles and found a dozen literary novels and a handful of books on art – mainly on the subject of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century watercolours.

  On a small desk in one corner stood a portable typewriter with a sheet of foolscap lolling in the platen. Langham crossed to the desk and read what Royce had typed: Dear Beatrice, please forgive me for the contretemps the other evening.

  Which was the extent of the apologetic missive.

  He found an address book next to the typewriter, the entries going back years by the evidence of the many crossed-out addresses. Royce listed his contacts by their first names, and Langham soon found Beatrice: it was the woman Royce had visited that morning on Smith Street, Chelsea. Perhaps he’d decided to make it up to Beatrice in person … He copied the telephone number into his notebook.

  He was about to replace the address book when a name jumped out at him: Bernard Radley, Brewer’s Yard, Hanover Street, Rotherhithe.

  ‘Interesting,’ he murmured.

  He found Royce’s telephone, sat down and called Ralph at the office, hoping his colleague was not out on a case.

  Ralph answered almost immediately. ‘Ryland and Langham—’

  ‘Ralph, Donald here.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  He explained the situation, then went on, ‘Ralph, recall the Sudbury diamond haul a few years back?’

  ‘How could I forget it? Earned meself a nice cosh on the head for me troubles.’

  ‘Now, what was the name of that old codger in Rotherhithe who—’

  ‘Radley. Bernard Radley. Best fence in the business, if you believe his self-publicity.’

  ‘Bingo!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s down here in Wilson Royce’s address book.’

  ‘Good work, Don. What do you think he’s up to?’

  Langham relayed Royce’s boasts about buying and selling works of art. ‘I thought he might be doing it legit, but after finding Radley’s name … I’m not too sure.’

  ‘You want me to drop by old Bernie’s place and have a word? I’m just about to pop out, but I could pootle over to Rotherhithe tomorrow.’

  ‘That might be an idea,’ Langham said. ‘Look, I’d better skedaddle. Royce’s sleeping off a bender upstairs and I don’t want to be around if he wakes up.’

  He replaced the receiver, looked around the room, and saw the keys where he’d left them on the bottom step of the stairs.

  He would not normally stoop to what he was about to do, but the Bernard Radley connection convinced him that Royce was up to something. He took the keys into the small scullery, found an old tablet of Fairy soap beside the Bristol sink, and pressed the front-door key into the block. Ralph had contacts who could knock up a facsimile key in no time.

  He wrapped the soap in his handkerchief, locked the door behind him, and posted the keys through the letter box.

  FOUR

  Maria sat at her desk and tried to concentrate on the manuscript by a first-time novelist that her agency was about to take on. Her attention wandered, and she glanced at the pile of letters on the desk and smiled. Most were addressed to Maria Dupré, but one or two carried her new name: Maria Langham.

  It would take some getting accustomed to. She had been proud of her French surname, but adopting her new name felt like leaving behind her old life – with its failed love affairs and doubts about her profession – and starting afresh.

  A tap at the door broke into her reverie.

  Molly popped her head into the room and said, ‘I wonder if I might have a word, Maria, if you’re not too busy?’

  ‘Of course. Come in.’

  Molly was twenty-three, small and ginger-haired with green eyes and a pretty constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She was ferociously intelligent and – much to Maria’s chagrin – constitutionally under-confident. She perched on the edge of the chair across from Maria and grinned.

  ‘I saw Gerry last night.’

  Maria smiled. ‘And how did it go?’

  ‘I had a lovely time. We went to see The King and I, and then had a drink at his local.’

  ‘You see – and there you were, going on about how no boy would find you attractive.’

  Molly blushed to the roots of her hair.

  Maria looked at her watch. ‘Look, it’s almost lunchtime. Shall we pop out to the Lyons’? You can tell me about your date, and then I’ll tell you all about Paris.’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘That would be super. Oh – I almost forgot. I came to see you about Charles. I think you should have a word with him.’

  ‘Charles? Why, is something wrong?’

  ‘He had another letter yesterday, from you-know-who.’

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘He positively blanched when he read the letter. I thought he was going to faint.’ Molly shook her head. ‘Maria, what is it all about?’

  ‘I wish I knew. How is he today?’

  ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t come down yet.’

  ‘Perhaps I should pop up and have a word,’ Maria said. ‘I won’t be long. And then we’ll go for lunch, oui?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  They left the office and Maria opened the door leading to Charles’s upstairs flat.

  ‘Charles?’ she called out. ‘Can I come up?’

  His fruity tones rang down the staircase. ‘Ascend, my dear. Ascend!’

  She hurried up the stairs and peered around the door at the top. The luxuriously appointed room, with its thick cream carpet, Regency furniture and an ancient grandfather clock ticking in the far corner, appeared uninhabited. ‘Charles?’

  ‘Here, my dear. Taking my rest.’

  A plump hand appeared over the back of the settee, waving at her.

  Maria pulled up
a footstool and sat before her partner. Charles presented a woebegone sight, stretched out with a cold compress covering his forehead.

  She took his hand. ‘Molly told me you had another letter.’

  He mopped his vast expanse of face, the vigour with which he did so setting the flesh of his cheeks and triple chins juddering.

  ‘Will you tell me what the problem is?’ she murmured.

  ‘The man is an ogre,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I’ve heard the stories. Foster at Gollancz once told me he had dealings with Connaught over a short story of his they wanted to anthologize. Connaught asked about the other writers in the volume, and when he found out that Durrell was one, he refused point blank to have anything to do with the editor.’

  ‘I’ve heard the same story. Durrell and Connaught. Now there are two egotists for you.’

  ‘But …’ Maria said tentatively, ‘he’s a respected novelist, despite what you might think of him personally. You can’t deny that he would be an asset to our list.’

  ‘My child, do you think I am not aware of the fact? The thought of missing out on the kudos that would accrue to the agency sorely troubles me.’

  Maria squeezed his hand. ‘I have an idea, Charles. If we were to take him on, then I would deal with him. You needn’t even meet the man, still less enter into negotiations with him. I’d handle everything.’

  ‘You are goodness personified, my child. You don’t know how much I appreciate the offer, but—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But such an arrangement would not work. I think Connaught would not be fobbed off by being attended to by – as he would see it – a “mere” woman. He would insist on dealing with me and no one else. Insist!’

  She nodded. ‘I see.’

  Charles pointed to the dining table. ‘There is the missive in question. Pray, bring it to me, my dear.’

  She did so and passed him the single sheet of notepaper.

  He read it once, winced, and passed it to her.

  Charles,

  I haven’t heard from you. Did you get my last? As I mentioned, I’ve sacked Pritchard and Pryce – tell you all about it when you come down. Here’s the deal – I’ve just finished a new one. The bods at Cape’ve seen it and made an offer. But I want more – and I need a good agent to fight my corner.