Paul Temple and the Curzon Case (A Paul Temple Mystery)

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Hello,’ said the young man. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Diana Maxwell. ‘I’ve smashed up the Aston Martin. Ran into those bloody gates. And to make matters worse this is Paul Temple and his wife.’

  ‘Oh dear, the man who set the police on to you.’ He turned with an amused expression to Paul. ‘We heard you were up in Yorkshire, Mr Temple. I suppose you’ve come to apologise to Diana?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Paul. ‘I was really hoping for an explanation.’

  ‘Diana never explains anything,’ said the young man. ‘She’s much too aristocratic. Have you found the Baxter kids yet?’

  His name was Peter Malo and his official role was secretary to Lord Westerby. But he behaved with proprietorial ease, helping Diana from the car and listening to her account of the crash at the entrance to the estate with humorous detachment.

  ‘Never mind, you’re alive and the car was insured,’ he said as he led her away. ‘And I’ve always thought those wrought iron monstrosities should be removed.’ He turned back, as if he had suddenly remembered Paul’s existence. ‘By the way, Temple,’ he called, ‘Lord Westerby wondered whether you could have dinner the day after tomorrow? Half past eight?’

  ‘We’ll be delighted,’ said Paul.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll have found the Baxter kids by then. Lord Westerby is worried about them, you know. Terribly worried.’

  ‘Why?’

  The young man was taken aback. ‘Well, he is the squire, you know, he takes a benevolent interest in the community. Noblesse oblige.’ He waved carelessly and led Diana Maxwell away round the side of the house. ‘See you both the day after tomorrow.’

  Paul Temple let in the clutch and drove away. It had been a frustrating afternoon so far. He wouldn’t learn much from Diana Maxwell or the supercilious young man unless they chose that he should.

  ‘What did you make of Miss Maxwell?’ he asked Steve.

  Steve looked at the wreckage of the sports car as they drove past the gates. ‘A reckless driver,’ she murmured.

  ‘Not as reckless as all that,’ said Paul. ‘Her brake rods had been sawn nearly through with a hacksaw. They were bound to snap when she needed them most. Somebody tried to kill her, and I think she knew it.’

  Paul drove in silence, up on to the moors and across the deserted wastes of green and purple heather. There was a strong breeze whistling over the undulating slopes which added to the sense of desolation. Sheep grazed unconcernedly at the roadside and far to the south the globes of the four minute warning system glinted in the sun.

  ‘Are we going somewhere?’ asked Steve.

  ‘I thought we might have tea in Goathland. Do you remember the first time I came up here, just after we met?’

  ‘Sentimental,’ murmured Steve.

  They had a pot of tea for two and toasted scones in the most remote spot in England. Years ago they had discussed whether the village was named after the goats who inhabited the moors or the Goths who might have found it congenial for battles. There was a church, a post office stores, and a few houses straggled along the roadside. It had seemed an idyllic retreat in those days, when walking twenty miles had been pleasurable and sleeping in a tent had been a sensuous treat.

  ‘I think I’ll have one of those cream pastries,’ Steve said unromantically. ‘And then we’d better hurry. Don’t want to be late for our Latin school master. He’s a devil for punctuality, and he’ll have to get the boy back to the school before lights out.’

  The schoolmaster was vague and affable; he talked about Steve’s uncle with the uncertainty of a man who usually finds he is discussing the wrong boy with the wrong parents. His name was Elkington and he arrived early with a sixteen-year-old youth in a blue school cap.

  ‘Consul victor em laudat,’ Paul said affably.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ said the Latin master. ‘Have you met John Draper? He’s the boy you asked—’

  ‘Militibus turpe est captivos male custodivisse.’

  Steve had to take Paul aside and explain that Mr Elkington was in fact English. ‘He used to double up as the sports master. He scored a century the last time I saw him play.’ So Paul discussed cricket with them over dinner, in English, which made conversation easier. It was one of the subjects which John Draper could discuss with authority.

  The meal was English, with steaks and roast potatoes and garden peas, followed by apple pie. It was the only sort of meal to have in a northern hotel, Paul had felt, and he was enjoying the evening until the fair-haired youth exploded the pretence at polite conversation.

  ‘Isn’t it time you asked me the questions, Mr Temple?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I have to be back at school in two hours.’

  ‘Really, Draper!’ the Latin master protested. ‘This is a purely social—’

  ‘I’ve already told the police all I know about the Baxter brothers, so I’m afraid I shan’t be much help.

  Paul grinned. ‘You’re quite right, John, I did ask Mr Elkington to bring you so that we could discuss the Baxter brothers. Why did you agree to come, I wonder?’

  ‘I wanted to meet you, Mr Temple. I read some of your books when I was in the sanatorium and I thought they were rather good.’ The slightly secretive smile was still hovering about the boy’s mouth. ‘And that police inspector said that on no account should I tell you anything, so I was thrilled to bits when the Elk said he was bringing me along. Er— I mean Mr Elkington.’

  Mr Elkington coughed awkwardly. ‘The boys call me the Elk,’ he explained.

  ‘I’m anti the police,’ said the boy. ‘I’m going to university next year.’

  ‘The police appear to be anti me at the moment,’ said Paul with a laugh. ‘So suppose you tell me what you told the police? You went home with the Baxter brothers on the afternoon they disappeared, didn’t you? It is possible that some apparently insignificant detail will prove to be important later. What happened when Roger went in search of his brother?’

  The allegiances had been established, and the boy assumed a confidential manner. ‘I went home. I popped into the Baxter cottage to tell their father I couldn’t wait, and then I went home.’

  ‘Did you walk home?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How far away do you live?’

  ‘About a mile and a half. It’s straight down the lane.’

  ‘Did you see anyone in the lane?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  The boy’s self-confidence faltered. ‘No,’ he said after a pause. ‘I don’t think so. What sort of thing do you mean?’

  He looked nervously at the Elk. ‘Do you mean anything suspicious?’

  ‘Anything at all,’ murmured Paul.

  ‘I don’t think I heard anything.’

  Paul waited for the boy to make up his mind while Steve set the port in circulation.

  ‘Well, there was one thing. I don’t suppose it’s important, but when I left the Baxter cottage I thought I heard someone whistling.’

  ‘Good,’ Paul said promptingly.

  ‘But I couldn’t see anyone.’

  ‘Never mind, John; you thought you heard someone. What did the whistling sound like?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’ He laughed uncertainly. ‘It was pretty tuneless, as if he was thinking about something else.’

  ‘Not a wolf whistle, to attract attention?’ Steve intervened.

  ‘Good lord, no.’

  ‘Pop or jazz?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Paul quickly, ‘so you did recognise the tune.’

  The boy was confused. ‘I didn’t recognise it, Mr Temple.’

  ‘But you’re certain it wasn’t a call or a pop song or a jazz theme. So you either recognised the tune itself or you thought you recognised the person who was whistling it.’

  The boy shrugged unhappily. ‘I’m not really sure,’ he muttered, ‘but I think it was Loch Lomond.’

  ‘And whom did you th
ink was whistling it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  That was all Paul could elicit from Master John Draper. It almost seemed like a wasted evening. Paul didn’t return to the subject until the Elk and his charge were leaving for the last train to Dulworth Bay.

  ‘Tell me, John,’ he said on the hotel steps, ‘have you ever heard of anyone called Curzon?’

  ‘No,’ said the boy, ‘I’m certain I haven’t.’

  ‘Never mind. It was kind of you to come. I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Civic civicismus, Mr Elkington.’

  ‘Such a pleasure to discuss old times—’

  The fishing fleet was coming into Whitby harbour. Paul and Steve walked along the jetty and watched the boats tying up amid the flurry of excited seagulls and the busy preparations for unloading the catch. It was a cool, dry evening and the light from either the moon or the harbour electricity was sharply clear.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Paul. ‘I envy you a childhood spent among fishing fleets and countryside like this.’ It was a comment which Paul made whenever he ventured north with his wife, because it always seemed to please her so inordinately. She had been extremely anxious that Yorkshire should meet with Paul Temple’s approval.

  ‘It seems,’ she said wistfully, ‘a very long time ago.’

  Paul nodded. ‘What did you make of young Draper?’

  ‘Clever,’ said Steve. ‘Too clever by half. He knew exactly how to get round you. All that talk about the police…’

  Paul was silent for a moment while they walked to the headland. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. He did seem to think that Elkington was a fool as well.’

  Steve smiled to herself. ‘Whereas you treated the Elk like a man of dignity and position.’

  ‘Well, I always hated Latin at school.’

  When they got back to the hotel Paul applied his mind to reviewing Dr Stern’s book on crime. He sat at a table by the window making notes while Steve prepared for bed. He looked across at the quayside and watched the occasional movements of the boats, wondering whether to write a showy piece of invective or a considered essay on understanding the criminal’s mind. He wondered who those sheep on the moors had belonged to and why the editor wanted the book reviewed anyway. He poured himself a large whisky and glanced through the index.

  ‘Coincidence,’ he said to Steve.

  ‘Eh?’ She was sitting up in bed, looking elegant in mauve silk pyjamas. ‘What’s a coincidence?’

  ‘Dr Stern doesn’t mention coincidence. You see, he knows nothing about crime. How many criminals would the law apprehend if it weren’t for luck, chance and coincidence? Take the Great Train Robbery—’

  ‘Are you doing that review?’ asked Steve in dismay. ‘But you haven’t read the book yet!’

  ‘I’d only make myself irritable and give the book a panning. I thought I might be generous and welcome this work as a tentative first step towards a more responsible attitude—’

  ‘You pompous fraud,’ said Steve.

  They were interrupted by the strident ring of a telephone. Paul found the instrument on a chair beneath Steve’s dressing-gown. It rang again. ‘Hello?’ said Paul. He looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly eleven o’clock.

  ‘Mr Temple? Hello, this is Ian Elkington. I’m sorry if I woke you—’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Paul said, ‘I was only working.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry, but the fact is that I’ve lost young Draper.’

  ‘Lost him? Wasn’t that rather difficult?’

  ‘No— no, you don’t understand. I mean the boy has vanished. We were in the train, walking through the corridor just north of Dulworth Bay, and suddenly I realised he’d gone. We were in the tunnel and the train was rattling rather. Draper was only a few yards ahead of me and at first I thought he’d nipped into the toilet. But he seems to have disappeared.’

  Chapter Three

  The Whitby to Scarborough train ran along the coast and probably qualified as the most beautiful stretch of track in England. The North Sea stretched away like an immobile sheet of blue on one side, while the inland view was of distant moors and forestry, sudden valleys with neatly arranged farms and a perilous hillside into which the railway lines were cut. They went through places like Burniston and Cloughton and Ravenscar, evocative places which suggested an England before the arrival of railways. There had been a furore of protest when the line had been built, and another a century later when someone had tried to close the line down.

  The train chugged slowly through the scene, giving Paul and Steve ample time for leisured contemplation. Steve leaned forward occasionally to point out Farmer Hattersby’s barn on the skyline and the village where old Mrs Stark had lived.

  ‘We’re just coming into the tunnel now, I think,’ said Steve. ‘This cliff ahead of us…’

  The train curled round and into the face of the cliff, plunging the carriage in darkness. The noise of the engine and the wheels on the track seemed aggressively loud, but that wasn’t the noise which Paul was listening to. He could hear somebody coming along the train corridor whistling tunelessly to himself. The whistling came nearer, stopped by their doors, and then came into the carriage.

  ‘This is where John Draper disappeared,’ said Steve.

  ‘Quite,’ murmured Paul.

  The newcomer seemed to have sat in the corner of the carriage and was whistling an absent-minded version of Loch Lomond. Paul leaned across and placed a reassuring hand on Steve’s knee. She gasped in alarm.

  ‘It’s all right, darling,’ he said with a laugh, ‘it’s only your husband.’ But he waited apprehensively, all his reflexes at the ready for whatever might happen in the fateful tunnel.

  But nothing happened. Two minutes later the train chugged harmlessly into sunshine and Paul found himself staring at an elderly man with a quizzical smile and a deaf aid. The man looked a little startled himself to see Paul Temple.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said with that slightly overpitched tone of the very deaf, ‘it’s Mr Temple and his wife. Well— well.’ He raised a hand to silence Paul while he adjusted his deaf aid. ‘There, now you can speak. I’m afraid I’m a little hard of hearing.’

  ‘How do you know—?’ Paul began.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering how I know your name. By the way, I’m Dr Lawrence Stuart. I’m in practice in Dulworth Bay. We’re all of us agog to see you in action. Local gossip has it that you’ll solve the case in forty-eight hours.’ He laughed. ‘I think they’re hoping you’ll pin all three disappearances on me.’

  ‘Lucky for you we’re only here for a holiday,’ said Paul. ‘I promised Inspector Morgan he could pin the disappearances on the villain without interference from me.’

  Dr Stuart chuckled happily. ‘Yes, I heard about your little pretext. I gather Mrs Temple was brought up in the North Riding? Wonderful place to spend your childhood, don’t you think, Mr Temple?’ He looked out of the window for the wide arc of Dulworth Bay to bear witness to his enthusiasm. The grey overhanging cliffs seemed by an optical illusion to be leaning into the distant sea. ‘This rock face below us is worth a tourist’s visit, Mr Temple,’ he continued ironically. ‘This is where we had the air disaster three weeks ago. You must have read about it. All the passengers were killed and we’ve been plagued by sightseers ever since.’

  ‘I read about it,’ said Paul.

  ‘It happened just after midnight. I was called out of my bed. A most distressing business. They’d still be gossiping about it in the village if your Baxter boys hadn’t disappeared to provide a new topic.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Paul said thoughtfully. ‘You obviously know this community. Have you ever heard of anyone called Curzon?’

  ‘No.’ But the amused eyes, the face in constant movement, were impossible to read. ‘I know everybody in Dulworth Bay, but I’ve never heard of Curzon, and I told Inspector Morgan the same when he asked me.’

  ‘It must be very rewarding,’ Steve said suddenly, ‘to be the family doctor whom ever
ybody knows and trusts in a village like Dulworth.’

  Dr Stuart blinked in surprise. He almost stopped smiling. ‘I may as well tell you now, Mrs Temple, before everyone else does, that I’m not very popular in Dulworth Bay. I’m a foreigner, from Edinburgh, and to make matters worse—’

  ‘I’m sure they adore you,’ Steve interrupted.

  ‘No— no. They think I’m a good doctor, I’m pleased to say, but they’re just a wee bit afraid of me.’

  ‘Why should they be afraid of you, Dr Stuart?’

  The doctor chuckled good-naturedly. ‘Well, you see, a long time ago I murdered a man. And the people of Dulworth Bay are very conventional.’

  The train was stopping at the station, a picturesque little wayside halt built in timber with the name Dulworth Bay picked out by stones in a flower bed and a man like Will Hay by the ticket office with a flag in his hand. Paul lifted Steve down on to the wooden platform and then waved goodbye to Dr Stuart.

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’ asked the doctor. ‘My car is here in the forecourt.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Paul. ‘We’re only going to St Gilbert’s School—’

  ‘It’s a half-hour walk. I’ll give you a lift.’ He ushered them across the tarmac to a battered Rover 2000, which seemed appropriate to his aura of collapsed opulence. ‘I ought to visit St Gilbert’s,’ he said, ‘they’re suffering a wave of German measles. There’s nothing I can do, but a visit from the doctor always goes down well. They like to think that you care.’

  ‘Are you the school doctor?’

  ‘Aye, of course.’

  The car rattled its way up the perilously steep road from the village. The road was beside a stream which tumbled down to the bay and Paul watched anxiously as three small boys seemed to be dropping a fourth over a bridge. He turned to watch, but the scene was quickly lost in the clutter of untidy roofs, and then they were driving through the new sector of post war building which was carefully segregated at the top of the hill.

  ‘I’m everybody’s doctor in Dulworth Bay. Have been since I came here eleven years ago.’