Bellmaster dropped into the taxi seat alongside him, his big face mildly glowing with lunch and port and an aura of Havana aroma about him from the cigar he still smoked.
“Good of you to pick me up, Branton. Damn long time no-see. You’re looking well. Both of us getting older though, what?”
“True, my lord . . . there comes a time when we begin to feel our years. More’s the pity about some things. Volo, non valeo begins to creep up.”
Bellmaster laughed. “That kind of visit to town was it?”
“Among other things. But chiefly I wanted to talk to you.”
“Well . . . I’ve got most of the afternoon free. Got to see the P.M. at five though.”
“Well, this won’t take long.”
The taxi picked its way westwards as they talked to one another. When they reached Claremount Mansions Lord Bellmaster insisted on paying off the taxi and they went into the hallway together. The porter was in his little office cubicle and half-rose saying, “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“’Afternoon, Banks. I’ll do the lift.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Branton kept his face turned away from the porter as he stood on the far side of Bellmaster. They went up in the lift. At the flat Lord Bellmaster opened the door with his key, saying, “Rogers’ day off. So we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
Going in Branton kept his hands in his overcoat pockets, knowing too that he was going to touch nothing in the flat with bare hands. No coffee, no drink, and gloves on before he left. Over his absolute resolve to kill the man, he could sense the slow run of excitement in himself. . . not from fear—he did not care what might happen to himself, though he was not going to be foolish enough to give any hostages to fortune. Life was good still, but he had had a long run and if things went wrong for him well he would have settled Bellmaster’s hash. Wiped out the score. The odd bullet or mortar bomb at Anzio and a dozen other places could have wiped him out years ago. Risk was part of his profession. But unnecessary risk was for fools.
He sat down in a chair by the fireplace and eyed the mounted salmon on the wall while Lord Bellmaster went into his bathroom to wash his hands. Nice fish. Conary water was good. Pity if he were never to handle another big springer, but he had had his share. Feeling the bulk of the gun in his pocket he knew his hand would be steady. . . as steady as the resolve in him. Handy little pistol which he had picked up in Italy during the war, a Walther “Manhurin”, only six rounds left in the nine-round magazine, two should be enough. Couple of backfires from a passing car. He took off his gloves and laid them on his knees. He rested his elbows on the chair arms and gently clasped his hands. No tremble. Why should there be? He would take whatever the gods sent him—but he would take Bellmaster first.
Lord Bellmaster came back and settled on the settee by the window. Branton was offered a drink which he declined and said that he would keep his coat on . . . thought he had a bit of a chill coming on.
Lord Bellmaster nodded. The sunlight through the window touched his head and the scalp showed palely through the thin white hair. He smiled warmly. “Well, it is good to see you again. You look in pretty good trim too.” He patted his stomach. “Trouble with me these days is that I don’t get enough exercise. Haven’t had a day’s hunting since I don’t know when. Bedroom antics not the same thing, eh?”
Branton said, “Heard a rumour in the club that you might be getting something pretty big. Give you a chance to try some of the Maryland fences.”
“Rumours, dear chap. Westminster is full of them.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket for his gold cigarette case and motioned it towards Branton.
“No, thanks.” As the other lit his cigarette, Branton thought of Lady Jean and knew, as he had known ever since he had finished reading her diary which young Farley had left in his safe, that he was going to do in a very few minutes nothing to revenge her or the men she and Bellmaster had eliminated. He wanted to even the score for himself—the career he could have had and the promotion he could have won for himself without either of them. Selfish, he supposed, but satisfying.
Bellmaster said, “Well. . . you got my letter. I gather he’s a good sort of chap, and Sarah’s charming. No harm in pushing the boat out for them.”
“I suppose not.” He could give him that little bit of charity to die with. All he wanted now was a short while to sit here and look at him, knowing what he was going to do. “But you know my finances. I can’t match up to that form.”
“We can arrange that quietly. You can always say you’re splurging a small nest egg you’d been cherishing for such a day. All I want is an affair that Lady Jean would have wanted— and, without offence, of course, she is my daughter.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say I wonder? But he held back, and said, “Of course.”
“And it’s her big day. Any girl would want a real slap-up affair.”
“I suppose that’s so.” Without touching the arms of the chair Branton stood up and walked towards the window. “But I think I ought to warn you that you could have trouble with Farley.”
“Oh, nonsense. If Sarah wants it he’ll agree. Damn bad form if he doesn’t!” From momentary indignation Bellmaster’s voice turned to a humorous tone. “If Sarah’s in the slightest like her mother he’ll be putty in her hands.”
Branton nodded. Outside the Park was looking lovely, flowers, trees in new leaf. “Would be so normally. But there’s one small problem. When they came to stay he asked me if he could put a parcel in my old Chubb for safe-keeping. Said it was a birthday present for Sarah that’s on——”
An edge to his voice, Bellmaster said, “I know when it is as well as you do, Branton. But what on earth are you driving at, man?”
“This parcel. Badly wrapped, you know. Just some old newspaper and a couple of rubber bands. A few days later I happened to go to the safe for something I wanted. Bit off form of me, I suppose—but I took a look at it.” Deliberately enjoying himself and moving back now that he could get the full benefit of Lord Bellmaster’s face . . . odd he had not noticed how much he was developing dewlaps . . . he spun out the tension. “Fact, I undid it. Ever heard of a book called Dialogues of the Soul and Body . . . by some Saint or other?”
“No, I haven’t.” Bellmaster rose and went restlessly to stand with his back to the fireplace.
“Oh . . . well it could have been you had. You spent more time with Lady Jean than I ever did. It’s just a spoof title. Inside it turned out to be a diary she’d written over the years. Very interesting reading too. I spent damn near a whole day at it while they were away in Shropshire visiting some aunt of Farley’s. Damn funny in places . . . outspoken too. Also plenty of her little drawings. You remember how good she was at that. Got you—and me, I must say—off to a tee at times.” Enjoying himself, seeing the colour of good living fade from Bellmaster’s cheeks, he was in no hurry to finish. “My God, she didn’t pull any punches when she took against people. You remember that squirt Archie Cardington who was in the King’s Troop——”
“Branton!”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Don’t think I’m a fool. Say what you’ve come to say. You don’t care a damn about the wedding—and neither do I at the moment.”
“No, I suppose not. Well, the fact is she was very indiscreet. I must say you pushed her into doing some pretty dirty things at times——”
“Jean never needed any pushing. She was what she was!”
“Aye—more’s your misfortune. She should have had the good sense not to record it all.”
“All?”
Branton smiled. “Yes, all, my lord. She gave very full details—the pages on which they occur were marked by slips of paper, by Farley I presume—of the murders of two men called Polidor and Matherson. There’s also a fair amount of stuff about various contacts of yours during and after the War with different foreign agents . . . I mean secret agents. Particularly one Cuban called Monteverde and another——”
&n
bsp; “All right, Branton. You don’t have to spell it out to me. Was the diary at home when you left?”
“Yes.”
“And Farley hasn’t mentioned a word of it to you?”
“No.”
“Can he be bought?”
The edge of breakdown was in Bellmaster’s voice, a tremble of anger and alarm . . . or perhaps, Branton felt, the first stir of a whimper. Gravely, he said, “If he can then I’m no judge of a man, my lord.”
“Any man can be bought.”
“Not this one, my lord.”
Bellmaster suddenly tipped his chin up, his lips pouting with sudden anger. “You’re bloody well enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
Branton nodded. Never, he felt, had he been so much at ease and contentment with himself. Slowly Bellmaster was crumbling before his eyes. He said, almost with kindness in his voice, “Yes, my lord, I am. That I think I can claim as my due. But I came here to do you a kindness . . . something which you would never do for yourself.”
“Look, Branton—and I don’t care what it costs me—but we’ve got to get together on this. There’s just got to be a way of arranging this with Farley.”
Branton smiled. “There’s only one way, my lord. Farley would never do anything for you. He’s not that kind. But I can. And I must say it will give me the greatest pleasure in the world—even though it is a kindness you don’t merit from me. Something which will rasa the old tabula between us.”
He took the Walther from his pocket and fired. The noise was louder than he had expected. The bullet travelled at an incline through Lord Bellmaster’s left eye and out of the back of his head and on through the Alfred Munnings painting on the wall. Bellmaster fell heavily backwards and he stayed standing over him, untouched by the smashed face. He had seen plenty of those before.
Branton said calmly, “Sic transit your gloria bloody mundi,” then he turned and picked up his gloves. He went down in the lift, hat in his left hand, and as he passed the porter’s box he raised the hat as though to put it on and obscured his face.
Some way down the road he caught a taxi, glanced at his watch to see what time he had in hand to get his train from Paddington and, finding he had plenty, he told the man to take him to Harrods. This was a special day. He would treat dear old Dolly to something better than a box of chocolates. Something in the lingerie line. When he got to Harrods it was three o’clock.
* * * *
At half past three Kerslake sat in his car outside the cemetery. At the other end of the grass strip, well away from him, was the only other parked car. It had arrived after him and a woman had got out with a dog, locked her car, and gone off for a walk on the Beacon. At twenty-five minutes to four a car came down the road from the golf club house and as it neared him Kerslake recognised Farley driving. He put out a gloved hand and waved to him. Farley reversed his car to park on the grass a couple of yards from him.
Kerslake got out and walked over to the car. As he got in Farley gave him a smile and said, “Nice to see you again. Sorry I’m a bit late—but to be frank I got a bit lost around the lanes coming over.”
“That’s all right. I’ve been enjoying the view and the sunshine.” Kerslake smiled and gave a half chuckle. “Well, you’ve come up with something, haven’t you?” He was the young and up-and-coming junior partner. In the past he had quite enjoyed playing the part. He would play it today, too, but with a difference for it would be the last time he could claim the role. Still wearing his gloves, he settled his briefcase on his knees.
Farley made a wry face. “Well, I wish I hadn’t. I wish now I’d never seen the damned thing. Or just burned it and said nothing. But there it is. God knows what’s going to happen about it.”
“Well, that won’t be your responsibility. Or ours. Did you have this diary while I was down there?” From a professional and personal point of view he was in no mood to hurry things.
“Yes—though I didn’t know it then. It was kicking around Sarah’s room on her desk or in a bookshelf, I think. It came with the Venus belt thing she got from her mother’s old maid. Thank God she didn’t read it—and now won’t get the chance.”
“She might ask about it. No matter what happens you should have a good story to tell her.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll think up something. At the moment her head’s full of birthday, wedding and starting a hotel over here.”
“A hotel, where?” Let it flow, Kerslake told himself. You are a friendly junior in Geddy, Parsons and Rank. A magpie flew across the grass and settled on the eighteenth green. One for sorrow.
“Oh, over in Shropshire. Not certain yet. It’s a marvellous place. Lovely grounds and a bit of river, and not far from a main holiday route. Sarah’s mad about it.” He grinned. “She’s even started to draft the brochure and to think about things like curtains.”
“Well, if it does come off I wish you every success.” That his words sounded genuine gave him no surprise. Words were harlots, they did what you wanted them to do.
“Thank you.”
“You’ve got the diary with you, of course?”
“It’s on the back seat there.” Farley screwed round and got the newspaper-wrapped diary. Holding it on his lap, he went on, “What on earth are you going to do about it?”
Kerslake smiled. “Well—nothing locally. I rather fancy that Mr Geddy will take it to the Home Office. He’s got a few contacts there. You can hardly go trotting into a local police station with it, can you?”
“Well, that’s what I thought. That’s why I went to Mr Geddy. He’s a dry old stick, isn’t he? But I liked him.”
“Yes, he’s all right.” A solitary golfer hit an approach shot to the last hole and as it landed the magpie flew away. The last words from Quint had been Play the part and don’t think about the curtain scene. Easy to say. “Well, I’d better have a look at it.” He smiled. “Not that we ever doubted your word, of course, that it existed. But you’d be surprised what some people try to get away with.”
“I can imagine.” Farley slipped off the rubber bands and took the diary from its newspaper. He said, “This is not exactly the moment to admire them but I must say some of Lady Jean’s drawings are wickedly funny. I’ve marked three places with paper slips. Once you’ve read the entries you’ll know why my hair stood on end.”
Kerslake took the limp-bound volume in his gloved hands, rested it on his knees and then took off his gloves. From now on he touched no part of the car until he put his gloves on and left Farley. Taking his time he read the first entry in which, after Lady Jean had written that Bellmaster had made her an accomplice to the murder of Polidor, she went on to describe exactly how it had happened.
As he finished reading it and began to turn to the next marked entry Farley said to him, “Pretty story, isn’t it? But it’s clear that in the kind of world they moved in . . . all this intelligence business . . . it was no more than par for the course. God, one reads about that kind of thing in books and it’s just like a fairy story for adults. Doesn’t touch you. But it happens. We all know that. What kind of people must they be? Makes your guts turn over. The Matherson thing was. almost as primitive.”
Kerslake made no answer. He turned the pages to the next paper-slip marked entry, and found for a moment or two that he was just looking at the words written in the fine Renaissance script without comprehending them. The little pen-and-ink drawing in the margin stood out boldly. It showed two stags locked in a rutting battle while a hind watched from the background. The stags had human faces, one, Lord Bellmaster’s, clearly recognisable. The other was a face unknown to him but, he guessed, that of Matherson. The female in the background sported a woman’s face which he recognised, from the painting on the stairs at the Villa Lobita, as Lady Jean’s. What kind of people could they be, Farley had asked. Well, his kind. Quint’s kind. Just people—doing a dirty job which the world as it was made necessary. Birdcage gave you a sophisticated initial lecture on the validity of its ethics when you entered . . .
so bloody convincing too. A crusade against evil—until you took the field and found you were using the Devil’s own weapons with not a tithe of his honesty of purpose.
Control coming back to him, marshalled with a flick of selfanger, he read the diary entry.
It read:
. . . Belly knew, of course, what Matty was after and afterwards was quite frank about it. He left Conary in the afternoon saying that he was driving south to get the late afternoon London train from Inverness. So that night for the first time I was alone with Matty. Such a dear, but in his way as deep as B. Not so good at handling his drink though. He left my room about three o’clock. At least he died with pleasant memories, falling down three flights of the tower stone steps and breaking his skull. I didn’t hear a sound being fast asleep. My maid woke me at seven with the news.
B. phoned at eight to say that he had had trouble on the road and missed the train, but would take the morning one, and then asked how things had been? I said there was nothing I could tell him he did not know already and he laughed and said something about when love put stars in a man’s eyes he should watch the way he walked. He told me when I met him two days later how he had come back and waited for Matherson to leave my room. There were a dozen ways he knew of getting into Conary without being seen. Matty was cremated at Golders Green. Over dinner afterwards B. gave me the emerald necklace which I sold later. I’ve hated emeralds ever since.
Birdcage Page 23
