Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Oh yes, I did,’ agreed Iris flippantly. ‘I remember the letter perfectly. And I meant it, Paul. Every word of it.’ She leaned forward. ‘Really, I was quite sincere.’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Temple. ‘Yes, I know you were.’

  Temple felt it was high time the cards went on the table. ‘Iris, why are you leaving the cast?’ he demanded flatly. ‘It’s not because you don’t like the play any longer. I know you well enough to realise you wouldn’t change your mind. It’s not because the part doesn’t suit you. You’ve got another and more important reason, haven’t you?’

  It was some little time before Iris spoke, but when she did there was a strange and somewhat urgent note in her voice.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s no use asking me what that reason is, because I can’t tell you.’

  Temple rose and poured himself a drink.

  ‘If we postponed the production, say for two or three months,’ he suggested, ‘would that be all right?’

  Iris looked a little bewildered. ‘You mean, would I be prepared to play “Lady Seaton” if you held things over, till…say, just before Christmas?’

  Temple nodded.

  ‘But darling, you can’t do that!’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he persisted.

  Iris took a cigarette from her case. ‘I should love to do it, Paul,’ she said softly. ‘It’s a fine play, and a wonderful part for me, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But I must be free between now and the tenth of November.’

  Temple perched himself on the arm of a chair and looked into her eyes. ‘All right, then that’s settled,’ he said. ‘I’ll write to Seaman tonight.’

  ‘Paul, you’re a darling!’ cried Iris in amazement. ‘The thought of not playing “Lady Seaton” nearly broke my heart.’ She was obviously both genuinely relieved and delighted.

  ‘Go ahead and kiss him, Iris!’ smiled Steve. ‘It’s overrated, anyway.’

  ‘You don’t know what a weight you’ve taken off my mind, Paul,’ said Iris, finishing her cocktail. ‘Now, I really must fly!’

  ‘When are you leaving?’ asked Steve.

  ‘On Saturday – by ’plane at midday.’

  ‘And I can tell Seaman you’ll be back in town for the end of November!’ pursued Temple.

  ‘Not a day later than the seventeenth, I promise you,’ replied Iris, drawing on her gloves.

  ‘Good. Then take care of yourself, Iris,’ laughed Temple. ‘I don’t want any accidents happening to my leading lady.’

  Iris was turning to go when Temple’s manservant opened the door and announced Sir Graham Forbes.

  Both Temple and his wife appeared surprised, for they had not seen Sir Graham for some months. Steve was more than a little alarmed, for Sir Graham’s visits were usually associated with something a little more exciting than afternoon tea.

  ‘It’s all right, Steve,’ smiled her husband, ‘there’s nothing to get excited about.’

  ‘Sir Graham Forbes?’ queried Iris, setting her hat at a jaunty angle. ‘Isn’t he connected with Scotland Yard or something?’

  ‘It is Scotland Yard,’ Temple informed her, as she followed Pryce. She bade them an extravagant farewell, and Temple once more repeated his assurance that he would write to Seaman that night.

  As Pryce carefully closed the door, Steve turned to her husband with a worried frown. ‘Paul, if Sir Graham is here because he needs your help, then please—’ There was a catch in her voice.

  Temple squeezed her arm affectionately.

  ‘Sir Graham is here because he needs a cocktail. A very strong cocktail. And nothing else, Mrs Temple,’ came the urbane voice of Scotland Yard’s Chief Commissioner.

  ‘Why, Sir Graham!’ ejaculated Steve.

  ‘Come along in, Sir Graham!’ laughed Temple. ‘It’s grand seeing you again. Though I thought Pryce—’

  ‘Yes, Pryce wanted to announce me all right,’ smiled Sir Graham. ‘But he seemed to have his hands full with the blonde.’

  ‘That was Iris Archer. You’ve probably heard of her,’ Temple informed him.

  ‘Iris Archer?’ Sir Graham was obviously impressed.

  Temple crossed over to the cocktail cabinet.

  ‘What would you like, Sir Graham? Sherry? Bronx?’

  ‘I’d rather like a Bronx,’ said Sir Graham, watching Temple rather curiously as he selected the ingredients. ‘What was the trip like, Temple? Got a bit of a shock when I heard you were coming over on the Clipper.’

  ‘Oh, lovely!’ enthused Steve. ‘We enjoyed every minute of it, didn’t we, darling?’

  ‘Every minute,’ agreed Temple, handing their visitor his drink and then pouring out a glass of sherry for Steve.

  Sir Graham smacked his lips.

  ‘Isn’t Iris Archer going into a play of yours? I seem to remember reading something about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, she was going into a play of mine,’ replied Temple. ‘Now things seem a little uncertain.’

  ‘H’m. Pity.’ grunted Forbes, who understood little or nothing of the complications that arise in the theatre world.

  ‘What’s Scotland Yard doing at the moment?’ asked Temple.

  ‘Just at the moment,’ began Forbes with elaborate emphasis, ‘we are up against one of the greatest criminal organisations—’

  Steve had almost risen from her chair, and Sir Graham broke into a heavy laugh.

  ‘He’s only pulling your leg, darling,’ Temple reassured her, but somehow Steve did not altogether appreciate the joke.

  ‘As a matter of fact, things are pretty dead. They have been for months,’ continued the Chief Commissioner evenly. ‘One or two isolated murders, but nothing really big since “The Front Page Men”, and I can’t honestly say I’m sorry.’ He drained his glass and got up.

  ‘I must be on my way – I only dropped in to welcome the wanderers home again.’

  ‘We’re going away again in a day or two,’ said Temple, ‘but when we get back you must come to dinner and—’

  ‘I shall be out of town myself for about a month,’ broke in Sir Graham. ‘First holiday I’ve taken for nearly six years.’

  Temple said casually: ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Carol’s taken a villa just outside Nice.’

  ‘Nice!’ echoed Steve in some surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ said Forbes. ‘I say, you two don’t happen to be going to the South of France, by any chance?’

  ‘Oddly enough, Sir Graham—’ began Temple.

  ‘We’re going to Scotland,’ finished Steve. ‘You did want to go to Scotland, didn’t you, darling?’

  ‘Why—er—yes. Yes, of course,’ said Temple in some embarrassment.

  ‘Then that’s fine,’ smiled Steve, rather delighted by her husband’s unexpected confusion.

  ‘Well, wherever you go, Temple, keep out of mischief,’ said Forbes.

  Steve smiled. It was a very pleasant smile.

  ‘That’s just why we are going to Scotland!’ she said.

  3

  For five hours Temple had been driving steadily through variable Scottish weather. They had stopped at Dunfermline to gaze open-mouthed upon the many evidences of the benevolence of Mr Andrew Carnegie. They had even paused some time at the tomb of Robert the Bruce, and, rather to Steve’s amusement, Temple had drawn many parallels between the tenacity of that legendary figure and the patience required in the solution of modern crime mysteries.

  As they continued their journey towards Inverdale, where they proposed to spend a few days, the sky suddenly darkened, and on a particularly lonely stretch of moorland the rain lashed furiously against the windscreen.

  Steve was never very comfortable during thunderstorms, and when the sky was streaked with forked flashes she begged her husband to stop. But Temple drove on, holding the theory that a moving vehicle is a less likely target for lightning.

  ‘The rain seems to be getting worse,’ shouted Steve above the noise of t
he storm. Temple, struggling with the windscreen wiper, which was sticking occasionally, muttered an imprecation.

  ‘I don’t believe the lightning is quite so bad now,’ added Steve, after a pause.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ replied Temple, who had not been paying much attention to it. ‘This road is terrible. If we get a puncture now, everything in the garden will be lovely!’

  ‘I wonder how many miles we are from Inverdale,’ Steve speculated, eyeing a range of mountains which seemed deceptively near.

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder if there is such a place,’ grunted Temple.

  ‘There must be, darling. It’s on the map.’

  ‘That’s a very old map,’ Temple pointed out as he stepped on the footbrake. ‘Hallo, what’s this?’

  ‘This’ was a cluster of about twenty cottages, scattered at varying intervals along the road.

  ‘Looks like a village of some sort,’ said Steve, as the car approached.

  ‘“Some sort” is about right,’ grimaced Temple. ‘I hope this isn’t Inverdale.’

  ‘It can’t be, darling. There’s nothing except cottages.’

  A solitary cow was straying homewards, and Temple had to slow the car down to practically walking pace. The storm had almost passed over by now, and Temple was anxious to find a signpost of some description. ‘It’s no good going on if we’re off the right road,’ he told Steve, who was busy unfolding the map. He stopped the car outside the first of the cottages.

  Temple glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was only half-past six. Steve was busy tracing the route they had followed. ‘We must have done nearly two hundred miles,’ she estimated.

  Her husband, who had been surveying the rather unprepossessing cottages, suddenly announced: ‘That second cottage is a shop by the look of things. They’d put us on the right track.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps it would be quicker,’ agreed Steve. ‘Get me some chocolate, darling – fruit and nut.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like a juicy steak, by any chance, with sauté potatoes?’ suggested Temple as he climbed out of the car.

  ‘What, no onions!’ Steve riposted, and the novelist laughed.

  Temple approached the cottage, which differed from the others in that it had a roof of slates, and its greystone walls bore no trace of whitewash. He pushed open the heavy door, and a tiny bell clanged discordantly. The interior was gloomy and cluttered with a miscellany of articles ranging from flypapers to sides of bacon suspended from the ceiling.

  A tight-lipped Scotswoman in her late forties came into the shop from the kitchen. She had a voice that droned rather than spoke and she eyed Temple with obvious suspicion.

  ‘What can I get ye?’ she demanded in reply to Temple’s civil greeting.

  ‘I should like some chocolate, please.’

  ‘We don’t keep chocolate.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ murmured Temple, rather taken aback. ‘Very well, I’ll have some postcards.’

  ‘A packet?’

  ‘Yes – a packet,’ agreed Temple, regarding them rather dubiously.

  ‘Six delightful views of Inverdale,’ announced the woman. ‘Two by moonlight. That’ll be sixpence.’

  Temple produced a coin.

  ‘I’ll put them in an envelope for ye,’ offered the woman rather surprisingly, opening a drawer at the back of the counter.

  ‘How far is Inverdale from here?’ asked Temple politely.

  ‘About two miles.’

  ‘Oh, good. I thought it was farther than that.’

  ‘No,’ intoned the woman. ‘Two miles.’ She threw Temple’s sixpence into the drawer and closed it sharply.

  ‘I suppose there’s some sort of an hotel at Inverdale?’

  The woman appeared to be searching her memory. ‘Yes,’ she decided at last. ‘There’s an inn.’

  ‘A good one?’

  ‘Not bad—it’s not at all bad.’

  ‘Do I keep straight on from here, or is there a turning before—’

  He broke off in some embarrassment before the piercing glance from the steely grey eyes.

  ‘Ye’re a stranger round these parts?’ she observed coldly.

  ‘Very much so, I’m afraid,’ he tried to answer in an easy tone.

  ‘Have ye come far?’

  This is practically a cross-examination, reflected Temple. But he said: ‘London.’

  ‘London? That’s a long way,’ commented the woman, in a rather warmer tone. ‘I’ve a married sister in London. Peckham, I think it is. Would there be a place called Peckham?’

  Temple nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is a place called Peckham.’

  ‘It must be a wonderful thing to travel,’ sighed the woman. ‘Often wish I had the time, an’ money o’ course. What was it Shakespeare said about travellers?’

  ‘As far as I can gather, he said quite a number of things,’ smiled Temple.

  ‘H’m—will ye be wanting anything else now?’ Her voice was cold, almost as if she regretted the previous conversation.

  Temple was about to reply when the doorbell clanged violently and a very excited young man entered the shop. He had obviously been running hard, for he stood against the door with almost a sigh of relief.

  ‘Why, Mr Lindsay!’ exclaimed the woman in some surprise.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Moffat,’ gasped Lindsay.

  ‘Gracious me, ye’ve certainly been running!’

  ‘I’m sorry for bursting in like this,’ he apologised. ‘No, please don’t go, sir!’ There was a note of urgency in his voice as he placed his hand on Temple’s sleeve. In another minute he had recovered his breath.

  ‘Apart from being out of breath, you seem rather excited about something,’ said Temple. ‘Is anything the matter?’

  David Lindsay smiled. It was a very infectious smile.

  ‘I saw your car about a quarter of a mile back. Then I saw you stop at Mrs Moffat’s, so I raced along after you. I was afraid you might get started again before…before I could get here in time.’

  ‘Can I help you at all?’ queried Temple, who rather liked the look of the young man.

  ‘I was wondering if you happened to be going to Inverdale?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am.’

  ‘Then would you be good enough to do me a favour?’

  ‘Well, I might. What is it exactly?’

  ‘There’s an inn at Inverdale,’ said Lindsay, ‘called the “Royal Gate”. I don’t know whether you know it or not?’

  ‘As a matter of fact my wife and I intend spending the night at Inverdale, so—’

  ‘Oh, that’s splendid!’ Lindsay’s blue eyes lit up. ‘Well, when you get there, would you be good enough to ask for a Mr John Richmond, and then…’ His voice became rather more tense. ‘And then will you please give him this letter?’ He handed an envelope to Temple, who studied it thoughtfully.

  ‘Mr John Richmond,’ he repeated, as if he were trying to place the name. ‘Why yes, I’ll do that with pleasure.’

  Lindsay gave him a searching look.

  ‘Please realise that this is most important,’ he said earnestly. ‘Under no circumstances must you give the letter to anyone else – under no circumstances.’

  ‘But supposing this Mr Richmond doesn’t happen to be staying at the inn?’ asked Temple.

  ‘He’ll be there all right,’ declared Lindsay with quiet confidence.

  ‘Why didn’t you stop me when you first saw the car a quarter of a mile back?’ Temple wanted to know.

  ‘I was afraid that you might be—someone else.’

  Temple glanced up sharply. There was an honest, straight-forward look in the young man’s eyes, so he pursued the question no further.

  ‘Don’t worry about the letter. I’ll see that your friend gets it all right. It’s a straight road into the village, I gather?’

  ‘Perfectly. You can’t possibly go wrong. The “Royal Gate” is on the left-hand side, about halfway through.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Temple, lifting the
latch.

  ‘Ye’re forgetting your postcards,’ Mrs Moffat reminded him.

  ‘So I am,’ he smiled, picking up the envelope. ‘Good night!’

  When the door had closed, David Lindsay turned to Mrs Moffat, who had been an interested spectator.

  ‘Mrs Moffat, I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you think I might use your ’phone?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Lindsay,’ she replied with great deliberation, ‘but the telephone’s out of order. It has been ever since yon storm started.’

  This was obviously a blow to Lindsay.

  ‘I see,’ he murmured, wrinkling his forehead in some perplexity.

  ‘Ye can try it if ye like, of course,’ offered Mrs Moffat.

  ‘It won’t be any use, though. The wires must have broken somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ murmured Lindsay, whose thoughts were now obviously elsewhere.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, Mr Lindsay—’

  ‘No, no, I’m afraid you can’t do anything. Thanks all the same.’ He wished her good night and departed. She went to the window and watched him until he was almost out of sight. Then she bolted the door cautiously, crossed to the telephone and picked up the old type earpiece.

  ‘Hello? I want Inverdale 74…Hello, is that you?’ Her voice was almost a whisper now. ‘Yes—he’s been here. Just left…No…no, I couldn’t. He gave a letter to a man who was—’ There was an interruption which obviously irritated her. ‘For God’s sake, listen to me,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘He gave the letter to a man who happened to be in the shop at the time…Yes—it was addressed to a Mr John Richmond at the “Royal Gate”.’

  Suddenly Mrs Moffat replaced the receiver and permitted herself the luxury of a grim chuckle.

  4

  ‘That young man seemed to be in rather a hurry,’ commented Steve, when Temple returned to the car.

  He recounted what had happened in the little shop as they started rather cautiously on their way towards the village.

  ‘He saw the car about a quarter of a mile before we stopped,’ said Temple, after they had been travelling for about ten minutes.

  ‘Then why didn’t he stop us?’