by Simon Brett
‘Of course not. No, I’ll stay. As long as you need someone around.’
‘Just for the night. I didn’t sleep at all last night. It was awful. I kept hearing things and imagining. Just tonight. I’ll be all right tomorrow. Got to be. Sort out what I’m going to do about the baby. I’ll have to get rid of it.’
‘Jacqui, you must keep the baby.’ Charles had long since ceased to delude himself that he had any immovable principles on anything, but he felt something approaching that on the subject of abortion. Without having a particular reason, like Catholicism, he found it unjustifiable. He tried to argue in his mind against this conviction, because he was frightened by feelings of such strength. Granted, he’d say to himself, I’ve never been in a situation where an abortion has been necessary. Natural caution has prevented me from getting anyone into trouble. If it happened, no doubt that principle would crumble like any other. But the instinct remained strong.
And as Jacqui’s suffering face looked up at him, he knew he had said the right thing. There was relief and determination there, in spite of her words. ‘But I can’t look after a baby on my own. I can hardly look after myself.’
She sounded so plaintive that Charles laughed and Jacqui even managed a brief grin. ‘Don’t worry’ — at his most avuncular-‘something’ll happen.’
‘What? Nothing can, now Marius is dead.’
‘Something will happen,’ he repeated with a confidence whose basis he didn’t like to investigate. ‘Now, where am I going to sleep?’
‘Oh, with me. It’s daft for you to get a stiff neck on the sofa when there’s room in my bed.’
So they settled down, Charles in shirt and underpants, Jacqui in silk pyjamas, cradled in his arms. It was eight days since they had last lain on the bed together, and sex seemed as far away now as then. But this time Charles’ feelings were mellower. It seemed all right that this sad and trembling body should lie in his arms. There was a lot to be said for cuddling. Now he seemed to find it even more attractive than screwing. Perhaps it was the approach of old age, sliding into impotent fumblings. As he fell asleep, Byron’s lines floated through his fuddled mind.
We’ll go no more a-screwing
So late into the night,
Though the heart is still as loving
And the moon is still as bright.
When he woke, he was alone in the bed. He could hear Jacqui being sick in the bathroom. It was a nostalgic sound, taking him back to the flat in Notting Hill where he and Frances had started their married life; and started Juliet; and, in a way, started living apart. Nappies boiling on the gas-stove, the sweet smell of breast milk-it all came back. ‘I am degenerating into a sentimental old fool,’ he thought as he rolled out of bed.
Jacqui came in as he was pulling on his trousers, and sat down, looking drained. ‘OK?’ he asked.
‘I will be. I hope I will. It’s ghastly. Look.’ She closed her eyes grimly and pointed at the table. There was a letter which had been opened and shoved back into the envelope.
‘Can I read it?’ Jacqui nodded. Charles pulled the papers out. There was a short letter and a smaller envelope, which had also been opened. The letter was on paper headed ‘Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickey-Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.’
Dear Miss Mitchell,
On the instructions of my client, Mr Marius Steen, I am sending you the enclosed letter. I have no knowledge of its contents, but was instructed to send it to you as soon as I heard news of Mr Steen’s death.
Yours sincerely,
Harold Cohn.
‘Can I read the other one?’
‘Go ahead.’
He opened the envelope. The letter was written in a sprawling hand, writing that had once undergone the discipline of copperplate, but long ago broken loose from its restrictions and now spread, thick and unguarded, over the page.
2nd November
Dear Titty…
Jacqui was studying Charles’ face and anticipating his reaction. ‘Marius always called me that.’ Charles continued reading.
If you get this letter, I am dead. So I’m sorry. The old heart or some other bit of my body has given out and fouled the system and I’ve gone. So that’s a pity. Not because I haven’t had a good run, just that I’d like the run to continue. I’m a winner and I want to go on winning. And when you came on the scene, I started enjoying my winning even more.
As you know, I wanted to marry you. Depending on when you get this letter, I may already have married you. If not, believe me, it’s all I want to do. I only care about you and the little bastard in your belly. I’m sure he’ll turn out better than the other one.
And the main purpose of this letter is to tell you and your beautiful body not to worry. If Marius is dead, Marius will still look after you.
There’ll be money for you and the baby. Call him Marius.
Love,
Marius
Charles looked up at Jacqui. In her face was discomfort and sadness, but also an unmistakable gleam of triumph.
Simon Brett
XI
Enter the Funny Policeman
He thought he must be going soft in the head. To have tried to help Jacqui in the matter of the photographs was illogical, but at least generous, getting her out of an awkward situation. But assisting her investigations into a perfectly natural death as if it were murder was little short of lunacy.
She had read so much into Steen’s letter. Channelling all the pain of her loss into arguments to support her theory, she leapt on to the promise of provision for her and the baby, and to the sentence, ‘I’m sure he’ll turn out better than the other one.’ To her mind, these proved conclusively that Marius had decided to change his will in her favour, and that Nigel had got wind of this and forestalled his father’s plans by killing him. Charles put up all the arguments scepticism could muster, but somehow ended up agreeing with Jacqui that it was at least worth further investigation.
Which was why, on Thursday 13th December, he was taking Gerald Venables out to lunch. Gerald had been a contemporary at Oxford, who had read Law and acted a little. He had been elected Treasurer of the Oxford University Dramatic Society and, as such, demonstrated the prime motive of his life-an unashamed love of money. This motive led him after university away from the Theatre and into the Law. He joined a firm of solicitors specialising in show-business contract work, became a partner within five years and thereafter just made more and more money. The subject fascinated him; he always talked about money; but did it with such an ingenuous enthusiasm that the effect was not alienating. At worst he was boring, in the same way that a golfer or a photographer or a dinghy-sailor or any other person obsessed by a hobby is boring.
When the Stilton was produced, Gerald undid another button of his exquisitely cut tweed waistcoat and patted his paunch beneficently. ‘What is it, Charles? Are you putting some work my way? I’d better warn you, my rates, which were always pretty high, are now almost beyond belief.’
‘I anticipated as much. It’s not exactly work. I don’t know how you’d define it…’
‘Ah, if it isn’t readily defined, it’s automatically at double the rate.’
‘Yes. It’s a matter of investigation-or do I mean snooping?’
‘That’s what solicitors are for.’
‘Exactly. The point is, I know solicitors individually are totally immoral’ — Gerald nodded assent as if accepting a compliment ‘-and I suppose, as with any other bunch of thieves, there is honour among you.’ Again Gerald graciously inclined his head. ‘So no doubt you scratch each other’s backs.’ The third nod was very positive. ‘What I want you to do is to find out some information from another solicitor.’
‘Officially?’
‘Unofficially.’
‘Ah. Comes more expensive.’
‘I thought it might.’
‘What do you want to know, Charles?’
‘You’ve heard of Marius Steen, bloke who’s just died?’
‘Of course.
Been involved in a lot of contracts with him. He was a real shark, totally immoral.’ Gerald’s voice carried a hint of respect as he made this tribute.
‘So you know his solicitor?’
‘Harold Cohn. Of course. He’s the hardest bargainer in the business.’ A diffident smile. ‘Present company, of course, excepted.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you want to know about the old man’s will?’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘Because there’s nothing else anyone could possibly want to know about a man three days dead. There has been quite a lot of speculation on the matter in professional circles.’
‘Any conclusions?’
‘Rumours, but nothing definite.’
‘Do you think you could find out?’
Gerald smiled blandly. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was beyond the realms of possibility.’ A waiter was hovering at his shoulder. ‘We’ll have coffee, won’t we, Charles? And a Cognac, perhaps. Yes, two Cognacs.’ He looked thoughtfully over the table. ‘Now I wonder why you would be interested in Steen’s will, Charles. You’re hardly expecting to be a beneficiary, are you?’
‘No. Hardly.’
Gerald looked at him, puzzled. He didn’t like being in a position of ignorance on any subject, and started probing. ‘Whoever it goes to, there’s a lot.’
‘Yes.’
‘Steen did all right. Even with estate duty, it’ll be worth having.’
Charles nodded, determined not to give anything away.
Gerald tried another tack. ‘You want to find this out for yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll be public knowledge soon. If you can only wait a few-’
‘I want to know as soon as possible.’
‘Well, Charles, you are a dark horse.’ Gerald sat back in his chair and sipped his Cognac. It was amusing for Charles to see him in this state, his usual poise unbalanced by childlike curiosity. ‘Charles, is it a crime?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are there any suspicions about the will? Surprise heirs in Australia, forgery, skulduggery with birth certificates, secret codicils?’ Gerald threw out the ideas like baits, hoping to catch some reaction. Charles smiled in a way that he knew was infuriating.
Gerald was suitably infuriated. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charles. You can tell me. Look, if I know the circumstances, it’ll make my enquiries much easier.’ Charles continued to smile. Gerald was reduced to infantile tactics. ‘Listen, if you don’t tell me why you want to know, then I won’t find out for you.
‘Oh dear. Then I’ll have to ask someone else.’
Gerald looked rattled, but controlled himself, smiled and said, ‘Charles, if there’s anything suspicious, I want to know. Look, I’m a sucker for that sort of thing. Always reading detective stories. I don’t know, it’s a fascination. It’s my hobby, if you like.’
‘I thought your hobby was money.’
‘That’s my main one, but I can’t resist suspicious circumstances. It’s been a life-long ambition of mine to be involved in something mysterious, a crime. I don’t mean the sort of official crime I deal with as a solicitor. I mean real cloak-and-dagger investigation stuff.’ Charles remained silent. ‘Listen, if you are involved in crime, from whatever side of the law, you need a solicitor. Oh, Charles, do tell me!’ he burst out petulantly, but still got no reaction. ‘Listen, if you are investigating a crime-’
‘And what on earth makes you think I am?’
‘I don’t know. Something about the way you’re behaving. Listen, if you are, I won’t charge you anything.’
‘You what?’
‘I will undertake any investigations free…’
‘Gerald, are you feeling all right?’
‘… so long as you let me in on all the details.’
‘Hmm.’ Charles was circumspect. It was a very good offer, an amazing offer, considering who it came from. But he himself felt so far from convinced there was any crime to investigate, that he had no desire to spread ill-founded suspicions. ‘Gerald,’ he began slowly, ‘if there were something fishy, and I were to tell you, could I trust your discretion?’
‘Of course.’ Gerald was affronted. ‘I am a solicitor.’
‘That’s what I mean. All right, I accept your offer.’
‘So there is a crime?’
‘Maybe.’
‘All right, give me the dirt.’ Gerald made no pretence of maturity now. He was an eager child. Charles remembered that Gerald had always been like that. It was the same quality that made his fascination with money so inoffensive. Not for the first time Charles reflected that growing-up is a myth; getting older is just an intenser form of childhood. ‘I’ll give you the dirt,’ he said, denying the child his treat, ‘when you tell me about the will.’
‘You bugger,’ said Gerald. But he agreed to the deal.
When the bill was brought to Charles, it was enormous. It was a long time since he’d eaten out in this style and he was shocked by the escalation of prices and VAT.
‘Think yourself lucky,’ said Gerald, as Charles counted out the notes. ‘If we hadn’t come to an agreement, you d be paying for my time as well.’
Charles didn’t tell Jacqui about their new ally in investigation when they met up that evening to report progress. He just said he’d met his solicitor friend who reckoned he could find out the details of the will.
Jacqui was in quite a state. She’d been down to Goring for Marius’ funeral, (having found out the time by ringing Morrison at Orme Gardens). At the church she’d ended up in the cliche situation of being frozen out by Marius’ relatives. It was the stereotyped picture beloved of cartoonists-the family (Nigel and a few cousins), trim in their black on one side of the grave, and the floosie (Jacqui), in an unsuitable black cocktail dress and purple fur-collared coat, weeping on the other. The burial had been a small affair. Marius was against cremation; he wanted to lie in an English grave with a marble headstone. A memorial service in St George’s, Hanover Square, was to follow, for Steen’s theatrical and business acquaintances. No one spoke to Jacqui or even acknowledged her, except for Morrison. By the end of the ceremony she was so upset that she hadn’t the nerve to go to the house with the small party of mourners, and caught a train straight back to London.
However, she had managed to have a few brief words with Morrison and questioned him about Nigel’s movements over the weekend of his father’s death. (She assured Charles she had been subtle in her questioning, but he dreaded to think what she meant by subtlety. If there were any alarms to start, he had no doubt she’d set them jangling.) From Morrison she had found out a significant fact, which would have deterred anyone less prejudiced in their conviction of Nigel Steen’s guilt. The young man’s car, a Jensen Interceptor was out of action at the relevant time. It had had brake trouble and Morrison, who was an expert mechanic, had offered to mend it over the weekend. He’d attended to the brakes on the Saturday, but then, feeling unhappy with the alignment of the wheels, had started work on them. He was a perfectionist, and the job took a long time. When he left the vehicle on the Saturday evening, all four wheels were off, and they were in that state when he returned to the job on the Sunday morning. He didn’t finish work until the evening, and it was then that Nigel drove off down to Berkshire, and found his father dead. In reply to the question as to whether Nigel could have used the Datsun, Morrison couldn’t say. Miss Menzies had filled it with petrol on the Friday afternoon and used it on the Monday morning. No doubt she would have noticed if it had been used in the interim.
‘Who’s Miss Menzies?’ asked Charles.
‘Joanne. Marius’ secretary.’
‘Oh yes. I’ve met her. Hmm. And you actually managed to get all that information without Morrison getting at all suspicious?’
‘Yes. Anyway, what if he did get suspicious? He doesn’t like Nigel any more than anyone else.’
It seemed to be a feature of the case that no one had a good wo
rd to say for Nigel Steen. Not having met the man, and basing his conclusions on other people’s prejudices, Charles decided that young Steen’s main offence was that he was not his father. From all accounts he didn’t sound as if he had the spunk to be a murderer.
‘Where does Nigel live?’
‘I think he’s got a flat near Knightsbridge, but he’s never there. Spends all his time in Orme Gardens or at Streatley.’
‘Father’s boy?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘How did they get on, Jacqui?’
‘I don’t know. I hardly ever saw them together, and Marius never talked about Nigel. But you’ve seen the letter.’
‘Yes. And did Joanne like him?’
‘Did she like who? She liked Marius.’ Was there a hint of jealousy there?
‘No. Nigel.’
‘I don’t think she liked him.’
‘Hmm. Then I think perhaps she’s due for a visitation.’
Charles was making-up next morning in Hereford Road when the phone rang.
‘Hello. Oh, Maurice, I was just making-up.’
‘What for? You working and not telling me?’
‘No, just for fun. Practice.’
‘Well, I think it’s about time you did some work. You seem to have taken the three-day week to heart too quickly.’
‘Three-day week?’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘I haven’t yet this morning.’
‘Heath’s going to put the whole country on a three-day week. Save power. And stop television at half-past ten in the evening.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes. Think of all the ten per cents of all those series I won’t be getting. Johnny Wilson had a repeat scheduled for late evening. That’ll be off.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not very in touch.’
‘I’ll say. Look, you know that Softly Softly I said might be coming up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it hasn’t.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘But there is something. Had a call from the casting director of a new horror film yesterday. They’re looking for someone to play this sort of deformed hunchback, part werewolf, part vampire. I told them you were made for the part.’
