‘Yes,’ said Amiss. ‘You can rely on me for that.’ They both sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Amiss spoke. ‘I’m going to forget about that phone call, Charlie. I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been ill, because I am a puritan when it comes to murder. But on humanitarian grounds I simply could not bear to be the cause of you being put away. However, this does mean that I can’t stay editor.’
Papworth sat bolt upright. ‘My dear boy, I am, of course, extremely grateful to you for this decision. But in God’s name, why do you feel you must turn down the editorship?’
‘I’d be compromised. It’s as simple as that. At least I’d feel I was. And besides, I was in two minds about it anyway. You know I think that really it would be better to have the journal run by someone with right-wing fire in his belly rather than by an open-minded facilitator. So that’ll be the official reason I’ll give.’
‘But, Robert, don’t you think you take high-mindedness to a level of lunacy?’
‘That’s what my girlfriend will say when I give her the official reason. I’d hate to think what she’d say if I gave her the unofficial reason. But it’s no good, Charlie. I know you were giving me the job anyway. I know you wouldn’t feel you were being blackmailed if I stayed on. But don’t you see that I’d be inhibited from arguing with you. I wouldn’t be able to look for more money for the kind of investments I want to make, without feeling that you couldn’t say no.’
‘I could, you know, Robert. We trust each other that much.’
‘No one,’ said Amiss, ‘even you, could be under that much of an obligation to anyone else without chafing sometimes. I’ll stay on for the moment and together we’ll search for the right editor and when you find him, you can give me a good party.’
‘But you’re a good editor, dammit. I don’t want to lose you.’
‘No, I’m not really, Charlie. Sometimes I worry because already I’m beginning to feel the urge to argue in my own leaders against the line being taken by the journal. I don’t really believe that Tony Blair and Bill Clinton are the anti-Christ. I’m wishy-washy, always a man for on the one hand and on the other. I don’t see how I could go on with a journal that doesn’t suffer from doubt. Anyway, that’s the story I’ll tell everyone.’ He got up. ‘Now I’d better go home and break the news to Rachel.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ said Papworth. ‘And I’ve been feeling bad about it ever since…’
Amiss laughed. ‘Ever since you heard that I nearly went the same way as Willie.’
‘It honestly didn’t occur to me that anyone else could have any reason to come down those stairs until he’d been found. I have to tell you that if you had been seriously hurt or killed, I’d have given myself up. I have no guilt about Willie, but had you died, I’d have been in sackcloth and ashes.’
‘What a scrupulous pair we are,’ said Amiss. They laughed and shook hands and Papworth showed him to the front door.
***
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ said Amiss and Rachel virtually in unison.
‘You tell me first,’ she said, her voice tense.
‘Charlie Papworth offered me the editorship.’
‘Oh, Robert, that’s wonderful. Despite all my criticism, that is wonderful news.’
‘And I turned it down.’
She shut her eyes and compressed her lips. When she regained her composure, she looked at him again. ‘And what quixotic reason determined that?’
Amiss laughed. ‘You should be pleased, really. It was because I couldn’t be wholehearted about the journal’s politics.’
‘And is that a good enough reason to wreck what had suddenly become a really promising career?’
‘I think so.’
‘Knowing you’re prepared to argue all shades of opinion without help from anyone else,’ she said, ‘I shan’t even bother. But I’m sorry. Apart from anything else, I’d rather have left you when you were on a high than when you were once again heading off into limbo.’
‘Left me?’
‘Yes, Robert. That’s what I have to tell you. And don’t look so shocked. You can’t really be that surprised, can you? It’s a long time since we’ve been enjoying each other much.’ He said nothing. ‘Isn’t it?’
There was a pause. ‘Yes,’ he said. He paused again. ‘You’re not inclined to give it another chance?’
‘No, I’m not. There’s no future for us. All we do these days is that I snap at you and you feel aggrieved and misunderstood. Besides, there’s someone else and I’m going to live with him.’ She stopped and looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘Or to be more precise…’
‘It’s all right,’ said Amiss. ‘I’m with you. You mean he’s going to come and live with you. To be precise, when you say you’re leaving me you mean you want me to leave you. Don’t worry. I’ll be obliging.’
She went over and sat beside him. ‘I knew you would be.’
‘So who is he?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘Rachel, how can I guess? I only know a few of your colleagues. At least you might spare me having to guess who’s been screwing you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s Eric.’
‘Oh, Christ. Not your minister. Isn’t he married? Not to speak of being twenty years your senior?’
‘Yes.’
‘Kids?’
‘In their mid-teens.’
‘Don’t you mind breaking up his marriage?’
She sounded defensive. ‘They’ve grown apart. Only saw each other when he got up to the north at the weekends and then, of course, he was busy with constituency business and the rest of it.’
‘It’s a bit hard on her, isn’t it? How could any woman lumbered with looking after the kids hundreds of miles away from her husband compete with the dishy clever private secretary who’s by his right hand by day and—of course, as I now realize—quite frequently night? But, Rachel, isn’t this going to screw up your career? You surely can’t stay in the Foreign Office if you’re publicly known to be living with one of its ministers.’
‘I’m going to be his political researcher.’
‘But isn’t that a great comedown? You had everything going for you in the Foreign Office.’
‘Eric and I are a partnership.’
‘I just can’t see you as a political wife, Rach. Chatting up constituents and smarming up to senior ministers and charming the Prime Minister surely isn’t for you.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ she said. ‘You don’t really know me any more, Robert. We were apart for too long. And I’m not as high-minded as you.’ She grinned. ‘But then no one is.’
He grinned back. ‘More feeble-minded than high-minded. And you don’t even know the half of it.’
There was a pause. She looked worried. ‘What do you think you’ll do next?’
‘On the job front I’ve no idea, but I needn’t worry for a few weeks. On the home front, I don’t see why I shouldn’t move into the flat at the top of the Wrangler building for the moment.’
Her face cleared. ‘That’s a great idea. It’ll give you time to look around.’
There was another pause. She got up, went over to him and gave him a hug. ‘I’m still very fond of you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes. And me of you.’
‘But it’s better this way.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’ve got a suggestion, if you don’t think it in poor taste.’
‘When do I ever think anything’s in poor taste?’
‘Let’s go out and have a bottle of champagne and drink to both our futures.’
‘Yes, please. But don’t tell Eric. He’d recommend sparkling water.’
Chapter Twenty-five
‘So she’s thrown you out.’
&
nbsp; ‘Why do you always have to put such a brutal interpretation on everything, Jack? Rachel and I have agreed in a civilized fashion to separate and since it’s her flat and she wishes her new chap to move in, the least I could do was to move out as fast as possible. So this evening I’ll be transferring my belongings to Willie’s old pad. Thank heaven I hadn’t had time to get round to arranging to let it.’
‘Good. This solves my problem too. Plutarch is packing as we speak. I’ll deliver her to you tomorrow.’
A feeling of dull dread swept over Amiss. ‘Do you know what you’re saying, Jack? That although I’m suffering a broken heart after being ditched by my long-term inamorata for a hypocritical wanker, you intend to rub salt in the wound by replacing Rachel with Plutarch.’
‘Simple choice. You can have her alive in Percy Square or dead in Cambridge. I sense here that a lynch mob is gathering. I would not wish to tell a lad of your tender years of the murderous light I glimpsed yesterday in the eyes of the Fellow of Comparative Religions. Take her tomorrow, or her blood is on your hands.’
‘Oh, God, I suppose I’ve no choice. Anyway, compared to my other problems this is truly a mere bagatelle.’
‘What do you mean by other problems? You’re not making a fuss about moving, are you?’
‘No, that’s minor. But I can’t tell you about what’s major over the phone.’
‘Oh goody,’ she said. ‘Sounds promising. Tell you what. I’ll deliver you Plutarch in the morning and come back around six to visit her and find out with what trivial issues you are bothering yourself.’
‘It’s a deal.’
***
‘So that’s an account of my trivial worries,’ said Amiss.
The baroness stopped vigorously stroking an appreciative Plutarch. ‘Well, my boy, I withdraw the word trivial. I think you have had enough human and moral problems in the last couple of days to justify the use of the word “weighty”.’
‘What do you think, Jack?’
‘I think that you must deal with what you can deal with, and what you can’t deal with there’s no point in worrying about. You’re fine really. Rachel may have expelled you, but you’ve got somewhere even better to live. There’s nothing more to be said except that she’s a foolish girl who will live to regret it when she gets fed up with that sanctimonious jerk. And if I were you I would be off in search of plenty of jolly women to cheer you up.
‘Plutarch is back with you, which I accept is not an unmixed blessing, but the circumstances could hardly be better. She has no Rachel around moaning about her, she’s got a fine apartment, the fire escape, the garden, and the rest of the inhabitants at Percy Square to torment. And since they’re your subordinates—at least for the moment—I suppose they’ll put up with that. So two problems you had two days ago—viz, keeping Rachel happy and finding some way of reconciling her needs with Plutarch’s—have miraculously disappeared at a stroke.’
Amiss nodded reluctantly.
‘However, we now proceed to the bigger issues. First of all, I think you were an idiot to turn down the editorship because of what Charlie Papworth told you, but you’re that kind of an idiot, it’s the way you are, and there’s no point in my bleating about that: it’s one of your attractions. One certainly never worries about you becoming corrupt. Ending up in the gutter, yes. Being burnt at the stake, yes. Being hauled off in chains for fiddling the books, no.
‘Which leads us to the two issues you need to address at the moment. First, have you any second thoughts about covering up for Charlie Papworth?’
‘I gave my word,’ said Amiss wearily.
‘Indeed you did. And in your place I expect I’d have done the same. But there’s the corollary that you’re also covering up for Piers. And how do you feel about that?’
‘I don’t like it, but I can’t do anything about it. The only evidence against him is what Charlie told me in confidence. And that would be hearsay, anyway.’
‘Precisely, so it’s not really an issue.’
Plutarch emitted a resentful yowl of deprivation, and the baroness absent-mindedly recommenced the stroking. ‘There’s such a huge moral difference between the two murders. Piers knocked off Henry: bad. Charlie knocked off Willie: good.’
‘Oh, really, Jack. You don’t actually mean good.’
‘I don’t mean I’d do it. I don’t mean I want anyone else to do it. But at least Charlie’s motives were honourable.’
‘Yes, but I would point out that Piers did in Henry in hot blood and Charlie did for Willie in cold.’
‘We’re splitting hairs and it’s pointless. We’ve two murderers and you can’t sneak on either of them.’
‘And even at that, we’re making an assumption that Piers did the murder, when there was only Willie’s word for it.’
‘Quite right. And we’ll never know otherwise, because of course Piers, if asked, would say he didn’t do it whether he did or not. So let’s make things easy for you by adopting the benign interpretation, which is that Willie lied either because he did it himself or because it was an accident, and proceed on the assumption that Piers Papworth is innocent. That makes the road ahead and the choices clearer.’
Amiss lay back on the sofa and passed a hand wearily over his forehead. ‘I’m punch drunk, Jack. Clarify my mind. Please.’
‘Your job is quite straightforward. You must safeguard the future of The Wrangler by sorting out this trust business once and for all and by finding the right editor.’
‘You know as well as I do, Jack, that there’s bugger-all I can do about the trustees. That’s in your bailiwick.’
‘You can carry on smarming up to them while I beat them up. But point taken. It’s mostly a matter for me. The problem of the editorship, I’ll leave with you.’
With total disregard for Plutarch, she jumped to her feet. The cat, who had landed on the rug with a thump, set off a piercing yell. ‘Shut up, Plutarch,’ said the baroness: instantly the yells diminished in intensity and, shortly afterwards, ceased.
‘Talk to you soon, Robert,’ she said. ‘But before I go, pay attention. Your duties to The Wrangler are twofold and both require you to hang on for a bit. First, you need to make sure that the editorial line is solid before you hand her over to a new captain. Second, you have to find the right successor, so you should be vetting talent at leisure. So whatever you do, don’t tell anyone you’re going. I can see it would appeal to you to walk out now in a haze of moral rectitude, but that would be sheer self-indulgence.’
‘But…’
‘Bugger the buts.’ And after enfolding him in a bear hug, she picked up her cloak from an armchair. ‘Are you going to tell Jim about this?’
‘Probably, but obviously only off the record.’
‘Make sure you’ve got him to sign the confidentiality clause in blood. He’s a nice bloke, but he’s a cop.’
Throwing her cloak over her shoulder, she demanded, ‘Lead me to the fire escape.’
Epilogue
‘It was a good funeral.’
‘Charlie deserved it,’ said the baroness. ‘Murderer or not, he was one of the best of men.’
Ellis Pooley stiffened slightly. ‘I’m afraid that professionally, at least, quite apart from personally and morally, Jack, I have to take a rather dim view of that pronouncement. I understand why Robert decided not to provide Jim officially with the information that could have nailed Papworth, but you can’t expect me to approve. Murderers shouldn’t get away with it.’
‘Oh, bugger off, Ellis. You didn’t know Charlie, and, for that matter, you didn’t know Lambie Crump and you should remember that blackmail…I mean serious blackmail—not the sort of thing I go in for—is the most loathsome of crimes and deserves the most condign punishment.’
‘Piers Papworth seemed very cut up when he read the lesson,’ observed Mil
ton.
‘He was,’ said Amiss. ‘I spent a fair bit of time with him over the last few days and there’s no doubt that he mourns Charlie deeply. One thing that came through in conversations with both of them throughout the family row was that it never appeared to affect in any way their mutual devotion.’
‘Any repercussions at the Yard?’ the baroness asked Milton. ‘About your having failed to nab the murderer, that is.’
‘That’s not the sort of thing that gets you into trouble. I’m having more difficulty with an internal policy row than I ever will about an unfinished case.’
‘What’s Tewkesbury’s position?’
‘His mind isn’t on The Wrangler, or the sins of the Right, these days. In fact, he’s having such a horrible time working on a gangland murder in Soho that he seems to be developing some sense of perspective. We met in a corridor last Friday, and he greeted me with respect. I have some hopes for him: he might be just young enough to allow reality to penetrate that sanctimonious carapace and stop being such an asshole.’
‘OK,’ said the baroness. ‘Now for the hard news. I’ve got some and Robert’s got some. I’ll start. I’ve done a deal with Sharon McGregor.’
‘What kind of a deal?’ asked Amiss. ‘And why is this the first I’ve heard of it?’
‘Because I only fixed it up last night, you blockhead. It’s taken a while.’
‘Well, go on. Tell us.’
‘You remember that a couple of weeks ago I told you to let me have the run of the building undisturbed one Saturday.’
‘Yes.’
‘I spent the morning taking her round every nook and cranny of The Wrangler, telling her about the founder, his successors and the great journalists along the way. I told her of the Papworth involvement down the ages, and then I took her to lunch and told her about Ricketts, and about Ben and Marcia and about loyalty and tradition and continuity and the little Wrangler corner of New Britain that is forever the best of England. And having put all that in her head I brought her straight down to St Martha’s again and introduced her to the two most eloquent traditionalists in Cambridge—apart from myself, that is. Then last night I took her out to dinner, put the proposition to her and she accepted.’
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