by Simon Raven
Tom took the letter from the page and started to read it. A second fire-engine came clanging up the drive. An angry man in a chauffeur's hat stamped across the lawn.
“Who was it?” he shouted, shaking his fist at Alfie. “It was someone from here. Who was it?”
“Ask him,” said Alfie pointing at Tom.
“Isobel and I are in love and are going to be married,”
Tom was reading. “We hope for your consent, and that everything will be pleasant about money and so on. When you agree to this, just put a line in the Personal Column of The Times, ‘All is forgiven. T.’, and we’ll come back. Meanwhile we’ll be living together as man and wife, so the sooner you agree the better. And of course there are other reasons for us all to be friendly, as you well know. So please don’t turn nasty and try to follow us, or get some doddering judge to issue an injunction. Let’s all be sensible and make the best of what we’ve got, which is quite a lot when all’s said.”
Yours sincerely,
Mark Lewson. Isobel sends love.
The chauffeur came at Tom from one side, Sir Edwin from the other. Firemen came round the house with hoses. Some men appeared on the terrace and put down a stretcher which bore a suggestive object wrapped in a dirty blanket. The page boy observed this and was led away howling. Sir Edwin took the letter from Tom - “Mine, if I’m not mistaken” - and started to read. The chauffeur shook his fist.
“Who was it? That’s what I want to know.”
“Apparently,” said Tom, “it was a man called Le - ”
“ - We don’t know,” said Sir Edwin, looking coolly up from the letter. “A stranger. Not one of the guests.”
“But ’e was going to tell me.” A nod at Tom.
“He’s had a bad shock. His wedding’s been ruined and he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“ ’E looks all right to me,” the chauffeur said, and drew up to Sir Edwin with unmistakable menace.
“I am Sir Edwin Turbot, a minister of the Queen. If you lay hands on me, you’ll go to prison for the longest sentence Her Majesty’s Courts can award. You would be better employed summoning the police.”
Sir Edwin turned and beckoned Tom to follow him. The chauffeur approached Alfie.
“Something odd going on, mate.”
Alfie said nothing but looked anxiously after Tom.
“Why - ?” Tom began.
“It must be kept quiet,” Sir Edwin said.
“It can’t be.”
“Not about Isobel, I agree. But no one must know who’s with her.”
“Why not?”
Sir Edwin snuffled and shook his head without speaking. “Why not?” persisted Tom. “He’s a wanted man. Over there on the terrace there’s a - ”
“ - Did anyone recognise the driver as Lewson?”
“No, but now we know it was him - ”
“No, we don’t,” Sir Edwin said. “You just help clear up the mess and get everyone out of the place. And when the police come, send them straight to me.”
Very soon, the fire was brought under control, the guests were dismissed (“My favourite wedding ever,” said Jonathan Gamp), the police were received, witnesses questioned, and statements taken.
“Saw them driving off but didn’t know him from Adam,” said Alfie, who along with Tessie and the page had stayed behind to help the enquiries.
“A funny bottle,” the kilted page repeated, “and a nasty smell.”
“So that's plain enough,” the Inspector said. “You run off to mummy.” And to Tessie, “You saw him, madam?”
“First time in my life. No idea who he was.”
“So he can’t have been at the wedding. What about this letter the little lad talked about? Might tell us who the fellow was.”
“The page dropped the letter in the fire - when he was rescued,” Sir Edwin deposed.
Both Tom and Alfie opened their mouths. Then they shut them; Tom because Sir Edwin was now his father-in-law and must be given a chance to explain himself in private, Alfie because he trusted Tom and was prepared, for the time at least, to follow his lead.
“Well, it shouldn’t take us long to find them,” said the Inspector. “Mind you, it would be a help if we had the number. But a blue and white open sports car - conspicuous, I’d say.”
That was what Sir Edwin was afraid of; but evening yielded to night, night to morning, morning to afternoon again, and there was still no word. Meanwhile it was agreed that the start of the wedding tour should be postponed - “It seem’s there’s one honeymoon in the family already,” as Sir Edwin grimly remarked - and that Patricia and Tom should stay with Sir Edwin until the situation had been made plainer. On her wedding night, so long, so lovingly, so greedily awaited, Patricia turned away: “not now,” she implored him: “not yet.”
8
A BEAST IN VIEW
_____________________________________
“RIGHT,” SAID Lord Canteloupe to Carton Weir: “now for a little word with the staff.”
They were in the Quantocks inspecting the completed caravan site, which was due for its ceremonial opening in three days’ time. They had inspected the dance-hall-cum-gymnasium, the swimming pool (“Fed by Clear Mountain Waters”), the dinette, the nursery-creche, the project and discussion centre, and the Maison Bingo. This latter had rather a contrived air, since it had been popped up at the last moment as a result of Canteloupe’s recent decision that Bingo should be included in what he called his Country Culture; but all in all the camp’s outer periphery, of which the Maison Bingo and the other amenities formed the greater part, was a credit to the. Scheme, especially if one considered how quickly it had all been run up. The shock had come when they started inspecting the caravans and sanitary appointments in the central body of the camp, a shock in no way palliated by the attitudes of Camp Commandant Hookeby (an ex-lieutenant-colonel, once mildly celebrated as the laziest officer in the Royal Corps of Signals), who was showing them round.
The first thing that had been wrong was that half the caravans had no wheels and were supported by piles of oil cans and similar detritus.
“It’s not as if they’re ever going to move,” said the Camp Commandant.
“Looks bloody awful,” said Canteloupe. “Anyway, where are the wheels?”
“The peasants stole them,” said Hookeby, gesturing out over Somersetshire, ‘"before I arrived to take over.”
“Then get new ones and post a piquet.”
Hookeby nodded wisely, then sealed one nostril with his forefinger and winked at Carton behind Canteloupe’s back.
“My wife,” Hookeby said, “maintains that you can’t trust the natives.”
Canteloupe snorted and climbed into a caravan. Then came the next disillusionment. At the second step inside his foot had gone straight through the floor.
“They don’t season the wood these days,” the Commandant explained. “Too impatient to get their money back on it. It’s the same with cricket bats, I’m told.”
Again he winked at Carton, who despite his official dignity started sniggering like a school-girl. He had not expected such a bonus of entertainment.
The next caravan which Canteloupe inspected had survived the ordeal but turned out to be concealing a large pile of decaying sandwiches in a clothes cupboard.
“Contractors’ men,” said Hookeby cheerfully: “filthy brutes.”
“Get it cleaned up.”
“The man’s off ill.”
“Then clean it up yourself.”
By this time Weir had recovered his gravity. If something went wrong at the opening, Canteloupe would be in trouble and so would he. And so now, as they moved towards the showers and the rears, which were at the very centre of the site (“The heart of camp life,” smirked Hookeby), he began to think about ways of dissociating himself from the department at short notice.
The first shower, when tested, had spat rusty water like a snake, shuddered, and gone dead. The second, on the other hand, performed with such craz
ed intensity that the spray had shot off the pipe and hit Carton hard on the knee; furthermore, it refused to be turned off.
“ ‘And here’s the interesting bit,” Hookeby quoted: “ ‘There was no way of stopping it. . . ”
Canteloupe snorted at him and led the way to the toilets. As they entered someone slouched resentfully past them on his way out. This someone had a huge, yellow, drooping moustache, carried a pile of Sunday newspapers, was smoking a pipe and chewing something at the same time, was also buttoning his trousers, and made no attempt at greeting.
“Who in the name of God was that?”
“Sergeant-Major Cruxtable,” said Hookeby: “physical fitness and so on. I think we caught him at what he calls his ‘time’.”
This had been the last straw. Canteloupe looked at the retreating Cruxtable, he looked at Hookeby, he looked down the long rows of partitions, turned away with a slight heave, and at last he looked, as if here at least he had hoped for sanity and support, at Carton Weir.
“Right,” he said grimly and sadly: “now for a little word with the staff.”
This was all too easily arranged. Since the refuse man was absent with what he termed “haemorrhoids” and the boiler man with varicose veins, since the cook and her two assistant sluts were not due until the next day and the Camp Matron was out to lunch with a colleague at the nearby mental home, there were left with Cruxtable, Mrs. Hookeby (a chinless, mem-sahibish woman whose role was not very clearly defined), and Hookeby himself. These being duly assembled in the project and discussion room, Canteloupe said:
“This place is a pig-sty. I have no alternative but to stay here myself until we open, in order to bring things into a condition befitting the honour which Her Royal Highness will pay us.”
There was something rather magnificent about him as he said this, something which even Hookeby and Cruxtable seemed to sense. As for Carton, he was reminded that Canteloupe had organised the most famous and profitable “Stately Home” of them all, and now he saw one reason why. If no one else would do the job properly, Canteloupe would see to it himself. Repenting of the disloyal thoughts which he had entertained earlier in the afternoon, noticing that he had unconsciously come to attention during his chief’s short speech, Carton inclined his head to hear his instructions.
“You’ll be no good here,” said Canteloupe dismissively, “so go back to London and handle things there. Call in at my place on your way and send the car back here with a camp bed and a dozen of burgundy. I suppose,” he snapped at Hookeby, “you can feed me?”
“Sir,” Hookeby said.
“Off with you then,” said Canteloupe to Weir; to Hookeby, “Get me that contractor on the telephone - Sunday or no Sunday”; to Cruxtable, “Find a suit of overalls and report back in five minutes”; and to Mrs. Hookeby, “You too, madam - with a bucket and a mop.”
Sir Edwin Turbot had originally opined that Mark Lewson would be easier to deal with, since all he wanted was money, than Somerset Lloyd-James. The situation had now changed. In the first place, it now appeared that Lewson was demanding his daughter as well as his gold, and Sir Edwin was disinclined to concede her. But in the second place, if the police found Isobel for him, they would also find Lewson, which would not do at all; for there was a strong chance that Lewson, desperate and illogical, would seek to distract attention from his crime by revealing his secret.
Another problem was what to tell his son-in-law. Tom had so far kept quiet, out of deference to himself, about the identity of the hit and run driver; but if this silence was to be maintained, Tom must have an explanation. Yet what could he be told? Certainly not the truth, or anything near it. There was really only one thing to do: he would have to appeal to Tom’s loyalty as a member of the family, and on that basis ask for his trust. And his help, which would be badly needed. And if Tom showed signs of restlessness, then Patricia must be told off to deal with him. After all, she was his wife, his newly wedded wife, and Tom (to judge by his grave and loving demeanour in the church) would surely heed her. .
With all this in mind, the Minister summoned both Tom and Patricia to his study.
“You’ve seen the morning’s papers?” he began. “Rather hostile, I thought.”
“Perhaps,” said Tom, “you should have issued a fuller statement. They feel thwarted. The police have had the devil’s own job keeping them out of here over the week-end.”
Sir Edwin looked thoughtfully at the paper which lay nearest to hand:
MINISTER’S DAUGHTER BOLTS WITH MR. X
Hit and Run Elopement.
“They seem to have enough to be going on with” he said: “what else could I tell them?”
“Yes,” said Patricia, protective. “What else could Daddy have told them?”
“The press is the self-appointed guardian of public morality. In such cases, it likes to assure its readers that steps are being taken to uphold that morality . . . that chastity and family honour are being defended.”
“But what could Daddy have done?”
“He could have obtained an injunction against Isobel’s abductor.”
“But if we don’t know who he is?”
Tom and Sir Edwin exchanged glances.
“We do know who he is,” said Sir Edwin with a small sigh. “He’s called Lewson.” He did not remind her of Lewson’s visit with Somerset Lloyd-James as he did not wish Tom to know of this. Nor, as it happened, did Patricia, who was conscious that she had cut a very foolish figure on that occasion.
“Then why haven’t you told the police?” she said.
“Because I don’t want him to be caught,” said Sir Edwin flatly.
“Why not?”
“I must say, sir,” said Tom: “we are entitled to know.”
“It’s a matter of tactics,” said Sir Edwin, firm and glib. “Here I am, a senior Minister of the Crown. My younger daughter has run off with a man at present unknown who is wanted for drunken driving . . . worse, for manslaughter. If they are caught together, investigation and trial will take months and Isobel’s name will become indissolubly associated with a vicious lout and a scandalous case in the criminal courts. My position would be intolerable and I should have to resign.”
He snapped open a packet of chocolate biscuits. In his way he was enjoying himself.
“But if,” he continued, “we can contrive quietly to bring her back without anyone’s assistance . . . and if the young man disappears still unknown . . . then the whole affair will die down, Isobel will be seen as injured innocence, or at worst as folly repentant, the fatted calf can be killed with discreet advertisement, and no more need be said.”
“And the dead man?” Patricia said.
“That wasn’t Isobel’s fault or ours. Nothing we can do will bring him back. Best concentrate on our own essential problem - which is to avoid any further fuss.”
He’s lying, Tom thought. All this is plausible enough in its way, but it’s not the whole truth. With the means at his command, he could get Isobel accepted as “injured innocence” without protecting Mark Lewson. There’s something else. But before he could voice this suspicion in suitably ambiguous terms, Sir Edwin had passed from exposition to appeal.
“So I'm asking you, Tom,” he was saying, “to find them. Find them, see Lewson on his way, out of the country if that’s still possible, and bring Isobel back here. Of course it’s a damned shame about your honeymoon - ”
“ - What makes you think I can find him?”
“Because you’ve got to. For my sake . . . and Patricia’s.”
“How?”
“Put yourself in his place. Ask yourself what you’d have done in his position.”
“If you’ll play fair by me - ” Tom began.
“Of course Daddy will play fair by you,” said Patricia, not understanding the hidden query.
“I meant, if your father will . . .”
He hesitated.
“Will what?”
“Undertake to deal . . . truthfully - ”
/> “ - What do you mean?” Patricia blazed. “Daddy’s told us what the position is and what must be done. If you’re the man I married two days ago, you’ll not sit there hedging and hair-splitting, you’ll get off your backside and see to it.” Tom. looked at her, red and spluttering as she was, ashamed for her sister and anxious for her father, cruelly disappointed and shocked by this grotesque interruption to her happiness; and suddenly he felt pity enter into him, so sharply and brutally that it might have been a needle at the base of his spine. He had been, as it were, violated by compassion.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll start at once. Come with me, love, and help me pack a case.”
“One thing,” the Minister called after him.
“Sir?”
“Your journalist friend, Schroeder. What does he know?” “He knows we’ve suppressed that letter which was left with the page boy. So he’ll be suspicious.”
“What will he do about it?”
“Nothing,” said Tom, “until I've spoken with him.”
“What will you say?”
“I shall ring him up and ask him to join me in Salisbury or Bath.”
“Join you?”
“To help me.”
“But discretion,” said Sir Edwin, taken aback: “the fewer people who are involved . . .”
“Alfie’s already involved,” said Tom. “If I put it to him, he’ll probably be prepared to see it your way ... if only for my sake. Provided, of course, he thinks you’re on the level.”
He took Patricia’s hand and led her out. Well, Sir Edwin thought, I suppose I had it as much of my own way as I could reasonably expect. He took a handful of chocolate biscuits from the packet. Patty was rather a brick, he thought, cupping a biscuit securely into his hand and slapping it into his mouth; when the family’s in trouble she forgets her silly moral fads and becomes a real Turbot. Should be a great help if things get tiresome later ... if Llewyllyn and that journalist of his . . .
