The Tumbled House

by Winston Graham

  “Well young Marlowe wants his proofs. I imagine he’s entitled to them. You didn’t have anything in The Gazette on Sunday.”

  “The editor clamped down on it. He said the public was losing interest. One of the disadvantages of not being one’s own master.”

  “Quite,” Sir Percy agreed dryly. “But what are you going to do personally? Other papers would probably be willing to publish.”

  “D’you think it’s in anybody’s interest if I did? Would it help Don Marlowe to have letters from his father put in print, all the sordid story dragged out in detail?”

  “But hasn’t it already been dragged out in your two articles? Anyway I wasn’t thinking so much of the Marlowes in this as of you. You have your reputation as a journalist to consider. It’s particularly important now.”

  Roger tapped off an inch of white ash. “ It isn’t quite as straightforward as it looks. Once one gets down into the arena, as it were, proofs are met with counter proofs, and so on. Did you see the article by Professor Lehmann in The Observer of last Sunday week? Does one need more proof than that?”

  “Of the plagiarism charge? Perhaps not. I wouldn’t be really certain. But it doesn’t prove the other things, does it? In fact, all the evidence there has been, which isn’t much certainly, has been to say that Marlowe was above suspicion so far as his professional life went.”

  “I’ve definite proof to the contrary.”

  “Then why not put it in black and white?”

  “Because some of it isn’t in black and white. Some of it was simply gained by interviewing people. People who wouldn’t necessarily be willing to be quoted.”

  “If it was a law case they’d have to speak.”

  “Yes, but it isn’t a law case.”

  “You know,” Sir Percy said slowly, “I think I’d be in favour of amending the law of libel to let it cover men recently dead. Then young Marlowe could challenge you in court, and you could clear yourself of the charge of slinging mud for the sake of cheap sensationalism.”

  “It might well be a good thing,” said Roger.

  He came away from his dinner feeling exhilarated but edgy. Laycock needed no urging on the way Roger wanted him to go, and there was plenty for Roger at the end of it. But it would be no easy job preserving a balance above the various pitfalls. The Marlowe case added only one larger and more dangerous than the rest.

  And Marion? Did one go on? There were pitfalls here too.

  The Laycocks’ house was in New Cavendish Street, so Roger walked across to the Hanover Club, for a last drink before going home. He found there some half-dozen indefatigables talking in the bar. One of them, when he went in, said:

  “Here comes the Moongazer. Sit down and have a drink. Whose grave have you been rifling today?”

  He was a bearded artist called Knowles, a fairly close friend of Roger’s, and the jibe had been spoken without animus. All the same it was unwelcome.

  Roger said: “ When I see you, Charles, I realise why this is becoming known as the Hangover club.” He sat down and accepted a drink. Most of the others in the group he would normally have avoided, but tonight he was in need of company.

  “Think of the trembling that will be going on in Golders Green,” said Knowles. “Who is safe when there’s Moonraking among the ashes? Think of the dismay among the late Empire builders of British West Hampstead. Who were the cads among the cadavers? Why——”

  “Shut up,” said Roger. “You’re drunk.”

  But Knowles went irrepressibly on. When the whisky was in him this sort of talk bubbled from him like a spring.

  “Soon we shall be selling not the first rights in our articles but the last rites. Think of the untapped circulation. Don’t miss our splendid new cut-out pattern in grave clothes! All your mortuary questions answered. What shall I wear? Knells for the Nellies.…”

  Two men came in and went to the bar, a tall barrister called Rowe and another man. Roger knew them by sight but had hardly ever spoken to them, so he was surprised when after a few moments Rowe came over.

  “Shorn, have you seen the Suggestions Book?”

  “Not recently. Why?”

  Conversation stopped. Even Knowles stopped.

  “I think you ought to see it. I’ve just been along to make a comment about the condition of the card tables, and there’s a recent entry that I think might interest you.”

  The Suggestions Book, as in most clubs, existed in the library for members to put in any complaints they might have or suggestions for improving the running of the club. In the silence Roger said:

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I’ll take a look on my way out.”

  “Who put the entry in?” asked Knowles.

  “Marlowe.”

  “Oh, I’ll go and fetch it. This might be interesting.”

  Roger regretted now that he had not gone to see for himself, but he would not seem to argue with Knowles. He sat quietly with his drink appearing not to care until Knowles came back.

  Knowles said: “ It’s not only in the Suggestions Book; the damn’ thing is pinned on the notice board!”

  “I didn’t see that,” said Rowe.

  “I asked the porter. He said Marlowe left at four, but he didn’t notice he’d pinned anything up. Anyway, it’s there and signed, just the same as in the Suggestions Book.”

  Knowles was going to hand the book to Roger but somebody said: “ No, read it out. If it’s in the book it’s a club matter.”

  Knowles hesitated and glanced at Roger inquiringly. But Roger gave no sign. Knowles cleared his throat and said: “It’s signed D. J. Marlowe and it’s in verse.

  “‘Suggest in the interests of hygiene

  That the rules of this club be amended

  To exclude from among us

  The louse and the fungus;

  That indulgence of such be suspended.

  “‘Suggest that the wolf in sheep’s clothing,

  When the mask from his visage is torn,

  Should no longer be feared

  If he’s thoroughly sheared

  For we see that he’s thoroughly Shorn.

  “‘Suggest that the joy of the jackal

  Is to savage and worry the dead,

  For he’s not in the mood

  To fight for his food

  And would rather eat carrion instead.

  “‘Suggest that a man who transgresses

  Humanity’s betterment claim

  Should be classed with the skunk

  And the liar and the funk

  And expected to live with the same.’”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before leaving that night Roger Shorn left a note for the Committee of the Hanover Club drawing their attention to the entry in the Suggestions Book, pointing out that it was libellous and asking for its removal. Next morning the permanent secretary read the letter and the lampoon, hastily phoned Laurence Heath, and then removed the Suggestions Book to his private office. The copy on the notice board had been torn down by Roger before he left. When he came in that evening nothing was to be seen.

  The following morning, however, a typewritten copy of the verses was pinned on the notice board and several carbons were found under members’ plates at the luncheon table. This was not Don Marlowe’s doing for he had not been in the club. The verses on the notice board stayed there until Laurence Heath arrived for dinner and took them down.

  That night Heath wrote to Don Marlowe complaining of the improper use to which he had put the Suggestions Book. A reply was received from Don by return offering his apologies but pointing out that he was only trying to draw the attention of the club to the fact that Roger Shorn was a disgrace to his profession, a fact of which the club in general seemed as yet to be unaware. He also said he intended to send a copy of the verses and the letter to each London newspaper.

  That evening Don gave an interview to the Daily Mail, who published it in Tanfield’s Diary. “ Royal Ballet C
onductor Don Marlowe told me last night that he intends to turn the heat on his father’s accuser in much the same way as was done by Gladstone’s sons in the big row of the twenties, when Peter Wright, an old Harrovian and ex-secretary of the War Council, made a violent attack on the morals of the dead Prime Minister.…”

  Roger didn’t see Robinson again, preferring to excuse himself from the luncheon date; nor for a few days did he go to the Hanover Club. A few other newspapers had made minor comments on Don’s latest move, including a note in the The Globe: “Speak Up—or Apologise?” Roger was also receiving a number of letters from strangers. About seventy per cent protested at his attack on Marlowe; a few were anonymous and abusive; but a minority supported his line: “ Well done; there’s too much whitewashing of hypocrites and liars.”

  In any case he knew that in a short while the interest would die down. Nothing in this age survived long; a world crisis was sure to threaten, a film-star would decide to tell all, or girls would be murdered in a wood. Don would grow tired of being abusive and the letters would slow to a trickle and dry up.

  An event he seldom missed, since it kept him in contact with people, was Private View Day at the Royal Academy, and this year he had invited Laycock and his daughter to be his guests. He called for them at three, but before they were far on their way Sir Percy brought up the inevitable subject.

  “What’s young Marlowe like, Shorn?”

  “Very good at his job. But rather obsessed with his own importance.”

  “It’s clear what he intends to do.”

  “It may be. If he tries it on he’ll simply make himself ridiculous. There’s only the most superficial resemblance between this and the Gladstone quarrel.”

  “Those verses in Londoner’s Diary were about you, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. Marlowe’s sending them everywhere. They left out the middle verse that mentioned my name.”

  “I should have thought if they could have been pinned down as definitely referring to you.…”

  “I still don’t understand what happened in the Gladstone case,” Marion said.

  Roger smiled at her. “It’s a trifle complicated.” He was still explaining when they turned in at Burlington House, where there was a long queue of taxis and cars waiting to fecundate upon the steps of the Academy.

  Inside, some of the artists themselves moved among the crowd, like amiable spiders weaving little knots of friends and acolytes under their pictures. Almost at once Sir Percy met a friend. Roger and Marion strolled on together.

  After a minute Roger said. “Tell me, Marion, what do you personally think about my quarrel with the Marlowes?”

  She hesitated, not looking at him, turned a page in her catalogue. “Does it matter what I think?”

  “I find it matters to me.”

  She stared at the catalogue, allowed the pages to flip over, closed it. “You’re very flattering.”

  “I never flatter people.”

  Abruptly she said: “ If you ask me—if I can have any opinion at all, and of course I don’t understand journalism—I should have liked you never to have written the articles. Now that they have been written I’d be glad to see the thing settled as quickly and as—as honourably as possible, because I think it affects my father’s opinion of you.”

  “It doesn’t affect yours?”

  She hesitated, rather breathless. It was like running down a slope—each step bigger than the last. “ I don’t think so.”

  “I hope that means what I think it means.”

  “I don’t know what you think it means.”

  “At least, that you have trust in me.”

  “I think so!”

  “Because if there is trouble over this I shall want to feel mat my special friends—and particularly you—are with me.”

  She said quietly: “I hope there won’t be trouble.”

  “I hope not——”

  “Hullo, Dad.”

  Roger turned and saw Michael at his elbow.

  They had not met since the evening of Michael’s disastrous house-warming. Michael looked pale and thinner, his cheekbones more prominent. They stared at each other.

  “Well, Michael.… How did you get in?” Roger’s voice for understandable reasons was not friendly.

  “Bartlett came this morning and he gave me his catalogue to come in on this afternoon.”

  “You know Miss Laycock, of course.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The conversation remained formal, Michael particularly uncertain, not knowing how far Roger blamed him for his present troubles. Eventually he smiled at Marion and said: “ I always like to look at paintings with my father. Have you noticed? he knows exactly what he thinks about a picture and how to say it. I can never be that intelligent.”

  She smiled back and glanced at Roger. Michael, looking quickly from Roger to Marion, suddenly and sharply saw the extraordinary and astonishing possibility that existed there, a possibility which he himself had suggested in angry sarcasm—but only in sarcasm—three weeks ago.

  “But … perhaps you know about painting yourself, Miss Laycock,” he ended lamely, his mind still boggling.

  “No. This is my first Private View.”

  “It seems to me the people here are viewing each other rather than the paintings. What a collection of hats!”

  “It’s a two-way exhibition,” said Roger.

  Just then Sir Percy Laycock caught up with them. He nodded to Michael and said:

  “I didn’t know your son was coming.”

  “Nor I,” said Roger.

  “I’ve been trying to get near the new portrait of the Queen, but there’s such a press.”

  “I hear it isn’t awfully good.”

  They moved on to one of the rooms which was slightly less crowded. Michael’s thoughts had been racing, covering infinities of ground. He found himself at Laycock’s elbow and carefully avoided falling over his stick. Laycock looked at him and Michael suddenly smiled his beautiful smile and said:

  “You know, sir, I’d like to apologise for that night you came to dinner. I somehow got off on the wrong foot and everything I said went wrong. I must have sounded very boorish and unpleasant to you. Bad manners isn’t usually a family failing.”

  Sir Percy straightened his spectacles. “ People sometimes take a meeting or two to understand each other. Maybe the fault wasn’t all one way that night. I say let’s forget it.”

  “I’d certainly be glad to,” said Michael.

  They went round the room as a quartet, talking equably, like a family. Michael’s apology had helped a lot. More people were coming in now, and Marion and her father went ahead of the Shorns into the next room.

  “That was quite a piece of work,” Roger said dryly. “ I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Well, why not? I thought it might help.”

  “Help what?”

  Michael sheered away from the direct answer. “I pretty nearly queered your pitch with the Laycocks that evening. It seemed my opportunity to patch things up.”

  “You’ve queered my pitch much more seriously since then.”

  Frowning, Michael pushed his hair back. “I know. I was coming to that. But at least that wasn’t deliberate.”

  Roger stared about him at the pictures. “What depresses me in an exhibition like this is the habit-forming consequences of insufficient inspiration. Not ten paintings in this whole show had to be painted. The rest were dead before they were begotten.”

  Michael said: “ I seem to have been quite a hair shirt for you since I came home. Of course I’d not a notion you were Moonraker. I can’t tell you how mad I am that I messed that up for you as well.”

  Roger glanced at his son. “Women who pry into other people’s desks should be whipped in good eighteenth-century style.”

  Michael flushed but kept his temper. “It wasn’t in the desk, it was on top. Or so she said and I believe her.”

  “You’re still seeing her?”

&n
bsp; “No. She wrote me afterwards saying what she’d done.”

  “And recoiling I suppose in holy horror from the pair of us.”

  “No.… But it’s just not possible to keep up a carefree acquaintance with this feud raging.”

  “Is that why you look as if you haven’t been eating anything?”

  “I’m all right.… Except that I’d like a change of job.”

  “Tired already?”

  “Not of work. But of this work. There’s no future in it for me.”

  Roger said: “Have patience. You’re not twenty-two yet. Stick it for twelve months. Then I may have something interesting to offer.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with time,” Michael muttered. “ It seems to be against all of us today.”

  Roger smiled and bowed to the French Ambassador, whom he had met once. “ It’s a common complaint in youth. We’d better join the Laycocks or we shall lose them in this crush.”

  They moved into the next room. In the doorway Sir Percy and Marion were looking at a piece of sculpture. As he joined them Roger came face to face with Don.

  Henry de Courville was with Don. Henry knew Roger slightly. They would all certainly have moved on without speaking, but there were people pressing in and out of the bottleneck of the doorway.

  Don nodded and half smiled at the younger man. “ Hullo, Michael. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “No.… How’s Joanna? Isn’t she with you?”

  “No, she had a rehearsal.”

  “And … Bennie?”

  “I think she’s well enough.” Don tried to edge away.

  Conversationally, Henry said to Roger: “That was a good piece of verse Don wrote, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what business it is of yours.”

  The Laycocks were listening to this, and Marion’s eyes moved anxiously to Roger.

  Don spoke to Roger for the first time “I also wrote to Heath. If the verses aren’t sufficiently libellous, that letter is.”

  “Mardi, where are you, I’ve lost you!” said a voice behind them. “Ah, there you are! Did you see that weird pink outfit?”

  Roger said: “ I’m warning you, Don. If all this comes out in court your father’s reputation will be in much worse shape than it is now.”