by Lewis Orde
Sally moved temporarily into Stanmore while she decided what to do with the Curzon Street apartment. The arrangement saved Alf Goldstein the drive out each morning, since Sally drove Roland into town before going on to her office in Fleet Street. It was the closest Sally and Roland had been since the days before Catarina, living in the same house, sharing much of the day. The effect on Katherine was beneficial. She and Sally had always meshed well, and Roland was glad of the older woman’s interest in Katherine’s life. Even better, Sally shared Katherine’s love of horses and during the weekend – when Katherine wasn’t busy with homework or replying to the constant stream of letters from Franz Kassler – they would often spend hours together at the stable, allowing Roland time to visit his other children. His only regret was that he never got to see his youngest son, David. The Aronson home was still barred to Roland, and although Nadine was willing to give him news she refused to disobey her husband by allowing Roland to visit the child.
Three months into the New Year, Roland’s brokers in New York conveyed the news that they had managed to buy up the majority of holdings in the Biwell chain. Roland celebrated with a party at his house, but he wouldn’t have been so happy, so relaxed, had he seen the cloud that was looming ominously on the horizon . . .
*
As it tickled the imagination of every newspaper in the country, so Christopher Mellish’s disappearance intrigued Daniel Rushden. Rich man – racehorse owner, mill owner – allegedly murdering the homosexual lover who had tried to blackmail him, then vanishing to probably turn up somewhere with a new identity and start all over again. It was the kind of story of which headlines were made – especially headlines in Probe.
At first, though, Rushden gave it no space at all, seeing little value in merely rehashing stories that had already appeared on the front pages of respectable newspapers. He needed something fresh, a different angle on the case. An angle which could drag in an old adversary, a man who had been very close to Mellish – Roland Eagles.
Rushden decided initially to create a comprehensive portrait of the missing murder suspect; he wanted to show how the rich lived, how they spent their time and money in the pursuit of thrills and pleasure. He ordered his reporters to dig deeply into Mellish’s life, and the lives of his friends, because Rushden suspected – and hoped – that Eagles might be somehow involved.
The first article came out three weeks later and was headlined ‘The Playgrounds of the Idle Rich.’ It was a detailed account of Mellish’s background, with emphasis on the gambling junkets, the trips to Monte Carlo, the high-stakes games at Kendall’s, the horses he owned and the mill he never visited but which, nonetheless, contributed considerably to his wealth. Probe played on the fact that Mellish had inherited everything, had never worked a day in his life. And, just as prominently, the article featured coverage of the other members of Mellish’s set, most specifically Roland. Rushden was pleased when he went through the galleys; he had the opportunity to tie his enemy directly to one of the worst scandals ever to hit that nasty little clique that reveled in placing themselves above the masses.
Roland’s reaction when he read the article was exactly what Rushden had hoped for – vengeful fury. He instructed Alan Martin to take action against Probe and Rushden in an attempt to stop his name being linked with Christopher Mellish. Rushden, in turn, hit back by expanding the story to include Sally, noting that she was a director of Roland’s publishing company and of the Eagle. ‘A tightly knit circle,’ Rushden called them, ‘impenetrable to any but their own kind.’ The insinuation was obvious – that if they had something to hide they would stand by each other, even if it meant thwarting the efforts of the police.
This time, Alan Martin advised Roland to wait, to see what came next. The lawyer was certain that Rushden was gradually leading up to something; he wanted to find out exactly what.
*
A month after the article on Sally appeared, Daniel Rushden felt the biting disappointment of anticlimax. He had run the Mellish story as far as he could, milked it for every word. And he had gotten nowhere, except for the token lawsuit by Roland to stop having his name linked with the missing murder suspect.
Rushden had hoped . . . what exactly had he hoped for . . .? To have Roland implicate himself in the murder or in Mellish’s getaway by some foolhardy action? No, that was asking too much. The man was too cold, too methodical to make such an elementary mistake. Instead, Rushden had been counting on a break in the case, a piece of detective work that would forge a connection between Roland and Mellish and the rest of that useless crowd. Some scrap of hard evidence that would demonstrate Mellish’s friends had clubbed together to deliberately obstruct the investigation. But now Rushden was admitting defeat. It was obvious that Mellish had fooled them all.
The telephone on his desk rang; it was his secretary saying there was a woman who wanted to see him. Too busy to see anyone without an appointment, Rushden asked her business. The secretary told him the woman had more information on the Mellish case. Rushden doubted that until he was told his visitor’s name: Mrs Sharon Eagles.
‘Send her in.’ He stood up, straightened his jacket, ran his fingers through his long, unkempt hair. Sharon Eagles . . . Roland’s wife. What could she possibly have?
Sharon was brought into the office. Rushden made a fuss over her, helped her into a chair, offered her a cup of tea. Attractive woman, he thought. Nervous for some reason, eyes flicking left and right as if she were frightened. He did his best to put her at ease. ‘This is indeed a pleasant surprise, Mrs Eagles.’
‘Do you know that my husband and I are separated?’ Sharon began hesitantly.
‘I had heard something to that effect.’ Of course Rushden knew; he knew everything there was to know about Roland.
Sharon took a deep breath. She had been steeling herself for this meeting with Rushden. To go through with it was the only way she could fight back, betray Roland as he had so viciously betrayed her. And all the time she had thought he loved her as passionately as she loved him. But no . . . he always cared more for his oldest daughter because she had provided the everlasting link to Catarina. Sharon remembered Roland’s trouble with Probe. After Mellish’s disappearance she had bought copies of the magazine wanting to see Roland smeared, tied in with it. Like Rushden she was disappointed. There was no connection to Mellish – unless she provided it, used the opportunity to avenge herself against Roland once and for all. ‘One of the reasons we separated, Mr Rushden, was because of my husband’s close friendship with Christopher Mellish.’
‘I know your husband was friendly with Mellish, Mrs Eagles.’ Rushden spoke slowly, wanting to draw the woman out. She had information for him but she couldn’t be rushed.
‘He was also aware of Mellish’s friendship with that actor.’
‘He was?’ Rushden bit back his excitement. ‘How do you know?’
‘On our honeymoon – we cruised the Caribbean – my husband received a letter from one of his people, a man named Alf Goldstein, informing him of the relationship.’
‘I see.’ Rushden walked around the tiny, cramped office. So, Roland did know all the time. And if he knew, Sally Roberts certainly knew. But Sally didn’t interest Rushden nearly as much as Roland did. Roland had lied to the police, and if he had lied once concerning Mellish, it was certainly possible he had lied again – about knowing where Mellish was. ‘Why are you telling me this, Mrs Eagles?’ He had a good idea, and it tied to that piece of wisdom about hell having no fury like a woman scorned.
Sharon became very rigid, her mouth closed in a firm line, her body tense. If Roland ever found out . . . No, it didn’t matter if he knew, he deserved every rotten thing that ever happened to him. But if her father ever learned what she’d done . . . He’d be appalled! Couldn’t he understand how deeply she had been hurt, how this was the only way in which she could hurt Roland back? He’d never given a damn about her feelings – why should she feel differently about his now?
Rushden w
aited patiently for an answer. When he realized one was not forthcoming, he asked, ‘Who is this man Goldstein, Mrs Eagles? The one who wrote the letter to your husband?’ And does such a letter really exist? he added mentally. He started to think that the woman had come to his office simply to use him as a tool of her vengeance.
‘He’s been with my husband for seventeen years – personal assistant and chauffeur. He does all the odd jobs.’
‘Such as finding out about your husband’s friends?’
‘Yes.’
Very nice, Rushden decided. Roland didn’t even trust his own friends. He spied on them before they were admitted to his circle. A wonderful group of people. Now Rushden knew that everything he’d ever thought about them was true. But before he gloated any more he had to find out how reliable Sharon’s information was. ‘This letter you say Goldstein wrote—’
To Rushden’s amazement, Sharon opened her handbag and took out a piece of paper. Faint creases showed where it had once been rolled into a ball The paper smelled of perfume and Rushden guessed it had lain hidden in a drawer. How long ago had it happened? Three years? Why would she have kept it all this time? Rushden could think of only one reason: she must have been insanely jealous of Roland from the day they were married, squirreling away bits of information like this in the hope of keeping a hold on him. But Rushden had no sympathy for her; his interest in Sharon was for what she could tell him about Roland and Mellish.
‘May I keep this, Mrs Eagles? Or have it copied?’
‘No,’ Sharon said quickly and reached out to snatch back the letter. ‘I don’t want my husband—’
‘To know it was you who gave me the information? I’ll respect that confidence.’ He watched her replace the letter in her bag. How could he use the information now? Just an outright accusation that Roland had lied to the police, that he’d known all along about Mellish’s affair with the actor? Roland would be unable to deny that. Even as Sharon was shown from the office, with Rushden’s promise that he always protected his sources ringing in her ears, the editor of Probe was already forming the lead paragraph in his mind.
Roland was in New York, attending a meeting of the Biwell board of directors, when the story broke in Probe. He first received an urgent telephone call from Michael Adler, then another from Sally. Each read the story to him . . . that for three years, Roland had known about Mellish’s friendship with the actor and had lied to the police, claiming ignorance of it. The story also played on Roland so conveniently being away at the time of the murder, gambling in Monte Carlo with his daughter, then rushing back the day after the murder, moving Sally into his house as if he were nothing more than a concerned friend. The question that had to be answered, Rushden stated at the end of the article, was whether Roland knew what Mellish intended to do, and was his role in the unsavory episode to hamper police investigation until Mellish had the time to create a new identity for himself?
Roland immediately telephoned Alan Martin in London. ‘I’ll be back from New York in a couple of days. I want you to start preparing libel writs against Rushden, against Probe, against the magazine’s distributors.’
‘I’m no not certain how effective that will be,’ Martin replied. ‘He’s covered by libel insurance. You’ll hurt the insurance companies and Probe will get the publicity.’
‘Then find some other way. I want that man out of my hair, out of my business and out of my life!’ Roland slammed down the receiver and returned to the Biwell board meeting, forcing himself to concentrate on the matters at hand.
When he arrived in London two days later, red-eyed from lack of sleep on the overnight flight, Alf Goldstein was waiting with the Bentley. Roland told him to drive to the lawyer’s office; any business with the Eagles Group could wait.
‘What have you come up with so far?’ Roland demanded of Martin.
‘I’m working on the libel suits. And . . .’ He pushed an open law book across the desk for Roland to see.
‘Criminal libel?’
‘Criminal libel. I don’t think there’s been a big criminal libel case for twenty years or so. You’ll have to apply to the High Court for permission to proceed with it, of course. They’ll decide whether you’ve got the grounds for such action. If you’re really set on going through with this, I believe the High Court will approve your application.’
‘Thank you.’ Roland didn’t attempt to conceal the vindictive smile on his face. Criminal libel – that would knock Rushden for six.
Roland was correct. When Rushden received notification of the civil libel suits against himself, the magazine and its distributors, he wasn’t particularly perturbed. That was why he carried libel insurance. The publicity such a suit would generate in the national press would more than compensate for any increased deductible or higher premiums he would have to pay in the future. What appealed to him even more was the prospect of watching Roland writhe in embarrassment while he tried to explain why he’d lied to the police about knowing of Mellish’s relationship with Marsden. So what if he hadn’t actively hampered the investigation . . .?
When he received notification that Roland was applying to the High Court for permission to bring a criminal libel action, Rushden’s mood changed drastically. Rushden’s own lawyer went back through the books and found there had only been a handful of criminal libel cases during the entire century, including the famous suit evolving from Lord Alfred Douglas’ accusation in 1920 that Winston Churchill had purposely lost the Battle of Jutland so that he could make money in the American stock market. Douglas had been sentenced to six months in jail for his libelous accusation.
Rushden now found himself facing a similar situation, and he could only hope the High Court wouldn’t approve Roland’s application. Insurance companies only picked up the costs of the civil libel suits; they didn’t serve jail sentences for their policy holders.
To Rushden’s complete dismay, the vendetta he’d been waging against Roland had taken a dangerous, unforeseen twist.
*
While Roland waited for the decision regarding the suit he tried to concentrate on work. He wanted to reorganize the Biwell chain in the United States, find other companies he could buy into. But his first move in striking back at Probe disrupted his life completely, not allowing him the peace of mind he needed to concentrate on business affairs.
Although he found a certain delight in scanning through the piles of mail he received from people – famous and otherwise – who applauded his stand, he also sensed a cool aloofness from the employees of the publishing group, especially the staff of the Eagle. It was a coldness he even perceived in Sally.
‘Roland, back out of this while you still can,’ she told him one morning as they traveled into town.
‘While I still can?’ He laughed at what he thought was her concern for his welfare. ‘I’ve finally got that bastard Rushden over a barrel, and I’m going to roll him all the way to the nearest prison.’
‘You’re also going to make an enemy of every journalist in this country. Including me.’
‘You?’
‘A publisher does not sue for criminal libel. The civil libel suits, go through with those by all means—’
‘They won’t mean a damned thing. Rushden carries insurance.’
‘So what? But don’t send the man to prison without first learning on what he based his story.’
‘We’ll find that out in court, won’t we? Do you think he’s going to name his source if I simply ask him?’
As she stopped outside the Adler’s store to let Roland out, Sally tried one final time, ‘Somehow or other, Rushden knows that you were aware of Christopher’s friendship with Charles Marsden—’
‘He may have guessed, what does it matter?’
‘A lot. If you insist on dragging this thing through court, you’re going to besmirch your own character. You’re also going to cause embarrassment to me, Michael . . . to everyone you know.’
‘Sally, don’t you understand what this man has done
to me over the years? He’s stood at a safe distance and mocked everything I’ve ever done. What can the police do to me because I lied about Christopher? Knowing he was seeing Marsden is hardly damning evidence of a conspiracy. But Rushden’s insinuated that I helped to thwart a police investigation—’
‘He just posed the question. Unethical, perhaps, but not worthy of a criminal action.’
‘Sally, I want revenge.’
‘Sure you do, against a journalist. You’re a newspaper owner, you run a group of magazines. How the hell do you think your people are going to react if you send Daniel Rushden to jail? You might get a kind of respect from him – sitting behind bars – but you’ll be finished in publishing.’
‘Why would decent journalists care about slime like Rushden?’
‘You really don’t understand a thing about this game, do you? Decent journalists, as you call them, use publications like Probe when they’ve got a story – a good scandal – that their own papers won’t touch. That’s right, Roland, even gutter journalists like Daniel Rushden have their place in the overall scheme of things.’ She drove away as Roland slammed the door.
He stared after the car and thought about what she’d said. Was she right? Surely not. He was going to go through with it. This time Rushden had overstepped his bounds for the last time – Roland was going to stop him once and for all.
*
Roland was formally correct when he next saw Daniel Rushden, giving him a curt nod when they faced each other at the hearing before a High Court judge who would decide whether there were grounds for criminal proceedings.
Rushden’s legal counsel stated there was no case to answer, that Roland’s action in applying for criminal libel was blowing a possible error on the magazine’s part all out of proportion. Roland’s counsel, though, claimed his client had been the target of a long-standing smear campaign by Probe. His character had been besmirched, his friendships ridiculed, his entire life poked apart and vilified . . . and all for the sin of being a prominent, successful businessman. Probe’s last attack – the question of whether Roland knew of Mellish’s intentions to commit murder, and that he’d deliberately tried to thwart a police investigation – showed a flagrant disregard for journalistic ethics and the truth.
