Bland Beginning (25 page)

The young man roused himself from a kind of stupor of thought. “I suppose we’d better. Can we give you a lift?” Ruth Cleverly shook her head, and the Bentley whirled away in a cloud of dust. When it had gone she said with decision, “That snake’s got something to do with it all.”

“Your feelings do you credit. It’s unpleasant to see him fawning round young Shelton. But I’m sure you’re wrong. He’s only an elderly dilettante with a penchant for youth.”

They walked along the road, like Mutt and Jeff. Her lower lip was thrust out rebelliously. “I’ve chucked my job. What do you think about that?” She did not wait for a reply, but added, “If I hadn’t chucked it, I think it would have chucked me. Henderson as good as told me they didn’t want anyone who mixed themselves up in such unsavoury affairs. I told them I was going to Arthur’s funeral, and left as and from this morning.”

“In that case, if you’ve no commitments, I can ask you to tea.”

“I don’t want anything to eat, but I’ll drink a cup of tea with you. I’m a fool to do it, though. The last cup of tea we had put me at the top of the list of police suspects.”

“I don’t think you are now.” They went into a genteel teashop, and sat down. Still with a vivid recollection of that scene at Blackheath, he said, “If this man Jacobs was murdered, I don’t think you’d have had the strength to lift him so that he was hanging. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Did you find him?”

“I cut him down.” He crumbled a scone. “Did old Rawlings ask you down to see him tomorrow?”

“Yes; when I saw him yesterday. But I don’t intend to go.” She took a piece of thin brown bread and butter and smeared jam on it.

“Why not come down with me?” She stared at him, and he turned his face away.

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply. She made a gesture towards his scar. “Don’t be so damned sensitive, shying away like a horse. Nobody will mind it, unless you make them.” She leaned over, touched it lightly with her fingers. “You’re a fool about it. Things like that don’t matter.”

His smile was crooked. “I wish I could believe you. A friend of mine told me the same thing this morning.”

“Your ubiquitous young friend,” she said in a parody of Blackburn’s mellifluous tones. She took another piece of bread and butter.

“He’s really quite remarkable. He thinks he knows who’s behind all this. He’ll be there tomorrow. Do come down. You can’t start looking for a job until Monday morning.”

“Will you promise not to turn away your face?”

He looked at her and felt a melting of the core of hardness inside him, the slow quiescence of the tiger of pride. “I promise,” he said. They laughed together.

All of Michael Blackburn’s actions were informed by a sense of the importance of ritual, and he treated breakfast seriously because it began the ritual of the day. To the left of his plate the daily newspaper must be folded; in front of him the jug filled with cream for his porridge or cereal; to the right the rough-cut marmalade, the honey and the sugar, Such a particularity of arrangement was essential to his well-being in the early morning.

This morning all was as he wished it. The coffee brought by the maid was of exactly the right strength, and heated to a temperature that permitted it to be drunk immediately without the least sensation of scalding on the tongue; the porridge was thick, yet perfectly smooth and consistent; when the toast came, each piece was warm and done to the same shade of medium brown. Yet Michael Blackburn’s forehead on this morning was marked by two small perpendicular ridges of worry just between the eyebrows. He looked with much less than his usual interest at the record of cradles, orange-blossoms and graves in
The Times,
and read his assorted letters with indifference. His mind turned to the past and to death: to the miserable end of the reckless, dissipated and generous man called Leon Amberside, to the sudden and terrible death of his old friend James Cobb, and to the fate of the little cripple whom he had snubbed. These thoughts were not pleasant, and yet he was sorry to be disturbed from them by a telephone call which proved to be an invitation from his friend Stuart, or Porky, Henderson to spend a week-end at his country cottage with some really amusing people. He refused this invitation with a sharpness that left Henderson injured and unhappy, and expressed disinterest in the news that Ruth Cleverly was no longer a member of the publisher’s staff. When Blackburn returned to his breakfast, the coffee had lost some of its vital warmth, and two pieces of toast had hardened a little. He left them untouched, looked at his watch and adhered to the ritual of this disturbed day by going up to see his mother.

She received him equably in bed, where, neat and exact as he liked to see her, she sat propped by pillows reading
My
Friend Prospero
, by Henry Harland. He wandered round the room, picking up and putting down a piece of Staffordshire pottery, adjusting a picture on the wall, fiddling with a trinket box. At last she said in her cool, old voice, “Is anything the matter, Michael? Anything to do with that boy you took to Lord’s yesterday?” He turned round with a look of surprise, and she said pleasantly, “I have my own ways of finding out things. He seemed a nice boy, but stupid. He is very handsome. Where does he come from?”

“His father is a rather shady company promoter. In financial difficulties, I believe.”

“But that is not what is worrying you? It is something to do with that boy, though, is it not? About the people who came to tea on Tuesday.”

“Yes.” He passed his fine hand wearily over his fine forehead. “I have a presentiment of something unpleasant impending. James Cobb’s death distressed me.”

“It does seem scandalous that people should be able to walk into other people’s houses and shoot them and walk out again,” she said placidly. Her old eyes were remarkably watchful. “Where are you going today?”

He made a slight, irritable gesture. “Down to a place called Millingham. This afternoon. Young Shelton’s playing cricket down there.”

“Don’t do anything foolish, Michael.”

“Of course not.” He came over to the bed, kissed her thin, veined hand and patted her cheek. Then he looked at his watch, said, “It is time for you to get up,” and left her. He wandered downstairs, stopped uncertainly before the door of his study, went in and took a book from the shelves. He sat down and began to read it. The book was his own collection of essays,
Sesame Without Lilies
, and he opened it at the biographical essay dealing with Martin Rawlings, called “A Turbulent Boy”.

Anthony heard the buzz of the lawn mower, looked out of his bedroom window and saw his father solemnly propelling the machine up and down the lawn. It was the one form of physical exercise in which Mr Shelton indulged, and with a kind of scared affection the young man watched the small figure driving the mower with relentless efficiency in regular and unwavering lines. Mr Shelton waved cheerfully to his son, and Anthony ran lightly down the stairs and out into the garden. His father rested one arm on the mower and smiled. He was wearing an old shirt and grey flannel trousers, in recognition of the fact that it was Saturday.

“Hullo,” he said. “I didn’t see you last night.”

“No. As a matter of fact, I had dinner with a man called Michael Blackburn. Literary sort of chap. I expect you’ve heard of him.”

“Yes,” his father said meditatively, and added, “Well?” The word was an amiable question.

Anthony smiled nervously. The words he had on the tip of his tongue simply failed to come out. “How’s the old garden?”

“There are some troublesome worm casts.” Mr Shelton looked slightly perturbed. “There was something you wanted to say?”

“Yes, father.” Muscles at the back of Anthony’s neck strained with effort. “I may play for Southshire this season, after all.” His father’s brown face showed a pleasure, apparently unalloyed. “But I wondered about – Brazilian Tractors – and the East African Mining Syndicate – and –” He had looked up the names laboriously in the paper.

“My dear boy, don’t let that disturb you. That’s all over.”

“Over?” Anthony was bewildered. “But on Thursday night you said that you were – on the edge of ruin.”

“That was Thursday night. I said also that things would go right or wrong in the next twenty-four hours. This is Saturday morning. I’m happy to be able to say that things didn’t go wrong.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“The operations of financiers” – his father chuckled – “may be beyond the comprehension of even the most talented fast-medium bowler. A financier is in effect a juggler, and he needs the most delicate sense of balance. He is keeping three balls quite comfortably in the air, and – presto – a fourth is added to them. He manages to absorb it into his trick. But then another is added – and another. And now he must exercise the most exquisite care, because an error involves not merely the fall of one ball, but the failure of his whole trick. On Thursday night it seemed that all the balls might fall to the ground. Now, lo and behold, the juggler has mysteriously recovered his sense of balance, and is again performing his trick with the utmost apparent ease.”

Anthony’s bewilderment was very little decreased. “But that sounds awfully dangerous.”

“Life, as a fine novelist once observed, is a bazaar of dangerous and smiling chances. Whether we encounter them through the urgent physical battles in which you have recently been engaged, or through the mental struggles which are more suited to my years and physique, seems relatively unimportant. Accept my assurance that you need have no further worries.” In the same breath, his father continued, giving the mower a meditative push: “What worries
me
, I confess, is your choice of a dinner companion.”

“Michael Blackburn? But he was awfully nice to me.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“And – I’m going to play cricket this afternoon, and he’s coming down to watch.”

“That indicates a praiseworthy enthusiasm on his part for our English field sports. Your life, of course, is entirely your own affair, but Michael Blackburn is in some respects a dangerous companion.” He pushed the lawn mower backwards and forwards again. “What has become of – ah – Vicky?”

“We had a row – on the telephone.” Anthony looked like a large and sulky baby. “She wanted me to take her somewhere this afternoon, and I couldn’t because I’m playing cricket.”

“M-m. It happens that I am free myself this afternoon. Would it be possible for me to accompany you?”

“Good Lord! Of course, father. I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“My capacity for physical exercise, taken vicariously, is considerable,” his father said. He looked at his watch and gave the mower a final push. “It is nearly eleven o’clock. I think the rest of the lawn can fittingly be left to the gardener.”

Vicky spent the morning in a state of gloom. She attempted to make notes in her diary, but found herself too depressed to do so. Then she sat down and wrote the first page of a story about a young woman whose life was ruined by her inability to be faithful to any young man. She rushed downstairs to answer two telephone calls, but they were both from patients of Edward’s. When she tired of the story she wept quietly for a few minutes, and then returned to reading the newspapers with particular care, to see what information they contained about the death of Jacobs. She had learned of this on the previous evening, when Uncle Jack had telephoned in high excitement. He read out to her with gusto the heading in his evening paper,
Bookseller found hanged in Blackheath
, and a short and obviously official paragraph that followed, to the effect that Mr Jonathan Jacobs, a bookseller, of Peaceful Alley, Blackheath, had been found hanged on his own premises that morning. There was no addition to this meagre news item on Saturday morning: but, like Uncle Jack, Vicky assumed that this was the end of the case, and that the death of the bookseller was an acknowledgement of guilt. She said as much to Edward and her mother.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Edward said, “it’s one more disgraceful feature of a disgraceful affair. The family won’t be able to hold up its head in Barnsfield after this.”

Muriel Rawlings said to her daughter, with an air of gentle reproof, “Your father would never have cared to be connected with such an affair, dear.”

“Do you suppose I care to be connected with it?” Vicky snapped. “It’s not my doing.’’

Edward tapped impatiently on the table. “My dear girl, you speak as though you hadn’t rummaged through family papers in the attic with that extraordinary man, and then borrowed my car without so much as a by-your-leave to go goodness knows where.”

“I borrowed it to go to see Uncle Jack.”

Edward put his hand to his chest. “It is too bad of you to make me excited in this way. It is bad for my heart.”

“And Uncle Jack said he hoped we would all go over this afternoon. If you’re not going, Edward, I’d like to borrow the car again.”

Her brother popped two tablets into his mouth. “Where’s Shelton? I haven’t seen him round here for the past day or two.”

“I don’t know or care where he is.”

“Oh.” Edward stopped sucking the tablets and stared at her. “Well, you mustn’t expect me to interfere in lovers’ quarrels.” He added hastily: “But I might be able to drive you over myself. It will be inconvenient, of course, but I can come back if there’s anything urgent. And really I suppose we should bury the hatchet with Uncle Jack. Will you come too, Mother?”

“I have my household affairs to attend to,” Mrs Rawlings said with dignity. “But you may give your uncle my kind wishes.”

Uncle Jack had taken his morning exercise – fencing in the garden with his son Philip. He had been called away from it to receive a telephone call, which brought him news of major importance.

“Rawlings,” a voice said. “Deeds here. Got some bad news.”

Uncle Jack grunted. Colonel Deeds was, or regarded himself as, the feudal squire of the village of Sellingham, five miles north of Millingham.

“Wilkinson’s poisoned his foot.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Uncle Jack said. His red-apple face was undisturbed.

“He’s right out, I’m afraid,” said Colonel Deeds. “No use at all.”

Uncle Jack gave another grunt that was perhaps an inadequate vehicle to convey both sympathy and an acknowledgement of the seriousness of the case. “Pity. Great pity.” There was a silence.

“Going to make things a bit uneven,” said Colonel Deeds.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Wondered if you could help us out at all.”

“No chance of that, I’m afraid,” said Uncle Jack immediately. “Had a job myself; y’know.”

“Heard you were pretty strong. One or two new faces, someone told me. All our boys are local, of course.”

“Ah,” said Uncle Jack, with no particular sound of encouragement.

“Shouldn’t think of askin’ in the ordinary way, but it’s a blow. Struck down, as you might say, at the last minute. No denying it’s a blow.”

“See what I can do,” Uncle Jack said curtly. “Great pity about Wilkinson. Ring you in a few minutes. G’bye.”

He sat down heavily in front of a desk and stared at a sheet of paper, on which were written eleven names. They were the names of the Millingham cricket team to play Sellingham that afternoon on Millingham village green. The rivalry between the two villages was considerable, and the two teams were never confined strictly to village inhabitants. It was understood, however, that if not inhabitants, the players should be relatives of inhabitants, or if not that, relatives of relatives. It is axiomatic, however, that when once an inch has been allowed an ell will be taken, and it had been customary for several years past for Uncle Jack and Colonel Deeds, as the cricketing despots of their respective villages, to try to enlist the support of any good players who could be regarded as connected, even remotely, with the villages. The Millingham team had once included an England batsman who had been lured to Millingham to stay with the owner of a local brewery, and had then been induced to put on flannels, rather against his own will and to the vividly-expressed indignation of Colonel Deeds. He had, however, been hit on the arm off the third ball he received from Wilkinson, the Sellingham fast bowler, and had thrown away his wicket in the same over. It was this Wilkinson, a bowler of no especial subtlety or accuracy, but a mainstay of village green cricket, who had poisoned his foot.

Uncle Jack sat staring at the list of his team while caution, rather than chivalry, warred in his mind with desire for victory. It was clear that Sellingham’s position must be acute, or Deeds would not have asked for the loan of a player. It was clear also that Deeds knew something of the plans that Uncle Jack had laid for a Millingham victory; and he was quite capable of making an unpleasant scene by questioning the credentials of one or another player, if his request was refused outright. What, then, was to be done? It was out of the question for any of the seven genuine local Millingham players to transfer their allegiance. That left Norman Summers, a former Blue who had lived in Millingham several years ago, and was at present in the village on the visit to a friend, Alec Johnson, a doctor acting as a
locum
for a local practitioner who had sometimes turned out as a fast bowler for Southshire, Bill Debenham, a nephew of the local brewer, and – Uncle Jack sighed as he came to the fourth name on his list. It was a name, certainly, which had a very slender right to be there, but that right would not have been questioned had Sellingham been able to field a strong side. As it was, Deeds would certainly be unpleasant – that remark about new faces foretold a little of the wrath to come. And it was probable that, with Sellingham fielding a weak team, a little magnanimity could be afforded. Uncle Jack shook his head sadly and with a thick, blunt pencil crossed out the name of Anthony Shelton, replacing it by that of the village greengrocer. Then he went to the telephone and talked to Colonel Deeds.