Charters and Caldicott (11 page)

At this bizarre fancy dress party, Darrell's tartan jacket seemed on the conservative side. Charters and Caldicott, impeccable in old-fashioned dinner-jackets, might have emerged from the Ark. At the sight of them, standing rigid and goggle-eyed at the head of the stairs, the party babble died. Suddenly aware that they were being stared at, they remembered their manners as guests and began to descend, self-consciously tugging at their collars. St Clair struck up ‘Hello Dolly' on the piano. Charters and Caldicott continued to walk down the stairs, sublimely unaware that they were doing so in time to the music.

Darrell watched, amused. Margaret put her hands to her face to hide her giggles and fled out onto the terrace to pull herself together. At the sight of Gregory, standing in a pool of light below, smoking and staring up at her, her laughter died and she went back indoors.

Darrell took a couple of glasses of champagne over to Charters and Caldicott. ‘Hi. Now who don't you know?'

‘Pretty well everyone, I'm afraid,' said Caldicott.

‘We don't get about much these days, you know,' Charters apologised.

Darrell, a courteous host, led them on a tour of introduction. ‘Here we go. This is Milo Dashwood, the artist. Alex Meyrick, the photographer, Sarah Meyrick. Ed Jollard, who produced
Evil Out of the Deep
– great movie, Ed; thanks for the tape. Jane Leslie, who
is
the evil out of the deep. Helen Hyman – you know the name' – they didn't – ‘that's the face. Peter Price, the agent. Richard Shadd you
must
have heard of' – they hadn't – ‘Carla Woodman...'

The introductions to names and faces Charters and Caldicott had never heard of or seen before and hoped earnestly never to meet again seemed interminable. They endured stoically, greeting everyone with a punctilious ‘How d'you do' and a handshake. The assorted personalities responded with a wave of a cigarette bolder, a kiss, a smile, a nod. ‘Cecil St Clair you've met. And that, I guess, must be the lady you came in with,' said Darrell as Margaret, a recognisable member of the human race, joined them. ‘Henry Grice, the writer, and a cast of thousands.'

The host to these abominable hordes raised his voice and clapped his hands. ‘OK, gang, let's eat. Carla, you can't cut me dead in my own home...' Margaret, Charters and Caldicott were forced to mingle with the garish throng drifting towards the dining-room. ‘I'm going to get you for this, Mottram,' Caldicott hissed.

‘I did warn you. What did you expect? The Cliveden Set?'

‘No, but really! I wonder what frightful oiks we're going to be sitting with at dinner...' Caldicott's indignant mumblings faltered and stopped as he and Charters took in Darrell's feeding arrangements for the evening. Instead of the formal dining-table they'd been expecting, the room was laid out like an after-theatre buffet at a five-star, American-owned hotel. Guests were expected to queue for food at a long table, then carry their plates to small, lamp-lit tables that were spread around the room. Margaret surveyed the scene with amusement, Charters and Caldicott with deep disgust.

‘Good God! It's like the tourist-class dining-r:oom on a cruise-liner,' Charters snorted.

‘Do you suppose there'll be tombola with the coffee and liqueurs?' Caldicott sniggered.

‘Don't be such a couple of snobs,' said Margaret. ‘And don't sit with me. I'm going to see if I can get anything more out of my new little friend Mr St Clair.' She looked round and saw that he was in earnest conversation with Darrell.

Charters and Caldicott, when their turn came, each accepted a plate of pigeon pie and another of salad from waiters at the buffet. Faced with the problem of equipping themselves with bread, Caldicott asked Charters to hold his salad plate.

‘How the devil can I?' Charters demanded, himself similarly encumbered.

‘Oh, very well, give one of your plates to me.'

Seeing them juggling ineffectually with their plates, Darrell came to their assistance. ‘Let me do that. Come on, I have influence with the maitre d' here.' He provided them with bread and guided them over to a vacant table which was equipped, like the others, with an open bottle of wine and another of Zazz. ‘Chateau Latour or chateau-bottled Zazz?'

Charters, desperate but unfailingly courteous, said, 'With pigeon pie? Which would you suggest?'

‘I'm only kidding.' Josh poured them some wine. ‘Though millions drink Zazz with every meal they eat.'

‘Good God!' Caldicott gasped. ‘That is – Good Lord!'

‘On every conceivable occasion. Would you believe, in Hong Kong Zazz is the speciality drink at funerals?'

‘Really?' said Charters.

‘It's true. But you're most likely familiar with that custom, right?'

‘No, I wasn't.'

‘But you are familiar with Hong Kong?'

‘I wouldn't say familiar,' Charters hedged. ‘We've passed through once or twice.'

‘I guess you knew Jock Beevers at your Trade Commission?'

‘Did we not,' said Caldicott heartily. ‘So you
did
– or should I say,
did
you know Jock?' Charters gave Caldicott a filthy look for falling into Darrell's trap.

‘No,' said Darrell. ‘Not really. We bumped into one another at parties. I guess we were on “How are you?” terms, that's all.' Charters and Caldicott were smoked out and silenced. Darrell was enjoying himself. ‘OK, so who else don't we number among our mutual acquaintances?'

Caldicott decided he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. ‘Helen 

Appleyard?' Darrell shook his head.

‘She was mentioned to us as a possible contact with Norton and West.'

‘Birdade?'

‘Ah, so Norton and West you
do
know?' said Charters.

‘It's my business to know them. They make a rival product. They can't sell it but they make it! So?'

‘Well, we thought... Margaret thought,' Caldicott stumbled, tugging nervously at his collar, ‘You might know someone there we could talk to.'

‘About a little proposition of ours,' said Charters, trying to be helpful.

Darrell was curious. ‘A proposition for Norton and West? Would it interest Zazz?'

‘I hardly think so,' said Charters quickly. ‘No, no, no, far too modest.'

‘No problem.' Darrell stood up. ‘If you'd like an introduction, just say the word.'

‘You're very kind,' said Caldicott.

‘Any time. Excuse me while I circulate.'

Charters and Caldicott reached for their glasses with heartfelt sighs of relief. ‘I must say
that
conversation took an unexpected turn,' said Caldicott.

‘Yes. He was trying to draw our fire.'

‘That was my impression. I say, Charters, do you suppose he's guessed we have an ulterior motive in being here?' Charters' long-suffering look answered him. ‘Oh. Then we'd better hope Margaret's playing her cards closer to her...' He paused, then made a delicate amendment to his words. ‘Closer to
her
.'

Margaret had succeeded in capturing St Clair as her supper partner and had seated them at a little table apart from their fellow guests.

‘This is a most agreeable pigeon pie,' said St Clair.

‘Delicious.'

‘He shoots them himself, you know.'

‘I don't think I want to know that.'

‘And by the way, now I recollect when we saw each other once before. You were escorting a young lady to Mr Darrell's office. Rather, I should say a lady even younger than yourself,' he corrected himself with ponderous gallantry.

‘Thank you. That would be one of my temps, Miss Brown. It was her first day. I thought I'd better hold her hand.'

‘And what is this “temps”?'

‘Temporary. It covers a whole range of jobs.'

‘Industrial spy?'

‘Not according to her references. More your audio typist,' said Margaret, coolly concealing her shock.

‘The reason I ask is that I saw your Miss Brown prying into our host's confidential files. Very unusual behaviour for a so-called “temp” on her first day, wouldn't you say?'

‘Oh, that's our Miss Brown all over, I'm afraid. A compulsive Nosy Parker.'

‘A common failure, Mrs Mottram.'

‘Isn't it just, Mr St Clair? Would you excuse me? I'm not sure the pigeon pie was as agreeable as we thought.' St Clair rose and bowed as Margaret made her escape with as much dignity as she could muster.

Emerging a short while later from an upstairs bathroom where she'd been restoring her equilibrium as much as her make-up, Margaret happened to pass the open door of Darrell's study and heard him talking on the phone. ‘You don't sound surprised? You
knew
they were staying here? How did you know? I didn't know myself until two days ago.' Margaret dawdled outside, pretending an interest in a nearby picture. ‘Then did your little bird tell you who the hell they are and why they're asking questions about your operation?... That's right!... Don't give me that – we all have something to hide in this business – Norton and West more than most operations, am I right?' Darrell suddenly noticed that his door was open and kicked it shut. Margaret, seeing that one of Darrell's weirder guests was heading towards her, was forced to abandon her listening post and make for the stairs.

Coffee and liqueurs were being served in the great hall. Margaret ran Charters and Caldicott to earth there and helped herself to half Caldicott's brandy before saying grimly, ‘Those pigeons we ate for dinner. I think between us we've set the cat among them.' 

After such an unpromising start to their weekend's investigations, Charters and Caldicott decided to cut their losses and concentrate on the more traditional country pursuits. The following morning, clad and equipped for fishing, they strode through the deserted great hall and out into the fresh air. As they paused to assess the weather, a car sped down the drive and drew up beside them. A smart, young accountant-type got out, retrieved his slim-line, black executive case and weekend grip from the back seat and nodded coolly to them. They nodded back and were about to continue on their way when Josh Darrell called down to them from his balcony, ‘Meet Gordon Wrigley.'

Charters and Caldicott turned back civilly to greet a fellow guest.

‘Of Norton and West,' said the newcomer, making no move to shake their outstretched hands.

‘Ah,' said Caldicott.

‘You wanted to see me?' said Wrigley.

There was a pause. ‘Yes,' said Caldicott.

‘A proposition?'

‘Yes. Well, you see, the thing is,' Caldicott stammered after an even longer pause, ‘Charters and I are inordinately fond of Birdade, aren't we Charters?'

‘Inordinately.'

‘Glad to hear it,' said Wrigley.

‘Drink it all the time, don't we, Charters?'

‘Perpetually.'

‘Good. And what's your proposition?'

‘Well not so much a proposition, just an idea, really,' said Caldicott, cornered. ‘We thought, Charters and I, that what Birdade could do with is a slogan.'

‘A slogan?'

‘Yes.'

‘What slogan?'

‘Tell him your slogan, Charters.'

‘Very well,' said Charters, rising loyally to the challenge. ‘For what it's worth – “Birdade – gives you back your fizz”.'

‘Of course, that's only a rough draft,' said Caldicott hurriedly.

‘“Birdade – gives you back your fizz”,' Wrigley repeated.

‘Something along those lines,' said Caldicott.

‘I'll think about it.'

‘Do. Well, we have an appointment with some trout,' said Caldicott, beginning to shuffle away.

‘Don't let me keep you. See you at lunch.'

‘Look forward to it,' said Charters, joining Caldicott in undignified retreat.

‘We'll have another chat,' said Caldicott. Their tactical withdrawal turned into a disorderly rout.

Wrigley, totally bemused, looked up at the balcony from which Darrell, amused and intrigued, had watched Charters' and Caldicott's discomfiture. Darrell shrugged elaborately.

Charters and Caldicott reached the sanctuary of the river­bank and fished for some time in silence. ‘I've just made a discovery,' said Caldicott finally. ‘There are some moments in life so hairy that even fishing can't blot them out.'

‘Yes, it
was
rather embarrassing. But of course it was meant to be. Shock tactics, Caldicott. Trying to find out what our game is.'

‘I'll tell you one thing. I couldn't possibly face that Norton and West chap at lunch.'

‘Nor I. I think we should run for it.'

‘The old telegram trick?'

‘They don't have telegrams now, more's the pity. I'll say we've had an urgent telephone call. Your sister ill – that should sound convincing.'

‘I haven't got a sister.'

‘Very well, then,
my
sister.'

‘Better.'

With escape in sight, they both cheered up. Charters consulted his watch. ‘If we left at once, we could be back for the start of play.'

‘Good-oh. Which is it to be? Lord's or the Oval?'

‘Difficult question. Middlesex are in good form but on the other hand I wouldn't mind seeing Surrey thrashed.'

‘We could do Lord's this morning and the Oval after lunch,' Caldicott suggested.

‘No, no, no – far too unsettling. We'll decide this in the traditional way.'

Caldicott nodded and produced a coin. ‘Heads Middlesex v Warwicks, tails Surrey v Essex. Agreed?' He threw the coin up but the result went unheeded. Gregory was standing motionless on the opposite bank, staring across at them.

‘Who killed Helen Appleyard?' Gregory called.

‘That's what a good many people would like to know,' said Caldicott.