Choice of Evils (2 page)

‘Yes, now that I think of it, of course I've heard you
talk about Gallmouth/ Peter said. T m being stupid. But since you're here, and there actually is a festival, do you think I could persuade you to come and listen to me?’

‘When would that be?’

‘This evening at eight o'clock in the Pegasus Theatre. Where are you staying?’

‘In the Dolphin, as usual.’

‘Yes, of course. Well, I could pick you up and take you along. I assume you haven't a car.’

‘No, I haven't.’

‘Oh, do come, Andrew.’ Peter sounded genuinely eager.

‘Well, perhaps, if you want me to,’ Andrew said. ‘But what are you going to talk about? I didn't know you'd added public speaking to your other talents.’

‘I haven't, that's the trouble.’ Peter laughed. ‘I've hardly ever opened my mouth in public before, and I'm as nervous as a cat on hot bricks. Not that I'm actually going to have to say a lot. There are going to be three of us on the platform, and we're each going to give a short talk on our own line of work, and how we came to choose it, and that sort of thing. Then the audience, if there is one, will sling questions at us, the thought of which doesn't much frighten me, because they're always the same. I've answered them a dozen times. Then I believe we drink coffee and then we go home. I've written my talk, of course, and only have to read it, so I shouldn't have let myself get worked up about it. But you know what a nervous character I am.’

Andrew did not believe for a moment in Peter's nervousness. He was probably looking forward with great satisfaction to the thought of appearing on a platform and hearing himself speak.

‘Who are the other two who are going to be appearing with you?’ he asked.

‘Well, good old Todhunter, for one.’ Peter said. 'She'll be talking about writing for children.’

Todhunter - Mina Todhunter!’ Andrew pointed at the shop window full of her works. ‘You mean this lady, whose stories I used to have to read to you when you were an infant. Is she still alive? She must be very old.’

‘I shouldn't think she's much more than seventy,’ Peter said, ‘if that. But take a look at what's written up there.’

He moved a little way back from the window and pointed at what was written above it. Andrew looked up and saw the words Todhunter's Bookshop, there in bold black capitals on a white background.

'She owns this shop then?’ Andrew said.

‘Yes, and I've got to go in in a minute and speak to her,’ Peter answered.

'She's a local figure?’

‘Very much so.’

‘And who's the third person who'll be appearing with you?’

'Simon Amory.’

'Simon Amory!’ Andrew was startled.
‘Death Come Quickly
Amory?’

‘That's right,’ Peter said.

‘He's a friend of yours?’

Death Come Quickly
was the title of a play that had been running in the West End for two years, and that had been filmed and televised, after originally appearing, about four years before, quite modestly as a novel by an unknown author.

‘Well, I know him slightly and I'm staying with him for the weekend,’ Peter said.

‘If he's in on this thing you're involved in this evening,’ Andrew said, ‘it's a little more of an event than you've just suggested.’

‘Not really. He happens to live here, and when the local Arts Council decided to have authors speaking in their festival, the first thing they did, naturally, was invite him to be one of the speakers.’

‘And where do you come in?’ Andrew asked.

Peter took a few steps towards the second shop window, into which Andrew had not yet looked. Following Peter, he saw that the window contained a display of the works of Simon Amory and of Peter Dilly. Numbers of Peter's most successful novel, called
Whalewater
, were there. It was a story of how, by a miracle of genetic engineering, a whale had been developed that could fly as well as swim, which naturally was taken over eagerly by military Intelligence because of its remarkable usefulness in overland and underwater spying. The book had been filmed and had made a rich man of Peter.

‘You see,’ he said with a little smile, ‘I'm not unknown.’

‘Of course not,’ Andrew said, ‘but how did you get to know Amory?’

‘We met at a Foyle's luncheon,’ Peter replied, ‘and this affair down here was just being organized and he seemed to think I was the sort of thing they wanted. Anyway, a few days later I got a formal invitation from the committee to speak, and an informal invitation from Amory to spend the weekend with him. I'm rather regretting it now, but at the time it sounded entertaining.’

‘Why are you regretting it? Don't you like him?’ Andrew asked.

Peter hesitated very slightly before he answered, ‘Oh yes, I like him, but I can't make him out. He puzzles me. But now I've got to go in here and speak to Miss Tod- hunter. Amory suddenly decided to give a small dinner party this evening before the show and he wants me to ask her to attend. Come in with me and meet her. I haven't met her myself yet, so I can't promise you what she'll be like, but I'm sure she'll be charming. Amory seems to be devoted to her.’

Andrew laughed and shook his head.

‘I'll leave her to you. And I think I'll be getting back to the Dolphin. If you have any time to spare while you're
down here, telephone me there and we'll arrange to have lunch or something together. We don't normally see as much of each other as I'd like.’

‘But aren't you coming to the show tonight?’ Peter sounded really dismayed. ‘Oh, do come, Andrew. I was sure you would.’

‘Well, I'll think about it. I'll see how I feel when I've had a couple of drinks. Now I'll leave you to the lady inside. You could thank her from me for all the help she gave me with keeping you quiet when you were very young. I wonder if her Mr Thinkum had sowed the seeds in you of your great scientists in
Whalewater.’
For Mr Thinkum, like Peter's whale, using his umbrella as a sail, could fly. ‘Goodbye for now.’

Andrew put a hand on Peter's shoulder for a moment, then turned to retrace his steps down the mall and the esplanade towards the Dolphin, while Peter went into Mina Todhunter's shop.

Andrew was in his bedroom at the Dolphin, thinking of going down to the bar for the two drinks of which he had spoken to Peter, when the telephone rang.

He assumed that it was Peter ringing, since no one else knew where he was, and he felt a certain gratitude for the sound because it cut across the thoughts, or rather lack of thoughts, with which he had been occupied for the last half hour. He had an unfortunate habit, when nothing else occupied his mind, of letting scraps of verse, or sometimes of songs, repeat themselves endlessly and meaninglessly in it. They were nearly always fragments which he supposed had meant something to him in his childhood and which had somehow lingered on in his brain when they had ceased to have any interest for him. If he had managed to repeat to himself lines from Shakespeare, say, or Milton, or Donne, he might, he sometimes fancied, have derived some pleasure from what he had
remembered, but those, however much he venerated them, would not stay securely in his head, while he might be troubled for a whole day at a time by nursery rhymes, or commonplace jingles.

When the telephone rang he was muttering to himself some lines from the
Bab Ballads.

How many times he had repeated it since parting with Peter he had no idea, but it was irritating him deeply that he could not blot it from his mind. He snatched up the telephone and said, ‘Yes?’

But it was not Peter who spoke. It was an unfamiliar voice, deeper than Peter'S, smooth and rather cold, though what followed was friendly.

‘Professor Basnett?’

‘Yes,’ Andrew repeated.

‘My name's Amory,’ the voice said. 'Simon Amory. Peter's told me that you're a relative of his.’

‘His uncle, actually,’ Andrew answered.

‘And that you met by chance in the town this afternoon. I think he told you about the show we're putting on this evening, he and I and dear Mina Todhunter, and that you were going to come along to listen to us. I expect he also told you that he's staying with me and that I'm laying on a small dinner party before the event. It would give me great pleasure if you would join us.’

‘That's very kind of you,’ Andrew said, though he was not aware that he had actually promised Peter that he would attend the performance in the Pegasus Theatre. ‘If it isn't putting you to any trouble…’

‘None at all. We'll be delighted to have you. I'll send
the car for you. It's quite informal. Just a few friends. Well, we'll pick you up about half past six, if that's all right with you. Very early, I'm afraid, but as the show starts at eight it seemed better to be early than having to rush our drinks and our meal. I look forward to meeting you. Goodbye.’

The ringing tone sang in Andrew's ear.

He put his own instrument down and stood still for a minute, thinking over what had just happened.
Just a few friends. He had before this accepted invitations to parties which were to consist of just a few friends and on arriving had found at least thirty people gathered together, all in evening dress. He hoped such a thing was not going to happen this evening. Following his trip from London and then his stroll about the town, he was distinctly tired and in spite of wanting to please Peter, would have preferred a quiet dinner by himself and the chance to go early to bed. However, he had committed himself now and it would be advisable, he thought, even if he was to meet only a few friends of Simon Amory, to change out of the slacks and pullover that he was wearing, and to put on the one dark suit that he had brought with him. When this was done he went downstairs and waited in the lounge for whoever it was who was coming to fetch him.

It was Peter who came and he was driving a Rolls.

When he saw Andrew admiring the car, he grinned and said, ‘You didn't know I'd risen to this, did you? Nice, isn't it?’

‘Is it really yours?’ Andrew asked.

‘Damn it, you always see through me,’ Peter said. ‘No, it's Simon's. I've still got my Mercedes, which is very nice too, but not in this thing's class. Well, hop in and we'll get going.’

They both got into the car and Peter turned it in front of the hotel and took it down the short drive to the gates that led out to the main street.

It was dusk and the streetlamps had all been lit. Only the sea was an expanse of darkness. Once in the street, Peter turned to the right, the road mounting a steep hill which soon left the houses behind. Between the road and the cliff-top the space was wooded with beech trees that even in the twilight it could be seen were covered in the splendid copper of autumn.

‘Now, tell me what I'm actually in for,’ Andrew said. ‘A few friends - that can mean anything. And different people have different ideas about informality.’

‘Oh, you needn't worry,’ Peter said. ‘I think we'll only be about half a dozen. You and I and Todhunter and Simon and the Chairman of the festival, a man called Edward Clarke, and a woman who's some sort of relation of Simon's. Her name's Rachel Rayne. She's just arrived from America and I don't know much about her.’

‘Isn't Amory married?’

‘He was, but she died, I think it was five or six years ago. Leukaemia, I believe. The curious thing is that he didn't start writing until after her death. I suppose it may have begun as a way of filling the gap, but with the fantastic success he had with that first book of his, I suppose it took him over, so to speak. Have you read it?’

‘I'm afraid I haven't.’

‘Or seen the play?’

‘No. But I saw a shortened version of it on television. I doubt if it was fair to him. For one thing it said that the book was by someone else and the television version was only based on characters created by him. If I'd been him I think I'd have been fairly disgusted.’

‘Well, it kept the money rolling in, I expect, so he was probably quite happy about it.’

‘What did he do before he took to writing?’

‘I think he was a chartered accountant.’

‘Here in Gallmouth?’

‘Oh no, in London. He's only lived full time in
Gallmouth for the last few years. He and his wife saw a house here when they were on a visit to friends and fell in love with it and bought it for when he retired. But she died and never lived here.’

‘Peter, you said this afternoon that he puzzled you. What did you mean by that?’

Peter did not reply at once. He peered ahead of him up the road that was lit by the long shaft from the car's headlights.

Then he said, T said that, did I?’

‘Yes,’ Andrew replied.

‘Well, I shouldn't have. I didn't really mean anything.’

‘Oh, come on, of course you meant something. What was it?’

‘I suppose I was thinking …’ Peter paused, then went on hesitantly. ‘It's probably absurd, but I can't get rid of a feeling that he dislikes me. Yet he pressed me to come down to do this show tonight, and then to come and spend the weekend with him, and he's never been anything but pleasant and friendly to me. So it's probably some feeling in myself that's worrying me. Jealousy, for instance. I've done well enough in my way, but it can't compare with what's happened to him. And because I don't like the idea that I'm capable of such cheap jealousy, I've transferred the feeling on to him.’

'Sounds complicated,’ Andrew observed.

‘Yet you know what I mean.’

‘I suppose I do, but I've never noticed any undue signs of jealousy in your character. I'll wait and see what I make of him myself.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Peter had slowed the car down outside a gate in a high stone wall. The gate was open and he turned the car in at it. ‘I admire him, you know, and I want to be liked by him, but I've got this queer feeling … Perhaps the fact is that I'm a little afraid of him.’

He drove along a drive under two tall rows of chestnuts,
splendidly copper-coloured like the beeches on the cliff. Andrew saw a house ahead of them, not as large as the approach to it had led him to expect, a building of only two storeys, with small windows in its stone walls and a small porch jutting out over an oaken front door. Lawns spread out to right and left of the house, with what looked like stables joined on to one end of it, and a summerhouse among some holly bushes a little way off from it on the other. There were lights in all the ground-floor windows. As the car stopped in front of the entrance the door opened.