Fatal Quest (18 page)

‘Tongue?' Smithers said. ‘“Silver” Tongue? Was 'e involved in all this?'

‘You know he was.'

‘Listen very carefully,' Smithers said. ‘It's
possible
I was in the Waterman's on that afternoon, though I'll deny it if I'm pushed. And it's possible –
if I was there
– that I saw a fight break out in which nobody was meant to get seriously 'urt, but somebody ended up dead. But it really is as simple as that. There's no conspiracy to uncover – no deep dark secrets I'm trying to 'ide from you. All that 'appened was that a simple accident occurred.'

‘Well, all that certainly sounds plausible enough,' Woodend said. ‘But if that
is
what happened, how do you explain Tongue's involvement?'

‘I can't,' Smithers told him. ‘Because if somebody asked him to fit up Jimmy Machin, that somebody certainly wasn't me!'

T
he single-decker bus creaked and wheezed its way along the country lanes like an old donkey which it would have been no more than a kindness to have had put down. The driver, as venerable as his vehicle, crunched the gears with regularity, hooted his horn occasionally, and maintained a low, muttered monologue which seemed to be aimed at no one in particular. Only the conductor, a thin young man with a rash on his neck and a home-rolled cigarette between his fingers, seemed to be enjoying the journey.

It was hard to believe they were only a few miles away from central London, Woodend thought, as he shifted position in an attempt to make himself as comfortable as he could on a seat which had been designed to take a much smaller man.

‘Are you all right?' he asked his wife.

‘I'm fine,' Joan replied.

But she wasn't. From the moment that they'd left their tiny flat that Sunday morning, she'd seemed entirely wrapped up in her own thoughts. She'd said nothing to him as they'd travelled by the underground to the last station on the line, and left it entirely up to Woodend to discover which bus they had to take for the next stage of their expedition. And though she had always loved the countryside – even in winter – she was making absolutely no comment on it now.

The bus had ground to a protesting halt in several small villages, and people had got off at each stop, so that now the Woodends were the only remaining passengers.

‘It's further than I thought it would be,' Charlie said.

And Joan said nothing.

They reached a T-junction, where an even narrower lane ran off the lane they were now on, and the bus stopped again.

‘This is it, mate,' the conductor said cheerfully.

‘This is what?' Woodend asked, looking around and seeing nothing but bare trees and naked hedgerows.

‘This is Thamesview Lane.'

‘Are you sure? I don't see any houses,' Woodend said.

The conductor chuckled. ‘There ain't no view of the Thames, eivver, but walk for 'alf a mile down that lane over there, and yer'll have both.'

‘I suppose we'd better get off, then,' Woodend said to Joan.

‘Yes, I suppose we better had,' Joan agreed reluctantly. Then, as she began to descend the steps to the lane, she turned to the conductor and said, ‘Can you tell me when the next bus back is, please?'

‘They're every two hours,' the conductor replied.

‘Every two hours!' Joan repeated bleakly.

The bus slowly pulled away again, and Joan watched its departure with a mournful look in her eye.

Woodend took her hand, and led her towards Thamesview Lane. ‘Soon be there,' he said optimistically.

‘Hmm,' Joan replied noncommittally.

Woodend sighed. ‘Look, I'm sorry it's taken us so long to get here, luv,' he said. ‘But it won't always be like this. I've been doin' my sums, an' I think that next year we should be able to afford a little second-hand car – maybe a Wolseley – to do our runnin' around in.'

Joan stopped walking. ‘It's not the time it's taking us to get there that's botherin' me, Charlie,' she said.

‘No?'

‘No! What's botherin' me is why we're goin' there
at all
.'

‘We were invited.'

‘Yes, but
why
were we invited?'

‘Commander Cathcart wants to have a talk with me.'

‘An' couldn't he have done that much more easily in the city, one day in the week?'

‘Perhaps. But he also said that he wanted to meet you, an' have us meet his missus. Remember, I did serve with him in the War.'

‘An' did you save his life or somethin'?' Joan asked.

‘Why do you ask that?'

‘Because every time I meet one of your old mates from the army, he always seems to have a story about how you saved his life.'

Woodend laughed. ‘Everybody saved everybody else's life in them days,' he said. ‘Besides, I was a sergeant – it was my duty to look after my men.'

‘But you didn't save
Commander Cathcart's
life?' Joan persisted.

‘Nay, lass, by the time him an' me ended up servin' together, most of the fightin' was over.'

‘Then I still don't see why we've been “honoured” with an invitation to his house for Sunday lunch,' Joan said, but, despite her doubts, she began walking down the lane again.

They turned a corner in the lane, and the Cathcarts' house was suddenly laid out in front of them.

‘Bloody hell!' Woodend said.

Joan tugged at his arm. ‘I want to go home, Charlie,' she said.

And though he didn't want to admit it, Woodend could quite see her point.

The house was a substantial tile and brick building which just fell short of being a mansion, and it did not so much
stand
on the bank of the river as loom
over
it. There were, Woodend calculated as he counted the upstairs windows, at least twelve bedrooms. And if the house itself was not enough to impress, there were also the gardens which surrounded it, and managed, even in winter, to maintain an air of grandeur and elegance.

‘What? No struttin' peacocks?' Woodend said jovially. ‘I expected there to be at least a
few
of them.'

‘It's not funny, Charlie,' Joan said. ‘It's not somethin' you can just laugh away. Look at them cars.'

It was indeed an impressive array, Woodend was forced to concede. There were Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, and Jaguars. There was even a Wolseley, though this particular model was almost large enough to have fitted the modest one Woodend was contemplating buying in its boot.

‘Did you hear what I said just now, Charlie?' Joan demanded.

‘About it not bein' funny?'

‘No – that I want to go home.'

‘We
can't
go home, even if you
do
want to. You heard what the conductor said. There won't be another bus along for two hours.'

‘I don't care. We'll go back to the bus stop, an' wait for it anyway.'

‘Waitin' there won't make it come any quicker.'

‘I know.'

‘An' there's no bus shelter, or even a bench to sit on.'

‘Then I'll stand. I don't mind.'

‘What exactly is it that's botherin' you, luv?' Woodend asked solicitously. ‘Is it all them flashy cars?'

‘No,' Joan replied. ‘It's not the cars themselves – it's the folk that can afford to run them.'

‘The folk who've come to lunch?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Do you think they're better than us?' Woodend asked.

‘No, of course I don't,' Joan said, though with not quite as much conviction as her husband would have liked.

‘Then what
is
your problem?'

Joan took a deep breath. ‘You're right,' she said. ‘I shouldn't have a problem. After all, you're a decorated war hero …'

‘Give over,' Woodend said awkwardly.

‘… an' I'm a real little peach of a woman.'

‘You'll get no argument from me on that score.'

‘So let's go to this party an' enjoy ourselves.'

‘That's my girl,' Woodend said.

Given the grandeur of the house, Woodend would not have been entirely surprised if they'd been met at the door by a butler kitted out in full livery. But instead, his ring on the door bell was answered by Commander Cathcart himself, accompanied by a strikingly attractive and very elegant woman in her mid-thirties.

‘How nice that you could make it, Charlie!' Cathcart said – and he did sound genuinely pleased. He turned his attention to Joan. ‘And this, I take it, is Mrs Woodend?'

‘Yes, it is,' Woodend confirmed.

Cathcart held his hand out to Joan. ‘I'm delighted to meet you at last, Mrs Woodend – or may I call you Joan?'

‘Please do,' Joan said.

Cathcart performed another slight twist, so he was looking at the woman next to him. ‘And this is
my
wife, Margaret.'

The woman laughed. ‘Arthur is such a stuffed shirt that he will insist in introducing me that way,' she said. ‘I'd be grateful if you'd ignore him, and call me Peggy – like everyone else in the whole world does.'

Cathcart grinned, perhaps a little ruefully.

‘I'll try again,' he said. ‘This is my wife,
Peggy
. Shall we go inside?'

Cathcart led them through a large hallway into an even larger lounge.

At one end of the lounge, there was a large oak table on which had been placed half a dozen kinds of glasses and a seemingly endless variety of drinks. Behind the table stood a crisply uniformed waiter. His eyes were as alert as those of any sentry on duty in a war zone, and his general demeanour suggested that when it came to a desire to please, he could leave a puppy dog standing.

At the other end of the room was another long table, covered with a white linen tablecloth. It was piled high with plates, but the promised buffet had, as yet, to appear. The space in the middle of the room was occupied by perhaps two dozen people, all well dressed and all exuding an air of self-assurance which could only have been inherited.

If Joan made a dash for the door now, he would not entirely blame her, Woodend told himself.

But worse was yet to follow.

‘Drinks first!' Cathcart announced. He was clicking his fingers – only lightly, but enough to have the waiter scurry across the room in record time. ‘What would you like, Joan?'

‘I'll have a sweet sherry, please,' Joan said.

For an instant, Cathcart's eyes fluttered. ‘I'm not sure we have a
sweet
sherry, as such,' he said, ‘but I happen to know we have a rather fine old amontillado, if that will serve instead.'

‘That would be lovely,' Joan replied, in a voice which managed to blend the confused with the totally miserable.

‘And what about you, Charlie?'

‘I'll have a beer, if you've got one.'

Cathcart laughed. ‘I should
say
we've got beer, old chap,' he said. ‘Barrels of the stuff. I'll tell you later why that is. And now we've got the serious business out of the way, why don't we leave the ladies alone to get to know one another properly, while we find a quiet corner where we can talk about the old days?'

Woodend saw the look of panic well up in Joan's eyes, and said, ‘If you don't mind, sir, we'd appreciate a few minutes to get our bearings.'

‘Get your bearings!' Cathcart repeated. ‘What nonsense! We've got a lot of fat to chew over which would bore the ladies half to death, and you've no need to worry about Joan, because Margaret – Peggy, I should say – is perfectly capable of keeping her amused. Isn't that right, darling?'

‘Of course it is,' Peggy agreed, with a smile.

Cathcart placed a hand firmly on Woodend's shoulder, and steered him away from the women.

They did not move far – no more than a few feet. But then, Woodend assumed – though knowing nothing about it – in cocktail-party circles a few feet was all you
needed
to move in order to signal that you were having a private conversation.

‘I'll always be grateful for the privilege of having spent time in Berlin in '45,' Cathcart said. ‘I can't say it was a particularly
pleasant
experience, but an
experience
it certainly was.'

‘I know what you mean,' Woodend said, but his thoughts were not really on Cathcart, but on the woman Cathcart had forced him to abandon.

Joan looked distraught, but if Peggy Cathcart had noticed that, it certainly wasn't showing in her animated expression and extravagant gestures.

Woodend strained his ears in an effort to hear what was being said, and found that, despite the surrounding hubbub, it wasn't too difficult.

‘I sometimes feel that while Arthur and I both love this house dearly, it's really rather selfish of us to live here,' Peggy Cathcart was saying.

‘Selfish?' Woodend heard Joan echo. ‘How do you mean?'

‘Perhaps “selfish” wasn't quite the right word,' Peggy conceded. ‘What I really meant, I suppose, was
inconsiderate
.'

‘Who to?'

‘To our visitors, of course. We invite our friends to lunch with gay abandon, not giving a second's thought to how long it will take them to get here, or how difficult it is to find the place. I can't tell you how many people have arrived late, simply because they've spent hours lost down these country lanes of ours. Of course, I don't imagine you had that difficulty, not with your Charlie driving. He looks like a man who knows
exactly
where he's going, and I expect he didn't take a
single
wrong turning.'

Poor Joan, Woodend thought, wondering if she'd have the nerve to admit that they hadn't actually come by car.

‘No, we had no difficulty at all,' Joan agreed. ‘But then, Charlie didn't
have to
know the way.'