The Case of the Missing Bronte (11 page)

‘What have you got to sell?'

‘Hmmm. Highly dubious Reynolds, and a bit of family silver. He won't bite, and I wouldn't blame him. Still, I thought I'd pop along. Look at them — they're streaming in. We'd better get a bit closer if we're going to have a word.'

And so they were — or at least, they were coming in a steady trickle, with alternately brazen and slightly embarrassed airs. All grades and styles of gentry and near-misses were there, and coming on for twenty-five in the room already. I followed my guide, and as we began edging our way to what was obviously the focus of attention, Frank Witteringham muttered:

‘What
are
you selling, then?'

‘Nothing.'

‘What the hell are you here for, then?'

‘Official. I want a word with him.'

‘Oh, great. That'll put him in a splendid mood, won't it? I'm going first, young Trethowan.'

And it seemed only right I should let him. Particularly as I wanted to get a good look first. I stood by, watching
Frank Witteringham do his piece, and taking in the setup. It all looked so casual and spontaneous. There was James L. Parfitt, standing there, glass in hand, all geniality, as if he were an ordinary man like the rest of us. He was dressed in a superb light-weight suit, and a sober tie; his hair was highlighted silver, and his tan was coffee-cream and even all over. He was tall, distinguished, with the remains of handsomeness about him, and a supremely confident and relaxed manner. But there was also something unreal, as if he were an actor, already made-up, and beginning his performance.

He listened to Frank Witteringham like a Renaissance prince lending an interested and concerned ear to the tale of a loyal peasant. As the meagre extent of Frank's offering became clear, I caught his eye shifting from him and wandering round the room, but only when he knew Frank was not looking. In no time Frank was passed on to a young man standing casually near — a dark-suited, bespectacled young man, no doubt a secretary, rather resembling those young men in the Watergate saga who were always telling you about their Methodist upbringing, and how they and their wives went down on their knees each night and prayed on either side of the matrimonial bed. He took Frank's name with an appearance of interest, and then he was handed on to say hello to Mrs Parfitt, who had collected a little group of prime notables around her. He said hello, but he was not collected, and he then drifted off into the outer darkness. By then I was myself talking to the Great Man, and feeling as if I'd barged into a Neil Simon play.

‘I'm afraid I'm here under false pretences,' I opened. ‘I wanted to have a couple of words with you, and I was sent up by the receptionist under the impression I was one of the guests.'

‘No harm done, no harm done,' said James L., with limitless geniality. But I registered that his eyes were
beginning to stray. ‘Was it something we could get through fairly quickly?'

‘By all means,' I said. ‘I'm from Scotland Yard — '

‘Scotland Yard! Well! This is an event! You'll have to have a word with my wife. She's mad about your English detective stories.' He suddenly lowered his voice. ‘But, say now, I hope there's nothing wrong with anyone
here?'

‘No, no,' I said hastily, to dispel the idea of a spectre at the feast. Nothing but upper-class sharks here. ‘No reason to think that at all. It's just that — well, some publicity has been given to your presence here, as a collector . . . I wonder, by the way, why you came to the North of England?'

‘Well, there's no mystery about that.' He lowered his voice, though. ‘Just keep it under your hat. I'd heard that the big houses in the North were great untapped sources of the sort of thing I'm after. And the people not so — well, so grasping as those down South. Not so in touch with the market.'

Mugs, he meant. I felt like saying I wouldn't bank on it.

‘Ah — I see. What I wanted to ask was whether you've been offered, while you've been here, a manuscript — '

‘Several, naturally — '

‘By the Brontës. By one of the Brontë sisters.'

He didn't bat an eyelid. But I noticed that his eyes had stopped straying too.

‘Regretfully no. Nothing so interesting, as yet. Mind you, there's a mountain of that stuff around in the States. Mostly bought years ago, and a lot of it finding its way into libraries by now.'

‘You haven't got any Brontë material yourself?'

‘Nothing to speak of, Inspector. It's a big collection, you understand, and I don't have it all in my head . . . There's a poem by Emily Brontë, I remember, bought by my father, back in the 'twenties, I'd guess. Oh, and one of
those little childish books. I guess that's about it.'

‘You haven't been interested in that sort of stuff yourself?'

‘I'm interested in everything, Mr Trethowan. But especially interested? Well, no. My father had a nice little collection of manuscripts that I inherited, and when I came to enlarge it, I decided to go for the Romantics. I guess you can say I went for the best. But that's certainly not to say I wouldn't be interested . . .'

‘But you've had no offer of that kind to date?'

‘No, sir.'

‘We'd be most obliged to you if you'd get in touch with us if you should be approached — either the Yard, or the local police.'

‘Indeed I will. I'm very careful about that kind of thing, as the New York police will testify, if you get on to them. But tell me, Mr Trethowan, you've raised my interest now, and you'll have to appease it — what is the precise nature of this manuscript? I'll need to know, won't I, in case I'm offered it. Is it one of the juvenile manuscripts?'

I went carefully. ‘I think not, though it looks very like them. It's a work of prose . . . It could be a novel, or part of a novel . . .'

He whistled. ‘You mean a mature work, then. Wow! That would be something big.'

‘Well, I won't take up any more of your time, Mr Parfitt — '

‘Do you have any more details, I mean — '

‘Let's just say, sir, that we'd be glad to be told if you hear of
anything
in that line.'

‘Cagey, Inspector. Well, I surely will have you informed.' He smiled a cool but friendly smile. As I was shunted forward to the secretary I noticed an almost imperceptible shake of the head from Parfitt, caught by the secretary's sharp little eyes. He shook my hand with
excessive bonhomie, but he did not take my name. As I was handed down the conveyor belt to Mrs Parfitt, her husband called out:

‘You must talk to Mr Trethowan, darling. He's one of your Scotland Yard detectives.'

‘Oh
really?'
said Mrs Parfitt, turning aside from one Duke, one Countess, and a couple of knights of the shire. ‘How fascinating! I can see you
must
be. Just my idea of Roderick Alleyn!'

I thought Roderick Alleyn a bit of a stick. I became stick-like.

‘Are
all
the policemen at Scotland Yard gentlemen of the old school, like they are in detective stories?' asked Mrs Parfitt. She obviously read an old-fashioned sort of detective story, but everything else about her was bang up-to-date. She was twenty years younger than her husband: a highly desirable thirty-five, with immaculate hair, immaculately made-up face, immaculate figure, but with a touch of steel-plating about it.

‘Not all of us,' I answered. ‘Most of us even have a bit of trouble with our French, like Fox.'

‘Oh, you read them, then!' She turned on one of those special for-you-alone smiles that Americans are so good at. ‘I thought you'd be sure to despise them. And what are you doing here — are you checking up on His Grace?' She smiled in the direction of the Duke of Hull.

‘No, indeed. I'm actually checking up on a missing Brontë manuscript.'

‘Really? And could my husband help you?'

‘Not as yet, anyway. You haven't heard of it?'

‘Oh no. Where manuscripts are concerned I'm a dimwit. I couldn't tell one of those dreary sisters from the other. Furniture is my thing — my very special passion in life.' She turned a fraction of an inch back towards the Duke, who must surely have been well-furnished.
‘So
pleased to have met you, Mr Trethowan.' She had
remembered my name, with that miraculous transatlantic faculty for such things. The smile, though, was one of super-cordial dismissal. I slipped out of the charmed circle.

Back by the door I took a deep breath. All that suaveness, and well-oiled charm, and money, took it out of one. However did they keep it up? I took a whisky from a passing tweeny, who smiled and sketched a curtsey. I decided she must be a recent graduate of drama school, unemployed. The local toffs were still wandering in, nervous but hopeful smiles engraved on their well-bred, under-chinned faces. I looked at them as if it were an identity parade, and they swerved off in the other direction. However, Frank Witteringham wandered along to where I stood, holding two whiskies.

‘So that I can say my journey was not entirely wasted,' he explained.

‘No luck?'

‘The nicest possible cold shoulder. Why would he be interested in a dubious Reynolds of one of my ancestors? There's the Duke with a Poussin, some of the best Chippendale in the country, and a Hilliard miniature — all discreetly on offer. Did you get what you came for?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I don't think I did.'

I downed my whisky, made fond farewells to Mr Witteringham, most likely never to meet for another twenty years, and went out into the corridor. No, I didn't think I had got what I had come for. I ignored the lift and started off thoughtfully down the stairs. If James L. Parfitt was a crook, he was a good deal better at it than the bumbling amateurs I had met hitherto. One had the sense of dealing with class, in that as in every other respect. There had not been a flicker when I mentioned my profession or my business. He had expressed a healthy and natural interest in the nature of the manuscript. Of
course, one had the impression throughout of an incredibly quiet machine, performing its functions. Mrs Parfitt had even managed ‘His Grace'. But it would be in the nature of things that the whole operation would be smooth. American millionaires must run a very neat ship. No, there was no reason at all to suspect Mr James L. Parfitt.

It was as I descended the last flight, down into the pink plush of the foyer, that something happened. I was aware, out of the corner of my eye, of two figures entering the swing door of the hotel. They turned naturally in the direction of my staircase, but as they caught sight of me descending they did the smoothest of about turns and marched straight out into the street again. No doubt they were sure I hadn't seen them. I hardly had. But I recognized their shapes, and the backs of their heads. They were the two men I had seen coming out of Timothy Windlesham's office.

I could have run after them, of course, and tried to catch them up. But what could I have said to them if I had? Instead, I nipped over to the foyer window of the Royal Edward, and watched them walking through the car park outside, down to the street. They were going at a fast lick, straight ahead, almost marching, and by their size intimidating other casual walkers out of their way. At one point the taller of the two swung his head round purposefully and looked towards the hotel entrance. Satisfied, he swung it back, and kept on striding ahead. I watched them till I saw them swerve left towards Bridge
Street, then I streaked after them.

I kept well behind them, but my eyesight is good and I managed easily to keep them in view. They went down Bridge Street, past the Town Hall, then up Sunbridge Road. It's a straight hill, which helped me keep them in view. Once, again, the tall, fair one swung his head round to look behind him, but I was in a doorway inspecting the lower shelf of a display of ladies' slippers by the time he had focused on the street. I was pretty sure he had not seen me. On they went, now much more relaxed. They came to an intersection with a phone-box, and the taller went in while the other remained loitering outside. I became fascinated by what Bradford's Stereo Centre had to offer. After a minute he came out, looking puzzled and bad-tempered. He shook his head at his companion, and muttered something. Then they were off again. They plunged into that bewildering maze of hilly side-streets I'd driven around before. Left, right, left, up, down, into a shopping centre, into a market. Real thorough boys, these. Finally they turned into a large pub with a long frontage and a dimly-lit interior.

I lingered outside, peering through the mottled glass, but I could see nothing. I didn't want to go in before I was sure they had got their drinks and were perhaps settled down at a table. But mightn't they be watching the door for new arrivals? I noticed a tiny alley down one side of the pub, leading to a notice that said Saloon Bar. I nipped down and pushed the door open, and found myself in the sort of bar that only the furtive or the incurably respectable would patronize.

There was a door into the Public, and I found I had an excellent view of it. The two were leaning — looming, almost, they were so large — over the bar, and being served with pint mugs of — not beer, it seemed, but perhaps draught lager. I watched them try it, then wander away from the bar into the body of the cheerless,
wooded, high-ceilinged barn of a room. There were tables and benches in rows in the body of the place, and frosted glass panelling between them, making some attempt to produce a more intimate atmosphere. The men went away from me, and I saw them take seats on opposite sides of a table on the far side of a glass panel. I paid for my beer, an extra 2p or so, then to the barmaid's surprise I dodged through the door into the Public and strolled nonchalantly over to the table on the other side of the glass panel. The fair heads were unmistakable. I put my pint down on the table, and slid into the bench.