Frequent Hearses (18 page)

And that was the last time Humbleby saw him alive.

Morose and mistrustful, Tuesday’s dawn loitered in from the east like a trade unionist contemplating a strike. From the bedroom window of her Bloomsbury flat Judy Flecker looked out at it, and at the damp prospects it revealed, and sleepily sighed. Then she stripped off her pyjamas, bathed, dressed, cooked and ate her breakfast, and by eight o’clock was in the street. A short walk brought her to a bus stop at which, while waiting, she was able unemotionally to contemplate the massive colonnades of the British Museum; and the bus took her to Marylebone, most restful and appealing of the London termini, where she embarked on a train for Long Fulton.

By ten o’clock of a day which was to be the most eventful—as also the most sheerly terrifying—of her life, Judy had cleared up such routine work as the Music Department could provide, and was in Sound Stage Number Two, listening while the Philharmonia Orchestra, under Griswold’s direction, rehearsed and recorded the score for
Ticket for Hell.
Upon the screen in front of her two lovers, bereft of their sound-track, mouthed preposterously at each other; in the sound engineer’s glass-fronted control-room, behind her, the composer sat complacently imbibing through a substantial loudspeaker the noises he had contrived. The ticker on the wall spelled out the seconds; Griswold, with headphones adjusted and a cigarette in his mouth, glanced rapidly and continuously from the players to the score to the ticker to the screen; and music appropriate to its erotic context—susurration of strings, plangency of French horns, the oily sweetness of tubular bells and the aqueous ripple of harps—filled and overflowed the room. Not a bad score, Judy conceded: in his concert works Napier was a somewhat acrid modernist, but like most such composers he unbuttoned, becoming romantic and sentimental, when he was writing for the films.

Presently the take ended and the lights went up again. Someone came and sat down rather heavily in the canvas chair next to Judy’s, but for the moment, since the film’s Chief Editor had buttonholed her and was talking shop, she had no idea who it was. Only when the Chief Editor had taken himself off did she turn round to identify the newcomer.

It was David Crane.

His appearance there did not surprise Judy particularly, since in recent months he had developed the habit of drifting into her office at odd times of the day for a purpose which he seemed at a loss to isolate and define but which struck Judy as being in all probability fundamentally amorous. These irruptions were a nuisance, but with David Crane it was impossible ever to be seriously exasperated—and, moreover, his diffidence was such that it usually drove him away again, inchoately apologising, within five minutes of his arrival. Of all the Cranes, David, in spite of his intolerable
gaucherie,
was the one Judy liked best. The air of blank misgiving with, which he habitually faced the world aroused her protective and maternal instincts. He got little sympathy, she suspected, from his fellow-workers in the Script Department, and was consequently obliged to forage abroad for that commodity.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly. “How are things?”

“G-good morning, M-Miss Flecker.” Despite the studio vice of always using Christian names, he had never addressed her in terms less formal than these. “I hope I’m n-not in your w-way.”

Judy laughed. “Of course not. I’m slacking.” She stretched her long legs out luxuriously, noting in amused but not scornful tribute to his solid conventionality that he was wearing black. “And you?”

“I b-beg your pardon?”

“I mean, has the Script Department given you an hour off?” Rather a condescending turn of phrase, Judy reflected: he wasn’t, after all, an office-boy. But David, it seemed, had been born to be victimised, even by those who wished him well, and in his presence one’s language seemed to mould itself automatically into shapes of unintended derogation. Fortunately, he seemed quite incapable of taking offence.

“There’s n-not much d-doing this m-morning,” he said; and suddenly smiled. “And anyway, they n-never let me handle anything i-important because they’re afraid I should m-make a m-mess of it. So I can g-get away whenever I l-like, really.”

“What nonsense!” said Judy, who was none the less admitting to herself, with regret, that if this were so they were probably very wise.

“I d-don’t m-mind it, really. I’m quite happy just p-pot-tering about. No b-brains, that’s my trouble.”

Judy felt slightly embarrassed by this admission, which in candour it would have been difficult to gainsay. Rather awkwardly she changed the subject.

“And how is everybody at home?” she asked; in the circumstances—she realised as soon as the words were out—a fatuous and even slightly impertinent question. But again David seemed unconscious of the
blague.
He ran a hand through his scanty hair and applied himself to answering as earnestly and painstakingly as if some detailed piece of technical information had been required of him.

“M-mother’s all right,” he said. “B-but I c-can’t imagine anything ever really ups-setting her. N-Nick’s a b-bit jumpy, as you can imagine. And we h-haven’t h-heard from Madge at all.” All at once he looked wretched. “It’s h-horrible, isn’t it? About that g-girl, I m-mean.”

“Did you know her?”

“I m-met her for the f-first time at N-Nick’s p-party. She s-stayed with mother at Ch-Christmas, but I was away with Nick in Bermuda.”

“And I suppose you’d no idea what was going on?”

“No. N-none. They d-don’t confide in me m-much. B-but it’s a frightful d-disgrace. I c-could hardly b-bring myself to c-come here this m-morning. I f-felt I wanted to c-creep away and hide s-somewhere, like c-cats do when they’re ill.” Upon this zoological simile he paused; he was a man who rarely indulged in such advanced and literary tricks, and this present lapse must, Judy thought, be the issue of powerful emotions.

“No one,” she hastened to reassure him, “could possibly blame you, David.”

“No, I know, but you s-see, it’s a f-family affair. A m-matter,” he said simply, “of honour. Th-that’s how I s-see it, anyhow, though I suppose it’s v-very old-f-fashioned of me.”

“I think it’s a very proper feeling to have,” said Judy. “But you mustn’t,” she added firmly, “let it g-get—damn! sorry—get you down.”

He smiled. “It’s f-funny how c-catching a stammer is.”

“Anyway, it’s not as bad as my lisp,” said Judy repentantly. “I’m afraid that between us we must sound like the ‘Before’ section of an Elocution School advertisement.”

“Oh n-no. I l-like your lisp.” David flushed. “It’s very attractive.”

“Plebeian,” Judy countered severely. “I’ve studied the subject, and I know. You hardly ever get it in the middle and upper classes.”

David appeared to be uncertain about the proper response to this.

“Anyway,” he said at last deprecatorily, “it’s only v-very slight… I say, though, it’s awful ch-cheek of me to be t-talking about you l-like this. Rotten b-bad form.”

Judy looked into his large spaniel eyes and was saddened by the feeling she glimpsed there, since she knew that she would never be able to reciprocate it. She was, however, a particularly feminine young woman, and consequently her mild dejection was mixed with a determination to make modest use of David’s infatuation. She crossed her legs and looked shyly at her toes.

“Good lord,” she said, “I should be a fool if I thought there was anything offensive about
that…
I say, David, is your brother going to sue that loathsome paper?”

It had been decided that the last take was satisfactory, and Griswold was accordingly going on to deal with the next music section. “Roll the film, please,” he said; and when it obediently appeared on the screen he conducted the score through, in silence, with one eye on his stopwatch, while the Philharmonia gossiped, did crossword puzzles or read detective stories. Napier came up, and before David could answer her question, Judy said:

“Good morning, Mr. Napier. It’s a beautiful score.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Napier, visibly pleased, “don’t judge me by this stuff.”

“That’s what all you composers say.” Judy smiled. “On the day one of you admits that his film score is the best thing he’s ever done, the Music Department will take a week off and get plastered by way of celebration.”

Napier chuckled and went off to pester Griswold. “Sorry, David,” said Judy. “I interrupted you.”

“N-not at all,” he said, with conscientious civility. “Actually, N-Nick isn’t going to s-sue.” He wriggled and hunched his shoulders. “You s-see, he admits it’s all t-true—about that g-girl and the c-contract, I mean.”

“Oh,” said Judy rather blankly. “But surely he must realise that if he doesn’t, the studios—”

“They’ll k-kick him out.” When David, who was the soul of courtesy, descended to interruption, it was patent that he was strongly moved. “He knows that and he’s ready to p-put up with it. Atonement, he s-said. Quite d-decent of old N-Nick, in a way. I m-mean,” David added unhappily, “one’d think it was d-decent if he hadn’t p-played such a rotten uns-sportsmanlike trick. And on a g-girl, too. That m-makes it m-much w-worse.”

“And Madge? What will she do? If this story isn’t disproved, then even the abysmal film-going public is likely to lose a lot of their enthusiasm for her. And that means that Leiper will be in a state about it, too.”

“M-Madge is i-incommunicado.” And David paused, slightly disconcerted, it was possible to surmise, at having dredged up so venturesome a word. “W-we c-can’t,” he interpreted, “c-contact her. I j-just d-don’t know what she’ll do.” He glanced nervously about him and lowered his voice. “I s-say, d-did you hear that s-someone had tried to p-poison N-Nick?”

Judy sat up abruptly.
“What?”

“It’s quite t-true. S-someone put p-poison in his medicine.”

“Lord,
Lord..
.” Mingling with Judy’s very genuine shock there was an impulse of unholy curiosity. “But this morning’s papers—”

“No, the P-press hasn’t been told about it yet,” David explained gloomily, and there was a brief, painful silence before he went on. “It’s like a n-nightmare, isn’t it?”

“Oh, David, I’m so awfully sorry,” said Judy in unfeigned sympathy. “It must be hell for you.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t do to m-make a f-fuss about these things,” he said rather shortly. “G-grin and b-bear em, that’s the ticket.” He turned towards her, once more diffident. “But I say, Judy—ah, M-Miss Flecker, I m-mean…”

Here we go, thought Judy: this is the storm cone going up. And aloud she said: “Yes, David?”

“You-you w-wouldn’t c-care to have d-dinner with me some t-time, w-would you? I d-don’t expect you w-would,” he added rescissorily, “b-but I thought I’d j-just ask. I just thought I’d—”

“But of course, David,” said Judy. “It’s sweet of you to invite me. I’d be charmed.”

“You really w-would? You d-don’t think it’d be b-bad form, with M-Maurice d-dead? We c-could g-go somewhere v-very quiet.”

“No, of course I don’t think it’d be bad form.” Oh dear, Judy thought, how appallingly ingenuous this conversation must sound… “Did you have any particular day in mind?”

“It’s awfully d-decent of you.” David’s gratitude was so overwhelming as to be almost pitiful. “Just whenever you s-say, of course… I s-suppose you w-wouldn’t be f-free tonight?”

“Well, it’s rather short notice, but—”

“P-please don’t let me be a n-nuisance. I—”

“But as a matter of fact I
am
free tonight. What time, and where?” said Judy somewhat brusquely; in order to stop David apologising and get to the point, it was necessary, she felt, to be forthcoming and unmaidenly. Moreover, there had occurred to her a scheme calculated to satisfy the rather unscrupulous inquisitiveness she was nourishing as to the Cranes’ reactions to the scandal in which they had become so suddenly involved, and it would be desirable, in pursuance of this, to keep the conversational initiative—no very difficult job, admittedly, where David was concerned.

“W-well,” he said, “where would you l-like? There’s the S-screenwriters’, or the S-savoy, or…”

“I’ve got an idea.” Judy smiled a conscientiously winning smile. “Do you think we could perhaps dine at your house?”

David looked rather doubtful. “W-well,” he began.

“I’ve never been there, you know, and I’ve often wanted to see it. But of course,” Judy added wistfully, “if you’d really rather not…”

The glance he gave her was disconcertingly shrewd.

“You want to s-see the house?” he enquired. And had Judy not been convinced that he was temperamentally incapable of being sardonic, she might well have suspected him of it now. As it was, she felt slightly uncomfortable.

“Yes, I should like to,” she said a little breathlessly. “And also, of course, also”—she cast about in her mind for some more specific object of curiosity, and after a rather too lengthy pause found one—“oh, the Maze.”

“The M-Maze?” David echoed; and again there was that in the way he spoke which evoked in Judy a fleeting uneasiness. “Well, I d-don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t s-see the M-Maze, if you’re i-interested. I should quite l-like to have a l-look at it myself.”

“You never have?” said Judy incredulously; she could scarcely believe that there existed a person capable of having a maze on the estate and yet not exploring it at the first possible opportunity. Labyrinths are romantic and adventurous places, and beneath her surface urbanity Judy was a romantic and adventurous young woman. “You really never have?” she reiterated.

David made a fussed, apologetic gesture.

“Well, it’s a l-long w-way from the house,” he explained. “N-near where the old T-Tudor m-manor used to be. And it’s v-very n-neglected and over-g-grown. But you can certainly have a l-look at it if you c-come before the l-light goes.”

“David, what’s at the centre?”

He stared, for the moment uncomprehending. “The c-centre?”

“Of the Maze, I mean. There’s always
something
at the centre of a maze. A sundial, or—”

“A t-tomb.”

“Well, perhaps, but that must be—” Abruptly Judy checked herself; her eyes widened; for an instant looked absurdly young. “You mean there
is
a tomb,” she said excitedly, “at the centre of
your
Maze?”