Murder by the Book (19 page)

The unexpected rewards of pounding the keys, he thought.

He set the letter aside as an idea formed. Perhaps in a few weeks, if his relationship with Maria developed as he hoped it might, he would suggest a quiet break on the Suffolk coast. He would write to Mr Sellings on Monday morning, thanking him for his kindness and gratefully accepting the offer.

A second letter proved to be the official invitation for the annual spring London Crime Club dinner at the Albemarle Club, Pall Mall, next Wednesday. He hadn't missed a meeting since the war, and he made a mental note to reply to the invitation.

He packed a suitcase in excellent spirits, remembered to pick up the envelope containing the reviews, and headed into the city.

He found a parking space just along the road from the
Herald
, left the engine turning over and ran up the steps into the building. The newsroom was as hectic as usual and there was no sign of Grenville at the review's desk. Langham left the envelope propped against a telephone and got out fast, before Grenville appeared and chastised him for late delivery.

He motored to Kensington, whistling a dance band tune he'd heard on the wireless and which seemed to be lodged in his head like a virus. Rain had fallen during the night, but now the sun was shining and the forecast for the rest of the weekend was good: sun over the east of England with temperatures in the low seventies.

He left the car outside Maria's apartment and took the steps two at a time. Still whistling, he rang the bell and waited. A minute later the door opened and Maria stood framed in the entrance, stunning in a flowing red gingham dress.

She laughed at his mute reaction. ‘You like, Donald? Papa bought it for me.'

‘You look wonderful.'

‘Good. Now please stop gawping and help me with this case, would you?'

He obliged, and a minute later they were motoring north. ‘This is exciting, Donald. To be leaving London and heading into the country.'

‘I'll say. I've known Charles for twenty years, Maria, and I've never once seen his country pile.'

‘Never? I have been only once, when he held a party and invited me and my father. It's a rather nice place, I think Georgian, in beautiful grounds. Did you know that it's the Elders' family seat, and has been in the family for almost three hundred years?'

‘Someone once did tell me that Charles's forbears were minor aristocracy. He certainly acts the part.'

‘Charles is a dear. Oh—' She laid confiding fingers on his arm. ‘I haven't told you. Charles came back to the office from the service at five o'clock yesterday and he was rather merry. He said he went back to the publishers for drinks afterwards.'

‘Hubert and Shale were hosting a do. I ducked out.'

‘Well, Charles didn't, and he was in such a good mood when he returned that he made me an offer.'

Langham put on a mock-horrified expression. ‘Not of marriage?'

She hit him. ‘Silly! Of course not. He made a long speech, as only Charles can, about how indispensable I was to the running of the agency and how, as he would soon no longer be around to oversee the business, he wanted to do more than just leave it in my hands. So he said that now was the time to make me a business partner. He said he'd have Mr Winstanley draw up the papers.'

Langham slapped the steering wheel. ‘That's magnificent, Maria. Well done.'

She was beaming to herself. ‘The strange thing is, just a few days ago I was wondering where my life was going. I liked working for Charles, but a part of me wanted to move on … and yet I felt reluctant to let him down. And then,
pfff!
All this happened, and …' She stopped suddenly.

He felt his mouth go dry. He stared ahead, gripping the wheel. ‘Yes?'

She was silent. They were barrelling along a quiet stretch of road through Epping Forest. He turned to look at her.

She was regarding her impeccably manicured fingernails, pressed against the material of her dress, and said in a soft voice, ‘And then you became more than just a face, more than just one among many of Charles's authors. You became someone …
real
. Oh, that sounds silly, but you know what I mean. You became someone who showed that he cared for Charles and would stand by him whatever, someone who was brave and …'

He said, ‘Go on, I'm rather liking this.'

She laughed. ‘What I'm trying to say is, how could I leave the agency now that all this has happened …?'

He was unable to find the appropriate words in response, so he just reached out and squeezed her fingers.

She sighed happily and said at the top of her voice, ‘Oh, I want to take long walks in the countryside and then eat wonderful meals – and maybe even beat you at tennis!'

‘Charles has a court?'

She nodded. ‘I played with my father when we came up last year.'

‘Then we'll have a game, and you'll no doubt beat me because I'm rubbish.'

‘How about croquet?'

‘Never played. The only game I could play with any skill was cricket.'

‘Oh, what a silly English game!' she laughed.

He wound down the window, now that the city was behind them, and admitted the fragrance of the countryside.

One hour later they arrived at the sleepy town of Bury St Edmunds, and Langham pulled into the car park of the Midland Hotel. He'd read somewhere that they did decent lunches.

‘Hungry?' he asked.

‘I could eat a horse.'

‘I doubt
cheval
is on the menu, my dear. You'll have to make do with ham salad.'

They ate in the plush dining room overlooking the cathedral, and Maria did opt for a cold meat salad while Langham ordered whiting with chips and peas.

He smiled as he recalled something she'd said the other day, and he decided that now was as good a time as any to broach the matter. He pointed a fork at her. ‘Last week you asked me if I'd ever written anything other than mystery stories, with the implication that I could do better.'

She assumed an expression of prim innocence. ‘The implication?
Non
. That is entirely your presumption. Perhaps, Donald,
you
think you should be writing something better than mysteries?'

He had to laugh at her arch expression. ‘You're playing psychological games with me, Maria.'

She leaned forward, lodged her chin on the back of her hand, and said, ‘Why
do
you write only mysteries?'

He finished the whiting and pushed the plate aside. ‘Well, there are a number of reasons. The first is that I enjoy writing them. The second is that that's what I'm known for, and changing horse midstream in this game is always a bit risky. And third … third … I'm not a literary snob. I put a lot of work into the novels and I think they're as good as I can make them.' He shrugged. ‘I grew up in a family which wasn't at all bookish. I discovered novels late, when I was around fifteen – picked up a Bulldog Drummond in the public library … and the rest, as they say, is history.'

She pulled a face. ‘Bulldog Drummond?'

He laughed. ‘Well, I wasn't politically aware back then. I just wanted a rattling good yarn.'

‘But you've never thought of writing a real novel?'

‘Never. I'm happy doing what I do.'

She finished her salad. ‘Do you know, I think you should write a literary novel about … about a young man who falls in love.'

He stared into her eyes, something preventing the glib reply that sprang to his lips. He just stared at her, and she returned his gaze, smiling to herself, and he had never felt more like kissing anyone than he did at that moment.

The magic was broken by the waiter enquiring, ‘Will that be all, sir? Dessert?'

‘Oh …' Langham said. ‘No, not for me. Maria?'

‘Nor for me either, thank you.'

‘Just the bill, please.'

As they were leaving the hotel she slipped her hand into his, and the gesture felt like the most intimate he had experienced in a long, long time.

They set off on the last leg of the journey, and Langham indicated a road map in the passenger footwell. Maria retrieved it and found the relevant page. ‘Where are we now?' she asked.

‘Coming out of Bury St Edmunds and heading towards Thetford.'

‘Ah,
oui
. Here we are. And Charles's house is just outside a village called … here it is. Meadford. We are about five miles away.' She gave him directions. ‘The house is set back from the lane and hidden behind lots of trees.'

Fifteen minutes later they passed through the chocolate-box village of Meadford and Langham turned right after the church. He slowed down as Maria placed a hand on his arm and said, ‘Somewhere around here, to the left. Ah, there …' She pointed.

He braked quickly and turned into a wide driveway. It had evidently rained here during the night as the drive was patched with silver puddles, reflecting the sunlight. He splashed through the rainwater and followed the drive as it swung around a stand of rhododendron.

Charles's Bentley stood before the brilliant white façade of the Georgian mansion.

Langham whistled. ‘I never realized it would be quite this grand.'

‘Fifteen bedrooms, a ballroom, and a library you will love, Donald.'

‘I should be appalled.'

She looked at him. ‘And are you?'

He laughed. ‘I would be if it belonged to anyone other than Charles. So much for my political credentials.'

‘Come on, let's go and see the Englishman in his castle.'

They climbed out of the car and Langham carried their cases to the imposing front door. He rang the bell. ‘I wonder what they make of Charles in the village?' he mused.

‘I think they see him as a rather loveable uncle. He's forever opening church fêtes and flower shows.'

‘The bigwig London agent playing the squire.'

Maria regarded him shrewdly. ‘You're so very different from Charles, but you like him a lot, don't you?'

‘I've known him for twenty years. He's always been kind and supportive to me. And he's the soul of generosity. How could I not like him?'

‘Even though he represents minor aristocracy and privilege?'

Langham shrugged. ‘He can't help what he is … on many levels.' He peered through the etched glass at the chessboard-tiled hallway and rang the bell again. ‘Come on, Charles!'

A minute later he said, ‘I'll take a wander … try the tradesman's entrance.'

He left the plinth of steps and walked along the front of the building, peering into the house; he must have passed four sets of rooms before arriving at the corner. In London, Charles lived in his rather modest Pimlico apartment, but this was an order of luxury on an altogether different scale.

He turned the corner and walked until he came to a door beside the kitchen window. He peered through, but the room was empty. He knocked on the door, then tried the handle. The door was locked.

He returned to Maria, who was still kicking her heels before the main entrance.

‘No luck?'

He shook his head. ‘You don't think Charles has forgotten that he invited us, do you?'

She bit her lip worriedly. ‘That would be quite unlike Charles,' she said. ‘Perhaps if we try the door, yes?'

‘Right-ho.' He approached the imposing door and turned the big brass handle, and to his surprise the door opened. ‘Well, what do you know?'

He stepped into a big hallway, deposited the cases by a hatstand, and followed Maria along the corridor, marvelling at the sumptuous decorations as he went. Carved marble figures and swelling Chinese vases occupied alcoves set into the wall, which was hung with oil paintings depicting rural scenes.

‘He might be in the conservatory,' Maria said. ‘This way.'

They came to a pair of double doors at the end of the corridor. Maria opened them and peered in. A riot of potted palms and assorted vines gave the room an incongruous jungle aspect. ‘Charles!' she called out.

Langham made out a wicker armchair next to a small table bearing a tray of drinks; a second table was loaded with bound manuscripts. He imagined his agent enjoying a sundowner while reading and imagining himself in Africa.

‘We could try the library,' Maria suggested. ‘It's the next room.'

They retraced their steps along the corridor to the next door. Langham was about to knock when he heard a sound from within the room.

Maria cocked her head. ‘There is someone in the library, Donald.'

The voices were faint at first, but as they listened the conversation became louder.

‘If you think …' Charles's unmistakable tones declared.

He was cut off by someone replying in a low, gruff voice.

‘Absurd!' Charles cried.

Alarmed, Langham rapped on the door. ‘Charles?' He reached out and turned the handle, and to his frustration found the door locked.

He knocked again, this time with urgency. ‘Charles!'

Maria clutched his arm, staring at him with massive eyes.

Langham heard Charles's cry from within the library, quickly followed by a curse from whoever was in there with him.

He turned to Maria. ‘Stand back …'

He backed across the room, took a run at the door and hit it with his shoulder. He felt the lock give a little, backed up and tried again. A second before he impacted with the door, a startlingly loud gunshot rang out. Maria screamed. Langham hit the oak panel with his shoulder and the lock gave way. The momentum of his charge carried him staggering into the library.

He saw two things at once: Charles, lying in a quickly expanding pool of blood before the hearth, and a mackintoshed figure fleeing through the French windows and racing across the rear lawn.

He dashed across the room and knelt beside Charles, stifling a cry of rage. His agent lay on his back, eyes closed, a great red mark staining the front of his waistcoat. Langham felt for his pulse and found the faint suggestion of one in Charles's padded wrist.