Murder by the Book (27 page)

Langham ensured that Dame Amelia was ensconced in the Royal at Highgate. He accepted her fulsome thanks for, as she said, ‘saving her bacon', but refused the offer of a drink.

He returned to Ryland in the hotel car park. ‘Home, Don?' the detective enquired.

‘Could you drop me round the corner, Ralph? There's a scribbler in the area I must see pretty sharpish.'

‘Will do.'

As they pulled out into the street, Langham said, ‘And would you mind contacting a locksmith and carpenter about the door at Castle Melacorum? Charge it to expenses. And if you could inform the boys in blue …'

‘Leave it to me, Don. Here do?'

‘This'll be fine.' He turned to Ryland. ‘And thanks awfully for your help, Ralph. I couldn't have done it alone.'

Ryland grinned. ‘Don't mention it, Don. Just like old times, eh?'

Langham laughed, thanked him again and climbed from the car. He watched the battered Morris drive off, then found a phone box and consulted his address book. A minute later he got through to Justin Fellowes.

‘Donald, Donald …' the old man replied in fruity tones. ‘I was hoping for a longer chat at the service last week.'

‘Justin, I hope this doesn't sound too melodramatic, but I need to see you pretty urgently.'

‘Urgently? My word, you sound like one of your novels. How urgent is urgent?'

‘Now, perhaps?'

‘Now? But my dear man, I was just about to dine—'

‘Justin, I assure you this is a matter of life or death.'

A silence from the other end of the line. ‘Life or death? Then you'd better come over directly. You know where I am?'

‘Still at Stable Row, Highgate?'

‘The same.'

‘I'll be right over.'

He slipped from the phone box and hurried down the street.

Justin Fellowes, the Grand Old Man of the crime scene, the purveyor of over two dozen novels at the literary end of the mystery spectrum, owned a big three-storey Regency townhouse overlooking Hampstead Heath. Langham took the steps to the front door two at a time.

An elderly woman opened the door to his summons. ‘Ah, you must be Mr Langham. Mr Fellowes said you'd be calling. Please, come in.'

Langham stepped inside as the woman took up a basket from a side table and called out, ‘Mr Langham is here, sir! I'll be off now.' To Langham she said, ‘Just along the corridor to the left. You'll find Mr Fellowes in his study.'

She slipped through the front door and shut it behind her. Langham moved along the hallway and knocked on the study door.

‘Langham, come in and explain yourself. What's all this about? A matter of life and death?'

Fellowes was an abnormally tall, balding man, stooped and benign, with the comfortable tweedy gravitas Langham associated with Hampstead literary types. He waved Langham to an armchair in the bow window and resumed his own swivel chair before a desk bearing an ancient upright typewriter.

Utilized as paperweights on the desk, and as bookends, were the various awards he'd won in a long and distinguished career: the Golden Revolver for the Perfect Murder short story, the Blunt Instrument Lifetime Achievement Award and, taking pride of place on the wall above the desk, the Silver Stiletto for the best crime novel of 1950.

‘Now, out with it, man. What's all this about?'

Langham leaned forward in the chair. ‘I know this might sound fantastic, Justin, but I have good reason to think that your life is in danger.'

Fellowes regarded him evenly over his half-moon reading glasses. He seemed not in the slightest put out. ‘You do?'

For the next ten minutes he told Fellowes about the deaths of Max Sidley, Nigel Lassiter, Gervaise Cartwright, Dan Greeley and Frankie Pearson, and the attempts on the lives of Charles Elder and Amelia Hampstead. He finished by describing his finding the paperbacks in the burned-out Streatham terrace house.

Fellowes listened without the slightest expression crossing his liver-spotted visage.

‘This sounds like a plot from a pre-war pulp yarn,' he drawled. ‘Poor Nigel … and Max! I didn't know Greeley, and hardly knew Frankie Pearson. As for Gervaise, well, the cad had it coming to him. But I'd rather I avoided the same fate.'

‘I advise you take a week or two away, until the police track the killer down.'

Fellowes looked sceptical. ‘And they're confident of doing so?'

‘Well, they're on the case,' Langham said inadequately.

Fellowes nodded. ‘Thank you, Donald. I have the latest chapter to finish, but as soon as I do so I'll take a vacation. I have a sister in Dorset …'

‘If I were you I'd get out sooner rather than later,' he said. ‘I'll be leaving the capital just as soon as I can.'

Fellowes nodded. ‘Point taken, Donald.' He glanced at his watch. ‘Now, if you don't mind …?'

Langham smiled, bid the old man
bon appétit
, and took his leave.

He considered ringing Maria to ensure it would be all right if he called round, but as he turned the corner into the High Street he saw a passing taxi and hailed it. On the way to Kensington he realized how tired he was. The events of the day had taken their toll, along with the stress of knowing he was on the killer's list of victims.

He paid the driver, hurried up the steps to Maria's flat and rang the bell. She seemed to take an age to answer, but when she pulled open the door he decided that the vision before him had been well worth the wait.

She gasped. ‘But Donald, you look absolutely done for!'

He almost staggered into her embrace. ‘I was wondering if I might stay here tonight, Maria? The settee will be fine.'

She ushered him up the steps to her apartment. ‘Of course. But Donald, what has happened?'

He found himself recounting, for the third time that day, his discovery of the paperbacks at Streatham, and went on to tell her about the incident at Castle Melacorum.

She listened, wide-eyed, but interrupted him with a graceful hand on his knee. ‘But I am a
terr-ible
host, Donald, and you must need a drink,
oui
?'

He smiled as he watched her hurry into the kitchen, and for the first time that day he began to relax.

T
he following morning Maria sat behind Charles's desk and fielded the twentieth phone call that day. ‘The latest news is that Charles is in a serious but stable condition. No, he isn't up to seeing visitors at the moment, but I will be in touch with all his clients just as soon as the situation changes. Thank you. Yes, I will. Certainly. Goodbye.'

She replaced the receiver and sighed. She had repeated the same tired words on at least a dozen occasions that morning, and with each rendition of his condition she grew ever more depressed. More than anything she wanted to visit Charles, sit by his bedside and simply hold his hand. The medical staff at the hospital had been adamant, however: absolutely no visitors were to be allowed until Mr Elder's condition had changed for the better.

She glanced at the wall clock and was surprised to find that it was almost one. She had been working continually since nine that morning and now she was famished.

She was considering taking a break for lunch when the phone rang again. She took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face – which she found always made her sound a little more cheerful, even if she were feeling dreadful – and said, ‘Hello, this is the Charles Elder Agency. Maria speaking …'

‘Maria, my dear.'

‘Amelia, how nice you called.'

‘I said I'd be in touch about meeting up. I suppose you've already eaten – but we could always meet for a drink, if you can tear yourself away from the office, that is.'

‘Actually I've been so busy I haven't had time for lunch. I was just thinking of taking a break.'

‘Wonderful! I'm in Highgate, and there's a wonderful little French place around the corner. Le Moulin Bleu.'

‘I know it. I'll drive over and meet you there at … say one thirty?'

‘Delightful. And I have
so
much to tell you, Maria.'

‘Well, I heard from Donald about what happened at the castle.'

‘Oh, “Donald” is it, now? Are you two by any chance …?' Amelia paused suggestively.

Maria laughed. ‘And I have a few things to tell you, too, Amelia,' she said.

‘Oh,' trilled Amelia, ‘how talk of romance cheers a dull day!'

Maria replaced the receiver and attended to her make-up, applied a little lipstick and was just about to step from the office when she saw, through the window overlooking the street, the unmistakable form of Gideon Martin striding across the road towards the agency. What a ridiculous little man he was, she thought with annoyance, with his thick, barrel-shaped chest thrust forward, his disproportionately short legs – and his big, lantern-jawed face and tiny eyes!

She swore to herself and ran, as fast as her high heels would allow, through the outer office to the door. She dropped the catch and sagged against the door with relief. Seconds later she heard the handle turn, followed by a sharp knocking.

‘Hello! Hello, Maria!' His presumptuous summons filled the room.

Maria crept away from the door on tiptoe, cringing. She cursed the man and hoped he'd desist and leave sooner rather than later.

He knocked again, then rapped on the door with something more substantial than his knuckles – his pretentious swordstick, no doubt. He sounded as if he were intent on battering the door down.

‘Maria!' The tattoo sounded again. ‘Maria, will you please open up!' Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little drunk? ‘I have … have an important matter to discuss.'

And she could guess what that might be – his farcical infatuation with her, his ‘undying love' … She felt a welling anger, and she almost ran to the door, snatched it open and told him to go to hell.

Seconds later, however, she heard the sound of his rapid footsteps beating a retreat down the steps. She moved to the window and, peeping out, saw Martin stride off down the pavement, aggressively swinging his swordstick.

She took a deep breath and wondered how long it might be before the coast would be clear. She gave it a couple of minutes, gathered her handbag, then slipped through the door. Her Sunbeam was parked directly outside the agency. Martin might still be lurking in the area, but if she ran to the car, ducked in and made a quick getaway …

She tapped down the steps at speed, unlocked the car door in record time, jumped in and started the engine. A glance in the wing-mirror satisfied her that he was not racing along the pavement in pursuit. She put the car into gear and eased it out into the quiet street, and seconds later she was bowling through the leafy environs of Pimlico with a growing sense of accomplishment.

Five minutes later she arrived at Highgate and pulled up outside Le Moulin Bleu. She looked at her watch: one twenty. Despite Gideon Martin's importunate arrival, she was on time.

She swept into the restaurant, scanned the diners for Dame Amelia and, not seeing her, asked the maître d' for a table for two.

She was escorted to a table at the back of the restaurant. She ordered a sparkling mineral water and scanned the menu. She normally only ever dined at expensive restaurants with her father, who always insisted on footing the bill, but she supposed that this was a special occasion as she only saw Dame Amelia once or twice a year.

A minute later she looked up as a shadow fell across the table, and expecting to see Dame Amelia she arranged her features in a smile.

Her smile froze, however, when she saw who was staring down at her, his face thunderous.

‘Why, Gideon … What are you doing—?'

‘I saw you leave … leave the agency,' he said, his barrel torso thrust forward, his teeth showing, ‘after having ignored my summons.' He swayed, reached out and steadied himself by clutching the back of a chair. ‘So I had my taxi follow you here!'

He pulled out the chair and sat down quickly – or rather slumped down. He was, she decided, very drunk. She looked around, ner-vously, to see if the other diners had noticed his inebriated arrival. To her relief they were absorbed in their meals.

He stared at her, resting one hand on his ridiculous swordstick.

She leaned forward and hissed, ‘What do you want, Gideon!'

His face, reddened with drink, seemed even larger than usual. His little piggy eyes were lachrymose. She prayed he wasn't about to cause an even bigger scene.

‘I want,' he said and hiccupped. ‘I want you to return my pistol!'

She sat back, relieved. She had feared he might pledge his undying devotion to her, and cause a ruckus when she spurned his entreaties.

‘Well,' he said, swaying in his seat, ‘are you going … going to give it to me?'

She smiled sweetly. ‘I am afraid, Gideon, that I am not in the habit of carrying a weapon around in my handbag. And even if I were, I would hardly hand it over to you while you're in your present condition.'

She sat back, pleased with her little peroration.

He blinked at her. ‘My … my
present
condition has little to do with it!' he said. ‘I need the pistol!'

She could not resist the cruel taunt, ‘Whatever for, Gideon? Are you finally going to do the honourable thing and shoot yourself?'

‘Not myself, Maria. I intend to … to perforate …' and he laughed at his fancy turn of phrase, ‘a blaggard or two at the Crime Club dinner this evening.'

Maria concealed her alarm and said, ‘Well, in that case I would certainly not give up the weapon, even if I
were
carrying it.'

He leaned forward, clutched the edge of the table, and slurred, ‘Please, the pistol. Drive me back to your place, trot up those steps like a good little thing, and just give me the blasted pistol!'

Her anger rising, Maria hissed, ‘Gideon, if you don't leave now I shall call the maître d' and request he summon the police. You're making a damnable scene, and you'll only be sorry when you sober up. Please, just muster whatever dignity you can summon and
go
.'