Murder by the Book (9 page)

Langham read the note for a second time. He looked across at Charles, who was regarding him with tear-filled eyes.

‘The envelope?'

Charles passed him a long manila envelope identical to the others. This one also bore a Streatham postmark.

‘What should I do, my dear boy?'

‘Can you get hold of the money by tomorrow?'

‘Just about, though it will clear out my current account. I have funds, of course, investments … But this just cannot go on! Where will it end, Donald? My nerves are shattered.'

Maria passed Charles a brandy. Langham took Charles's elbow and guided him across to a settee before the hearth. His agent flopped into the seat, sloshing the brandy, and closed his eyes in an expression eloquent of despair.

‘Do you have a gazetteer of Sussex?' Langham asked.

Charles waved a languid hand. ‘In the bookshelf, bottom shelf.'

Maria fetched the road atlas and passed it to Langham, then sat on the edge of an armchair, stockinged legs crossed, watching him.

Charles wailed, ‘I have half a mind to hand myself in now, confess all, make a clean breast of the situation and trust in the inherent fairness of my country's legal system.'

Langham eyed him sceptically. ‘You'll do nothing of the sort, Charles. The “inherent fairness” you speak about will see you sent down for a year or more.'

‘And the alternative? Allow the cad to bleed me dry?'

Langham looked up from the gazetteer. ‘The only incriminating things the blackmailer has in his possession are the photographs, am I right?'

‘Does he need anything
else
, my boy – a signed confession, perhaps? Donald, Donald, what else
does
he need? The wretched photographs are evidence enough!'

‘Hear me out, Charles. It occurred to me earlier that it would be to our advantage if we could find out who's blackmailing you.'

‘You're making rather a habit of stating the obvious without the foundation of logic, Donald. Forgive me, but I am at my wits' end!'

Maria said, ‘What do you suggest, Donald?'

Langham looked from Charles to Maria. ‘I intend to be there when the blackmailer picks up the money. I'll follow the motorbike, or whatever vehicle he's using this time. I have contacts who can loan me a pistol—'

‘But what if he himself is armed?' Maria exclaimed.

Langham recalled the sensation of something cold being held to the back of his head, and what the bomb site kids had said, but refrained from telling Maria.

‘I can look after myself,' he said. ‘The only way we can defeat the blackmailer is to find his copies of the photographs, along with the negatives, and destroy them. And the only way to do that is to confront the …' He was about to say ‘bastard', but stopped himself. ‘… the blackmailer.'

‘Donald, Donald …' Charles said. ‘I don't like this one bit! The risk at which you are placing yourself … and all because I was weak and foolish.'

‘Let's consider it research for the next book, Charles.'

He found the page showing the roads and lanes of East Sussex, and after a minute located the village of Chalford. Maria came and joined him on the settee, leaning against him and peering at the page. Langham indicated the village, and the lane to Hallet.

He said, ‘You, Charles, will approach from the north, leave the envelope, and continue until you come to the A22, from where you'll drive back to London.'

Maria said, ‘You said you would be “there”, Donald. But where is “there”? What if the blackmailer sees you?'

‘I intend to arrive an hour or so earlier and park in the derelict farm mentioned in the blackmailer's letter.'

Maria interrupted. ‘But how do you know you can see the gate from the farm? What if you cannot?'

‘I don't have to see the gate, do I? All I have to see is the motorbike passing—'

‘If he does arrive on a
motorbike
this time—'

‘—either having picked up the envelope, or about to pick it up,' he went on. ‘Then I drive from the farm and follow him.'

‘I think it will not work out,' Maria said. ‘Too much could go wrong. If you do not react fast enough, or you fail to see the motorbike or whatever …'

He smiled. ‘Well, what do you suggest?'

She pursed her lips and tipped her head to one side as she regarded him. ‘Now, if there were two cars,' she said, ‘stationed here, and here' – she indicated points at each end of the lane – ‘then one of us would be bound to see the motorcyclist – or whatever – passing at the appointed time. Then we follow at a distance when the blackmailer picks up the envelope. That way we cannot fail.'

He stared at her. ‘
We?
'

She was indignant. ‘Do you think we cannot drive in France?'

‘Are you sure you want to get mixed up in this?'

She shrugged. ‘Do you think me incapable? Did you know that French women, and for that matter English women, fought for the Resistance in my country?'

‘There is something I haven't mentioned,' Langham said a little sheepishly. ‘The blackmailer
was
armed.' He told them about the gun being held to the back of his head.

Maria's lips were firm with resolve. ‘I will merely follow the motorcyclist to see where he goes. I will not confront him.' She looked to Charles. ‘Will you make Donald see sense, please?'

‘My friends,' Charles said, reaching out and grasping their hands, ‘I feel as if I have been transported to the pages of a Bulldog Drummond adventure. My head spins and my heart swells at the thought of the lengths to which you, my dears, would go to save my considerable bacon … I would plead with you to allow me to go alone, but I fear my pleas would fall on deaf ears. Am I right?'

Maria looked at Langham and laughed. ‘Right,' they said in unison.

Fifteen minutes later, after arranging the details of their expedition to Sussex, Maria looked at her wristwatch and excused herself. She had an errand to run for her father, she said, and was meeting him for dinner later that evening.

Langham saw her to the door and watched her hurry down the stairs.

Charles sighed. ‘Now, my dear boy, I demand you join me in a drink! And I will not take no for an answer.'

Langham accepted a shot of whisky and sat back on the settee.

Charles narrowed the folds of flesh around his piercing blue eyes and squinted at Langham. ‘It is only when one finds oneself
in extremis
, shall we say, that one learns the true nature of not only oneself, but also of those around one. You are proving a true ally, Donald.'

Langham smiled and sipped his whisky. ‘It's the least I could do.'

‘But may I ask, my dear boy, why are you going to such lengths? I have friends of long standing who would throw their hands in the air, run a mile, and let me stew in the juices of my own making.'

Langham thought about it. ‘You're a friend, Charles, and what's happening here is appalling. It's bad enough that some twisted hypocrite is threatening you like this. But what truly angers me is the system that allows him to do so.'

Charles detonated a derisive laugh. ‘The system! But such has always been the case, and when will it change? And before you spout that we need a change of government, let me say that the problem goes much deeper than the prejudices of those in power. There will be no change until the people of this benighted land see me and my kind as fellow human beings, not some minority to be mocked and derided. Mark my word, there will be no change before the end of the century!'

Langham gestured with his glass. ‘I think it'll come sooner than that.'

Charles sighed. ‘I am fifty-five this year, Donald, as old as the century, and I have been waiting most of my adult life for the decriminalization of homosexuality … I doubt it will happen in my lifetime.' His face took on a wistful aspect. ‘I've had a good life, Donald. Winchester was bliss, and Oxford a happy continuation. Odd to say, but it didn't occur to me then that I was in a minority. Good Lord, we were all at it! What hedonistic times those were, after the war and into the twenties.' He finished his drink with one swallow and poured himself another. ‘It was only later, when I came down from Oxford and dipped my toes in the muddy waters of publishing that I first encountered the prejudiced and petty-minded piranhas, if you will allow me the somewhat far-fetched piscine metaphor.'

Langham smiled, sank into the cushions and gestured that such oratory was eminently permissible. When Charles was in full flow, his mellifluous eloquence was more than a little entertaining.

‘I learned to pull in my horns, ahem, as it were, and practise circumspection. In the circles in which I swam, my secret was open. I surrounded myself, and still do, with those of like mind and similar persuasion, writers and actors who, if not actually
active
, then are open-minded enough to accept me and my kind.'

‘And then something like this happens.'

‘I have found reserves of strength within me enough to withstand whatever slings and arrows are cast my way.' He looked sheepish. ‘Even if I was in a bit of a flap earlier.'

Langham laughed. ‘That's the spirit.' He finished his drink and glanced at his watch. ‘I must be off. I'll call around here at eleven tomorrow and we'll go through what we have to do.' He regarded Charles. ‘You'll be all right tonight?'

‘I have a dinner engagement with friends at eight, dear boy. I shall be sparkling and eloquent … and I might even get a little squiffy.'

Langham laughed and clapped Charles's meaty shoulder. ‘You do that. I'll see myself out.'

‘Bless you, dear boy.'

As he drove home slowly through light traffic Langham considered eating that evening at the nearby Lyons' Corner House, but the thought didn't appeal. When he arrived at his flat he made himself a cheese sandwich and ate it accompanied by a bottle of Worthington's best bitter while listening to the Third Programme on the wireless: a talk by a writer recounting his travels in Argentina.

Later he sat in his armchair, switched on the standard lamp and sorted through the titles he'd selected at the
Herald
that morning. He chose what looked to be the best of the bunch, a classic whodunit by a writer whose novels he'd enjoyed in the past. He was ten pages into it when he realized that his attention was drifting: he'd taken in nothing of the opening scenes. He set the book aside and contemplated what tomorrow might bring, and then found himself thinking back to Maria seated beside him on the settee, her elegant legs crossed, emanating a heady perfume of powder and eau de cologne, a vision of beauty and sophistication in her twinset and pearls.

M
aria left the agency at four o'clock and drove into the West End. She found a parking space along New Bond Street and sat in a café across the road from Sotheby's. She ordered tea and cake and glanced at her watch. It was four fifteen, and the statuette was due to be auctioned at five.

In the meantime she sipped her Darjeeling and nibbled at the Bakewell, wishing that the English were as competent at making the latter as they were the former.

Her mind drifted, and she found herself thinking about Charles and his predicament. How puritanical and petty-minded the English were when it came to affairs of the heart! Which was entirely the problem, she thought: the English did not count Charles's predilections as an affair of the heart, but rather as a weakness of the flesh, and thus punishable by law. And yet they considered themselves a civilized people!

It was not long before her thoughts strayed from Charles to his client, Donald Langham.

A greater contrast to the conceited, self-absorbed Gideon Martin she could not imagine. Langham was self-effacing to the point of being almost self-erasing. She had known him for almost five years, though the term ‘known' did not quite describe their acquaintance. They had met perhaps four or five times a year, exchanged pleasantries and occasional witticisms, but always it seemed that there was something holding Langham back, a diffident reserve, almost a shyness, that would not allow him to show his real self.

For a long time Maria had assumed he was married. She'd read some biographical information about him on the back of one of his earlier novels which stated that ‘Donald Langham is married and lives in London', and Maria had been curious about what kind of person his wife might be. Langham himself was tall, thin and upright, with the bearing of the soldier he had been. He was good-looking in a quiet, English, pipe-smoking kind of way, and she had imagined his wife as around his age, early forties, elegant and attractive.

One day she had asked Charles about Mrs Langham.

‘Mrs Langham, my dear? There is no Mrs Langham.'

‘But I thought …'

‘Ah … Well, he
was
married, but Mrs Langham died during the war. I don't know what happened. Donald never speaks about it.'

‘He is very … reserved, no?'

Charles had laughed. ‘Well, I suppose he is. I've never thought about him like that. I rather thought of him as having good manners and breeding – for a provincial grammar schoolboy, that is.'

‘Oh, you English! You are so obsessed with class!'

‘Guilty as charged, Maria. But why do you ask about Donald?'

‘Oh, I don't know … But he is rather handsome, don't you think?'

Charles had stared at her over his pince-nez. ‘I would agree, he is – in a very quiet, staid, English way.'

Maria liked Donald Langham; she liked the quiet reserve that came over as him being comfortable with himself, and which suggested that he had no need to impress others. She liked his habit of clenching his empty pipe between his teeth while absorbed in thought, and the way he absent-mindedly stroked the scar at his temple.