‘It’ll have to be a quick word. I’m running late.’

  ‘What I thought,’ continued Elderberry as they mounted the steps on to the municipal promenade, ‘what I thought when I saw that great machine lolloping across the garden was.’ He strung out the last letter allowing it to end as a diminishing hiss. ‘What —’ here there was a dramatic pause followed double presto by — ‘what if it had run amok and knocked down the house?’

  ‘There’d have been a hell of a din and a worse row later.’

  ‘A fait accompli nevertheless. Don’t you agree? Of course you do. You can’t preserve a load of rubble.’

  ‘And you can’t go knocking down …’

  ‘You can’t but I can. Do hear me out. It’s outrageous, but, you see, I know this absolutely charming boy.’ He looked from side to side, not for eavesdroppers but as though acknowledging the adulation of a crowd. ‘He’ll do simply anything for me. And he drives one of those machines — like the one in the garden. Works on motorways. He’s a big strong boy. So, I mean, what could be simpler? I’m sure he’ll know how to start that monster. He could come tonight and … and poof!’ He stopped, made a circle in the air with his arms. Hurrying to draw abreast again he murmured, ‘You wouldn’t need to know a thing about it.’

  ‘Except you’ve just told me.’ In a way he wished … ‘Look, Mr Elderberry, I know you mean well …’

  ‘So where’s the harm? Your Seawell people own the building, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘The harm is it’s illegal, immoral and transparent. Apart from other considerations there’s a lease.’

  ‘Oh, bother Cynthia Tring and her wretched lease. She’s not on the breadline.’

  ‘Neither are you, by the look of it.’

  ‘I am, as it happens, skint. The market for my work is drying up. So am I drying up. I can’t write pornography, and nothing else sells. Morality’s not involved. I’m no good at it.’ He stared petulantly at the outgoing tide. ‘The money for South View is the only thing between me and steep decline into penury, accelerated by urgent current obligations.’

  ‘But I’m sure you’ll get your money. Equally, I tell you any fool scheme like the one you’ve suggested will land you in jug. They’ve had some trouble on the site already. Anyone starting more is bound to get nabbed.’

  He didn’t intend to enlarge on what he meant by trouble unless pressed.

  ‘All right.’ The other sniffed. ‘Never knew big business was so lily white. It was only a brilliantly creative idea I was trying out, if that’s the way you want it. I …’ Suddenly he halted, swallowed, then continued urgently, ‘We must go back. You were in a hurry.’

  Elderberry turned about and moved off at a considerably faster pace. It was clear speed had now become a mutual objective.

  ‘I think someone’s waving at you,’ remarked Treasure innocently. Glancing back, he had noticed an extremely tall, thin young man bearing down on them, and making signs.

  ‘Take no notice. Total stranger. Probably begging,’ cautioned Elderberry, head down into the wind and now moving as fast as his short legs would carry him.

  ‘Lancelot! Lancelot!’ cried the alleged stranger, now only a few paces behind.

  ‘Go away, horrid boy. We have nothing to give you.’ Elderberry had gone red in the face. ‘Never buy from street traders, Mr Treasure. Especially at the seaside.’

  ‘Lancelot, it’s me.’ The gangling, pale youth with yellow hair was now leaping sideways abreast of the two. It seemed sensible he should do something energetic to keep his circulation going. The cotton shirt and trousers looked scant protection against the elements. ‘They’ve said they’ll pay more, Lancelot. I’ve got to take it, haven’t I then?’ The accent was East London.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Bobby,’ said Elderberry, affecting total surprise. ‘It’s Bobby. I’m helping him through a difficult patch.’ This came as an aside in Treasure’s ear. ‘One does one’s best for the lame ducks, especially in these hard times. Not now, Bobby,’ he shouted at the youth. ‘I’m busy with someone important. Important,’ he emphasized, even more loudly. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘No you won’t, Lancelot. You’re always saying that. He’s always saying that.’ Treasure was now being addressed directly between the gazelle-like leaps. ‘He doesn’t answer the door, and he hangs up the phone. I’ve got to know, Lancelot. The offer’s on the level. From the magazine. It’s enough to get me to L.A. with a stake. That’s all I need, see?’ Again he was addressing Treasure. ‘It’s just for the winter, see? It’s me chest. Suffer terrible I do. And it’s a good magazine. Good money.’

  This was too much for Elderberry. ‘Good magazine! Good money! It’s an obscene, garbage-sifting rag,’ he expostulated, pretences evaporating as his temper soared. He didn’t decrease the pace which was now headlong. ‘I’ll sue, you know. I’ll sue and I’ll win. Them and you. See if I don’t, you … you Judas. You can’t flout the law in this country and expect to get away with it, you know,’ shouted the paragon who a few minutes before had been planning a nocturnal demolition of someone else’s quite sizeable property.

  ‘Lancelot, don’t be like that.’ The youth was now in front of them jumping backwards with remarkable dexterity. ‘You said you’d lend it me. You said last month.’

  Some passers by were staring at the ill-assorted trio: Elderberry alone was a sufficiently bizarre companion.

  ‘I really must leave you now, I’m afraid,’ said Treasure with a generous infusion of sadness supporting the necessity. He was prepared to outdistance the already overstretched Elderberry even if this meant breaking into a sprint. They had nearly reached the end of the Esplanade. ‘Lunch date, you understand. See you later, Mr Elderberry, I expect. Goodbye, Mr … hmm … Good luck.’ He waved as he hurried down the steps, leaving the winded Elderberry with his mouth open. The youth was prancing round the unfortunate author like an undernourished cannibal sizing up his first square meal in a long time.

  Esta Daws stumbled on the pavement. She was near the library.

  ‘You all right, love?’ A woman older than she, but pushing a pram, stopped to enquire. The woman had a kind, happy face: all contentment and solicitousness for others — and why not? It was beautiful — the baby in the pram.

  ‘Yes … yes, thanks. Caught my heel, that’s all.’ She hurried away along the High Street, bumping into someone; not caring.

  It was still quite crowded for late on a Saturday morning, with everybody in a hurry. The shops closed at one. She hadn’t done the bit of shopping she’d said she came out for. She hadn’t even changed the books.

  She stopped, pretending to look in a window. It was an electrical store, but nothing registered. Her eyes were welled up with tears. The glasses wouldn’t disguise her distress: that was why the woman had asked if she was all right, not because she’d tripped. She fumbled in her bag for a hanky.

  Oh God, why couldn’t it have come right? They’d sacrificed everything: Mostyn’s job, her money, the bit they’d saved together — then just about every penny he’d put away. That was the unfair part. She never should have let him do that.

  And it had all gone in that lousy, stinking, chance-of-a-lifetime hotel. It was why they’d put off having children: then and again every year after. It was never the right moment. She had understood at the time — and all the other times, before and since. You couldn’t run a hotel practically single-handed with a baby to cope with as well, Mostyn said. Like they didn’t need children to limit their mobility when he’d been moving up in the pet food firm, Mostyn said. There had been something else before that.

  The offer from Seawell had been salvation: a real chance to start again. They weren’t getting as much as Mostyn had hoped at the start. It was enough, though.

  Mr Pitty had bargained hard for everybody. There was strength in numbers, he’d said, with him working for all the freeholders. She’d been sure that was right. Mr Pitty was honest, and he was used to property dealing: talked the language. It wasn’t his fault it was all going wrong at the last minute.

  She went on staring at the big refrigerator in the centre of the window. The word ‘bargain’ stood out on the huge showcard. Now it looked as if there would be no bargain made for them: no sale: no starting again — not if he was right, unless …

  She’d had to tell him what she thought. It had been there all the time as a suspicion at the back of her mind. Now she couldn’t ignore it.

  He hadn’t wanted to talk: said she was letting her imagination get the better of her. She wasn’t involved.

  Anyway, she should stop worrying, everything would be all right. But he hadn’t looked confident.

  ‘Your handbag’s open, miss.’ It was the young man who spoke. The girl he had his arm around couldn’t have been more than twenty, bit younger than he was. They were standing beside her, looking in the window. ‘You OK, then?’

  Did she look that terrible? This time she just nodded, giving them a quick smile of thanks before moving away. She couldn’t risk speaking in case she burst into tears.

  It wasn’t right he had made the sacrifice for the two of them: taken all the risk. She shouldn’t have said how much it all meant to her. It was her fault they’d talked about nothing else for weeks. Now he didn’t want her disappointed. He’d find a way, he’d said. That was before the meeting yesterday. He hadn’t believed the meeting had solved anything.

  It was awful how wrong people were about him. You had to get under how he seemed on the surface. Deep down he was different. You had to know him to understand him — and to love him as dearly as she did.

  Matilde Stock, wife to Police Constable Clifford Stock, shut the back door behind her. She hung her coat on one of the pegs, took off the dirty pinafore, dropped it in the laundry basket, and tied a clean apron around her ample waist. Next she shot a glance at the three saucepans bubbling on the electric cooker.

  ‘I switched on when you said, love. The oxtail smells a treat,’ said her husband. He was sitting at the table in the kitchen of the modern, semi-detached village police house. He had been reading the Daily Mail.

  ‘So, we eat soon.’ Matilde beamed. ‘It’s good I went. Like you said, not so much damage, except the kitchen. But the dust everywhere. Tiens.’ The last word came out like the cluck of a mother hen.

  Mrs Stock was short, plump, jolly and very Belgian. In the nearly forty years of their marriage she had altered hardly at all — to the enduring satisfaction of her devoted spouse. She had lost none of her insatiable capacity for hard work, nor her delight in home cooking.

  Lance-Corporal Stock, then a Military Policeman, had observed the same fine qualities in Matilde’s mother all those years ago in her native Liége. He had been billeted with the family. He still remembered those four months. They were the luckiest in his life — and the best fed. He had wooed and won Matilde, mostly while her mother had been cooking. He had known only one cook better than Matilde: her mother.

  ‘Labour of love, Tilly. You won’t get paid for this morning, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ça ne fait rien,’ she muttered into the oven where she was arranging bread. Her deep voice and rough accent never did much for the delicate nuances latent in spoken French. This didn’t bother her husband: he hardly knew a word of the language.

  He folded up the paper. ‘You’re a good old girl.’

  ‘Not so much with your old,’ she called back happily. She drained the potatoes and banged the lid back on the saucepan. Next she began stabbing at the larger lumps of meat with a cooking fork. She was a vigorous operator in the kitchen. ‘I can do this much for a grand lady. Quelle affaire, hein? Such a fine home. Now people coming for the funeral can see for dust.’

  ‘You mean, couldn’t have seen for dust before, love. Won’t be anyone at the cottage, I shouldn’t think. Not that one or two couldn’t stay there, I suppose. It’ll be back to normal today, almost. They’ll paint it Monday, I expect.’

  ‘So, Richard the son. He won’t come?’

  ‘From Australia? He might do. Came for his Dad’s funeral. It’s a tidy way, though. I’ll fetch the beer.’ He got up and opened the larder cupboard. ‘Gas Board’s doing a good job, I’ll give ’em that. They had all the glass back in the windows when I was there first thing. They’ll charge, of course. Doesn’t look like it was their responsibility, the explosion, I mean. Is their inspector bloke still there?’

  She nodded, taking the two warmed soup plates from the oven. ‘Mr Pitty, too. Such a looker, that one.’ She sighed. ‘Real Errol Flynn.’ Matilde’s loyalties died hard.

  ‘Errol Flynn was dark,’ said her husband impassively. ‘Did they ask about the cooker? Seems they had someone there Wednesday mending the pilot lights.’

  She looked up sternly from ladling steaming pieces of oxtail on to the plates. ‘Ah! How should I know if the pilot lights worked on Thursday? That man, the inspector, was asking. Did I make a cup of tea when I was there? Ça alors. I was there to work, I said, not to make tea.’ She went back to the ladling. ‘We had coffee, her Ladyship and me, if she was there. Instant. The water we boil in the electric kettle.’

  ‘But she wasn’t there Thursday morning, was she, love?’

  ‘Not for any of my mornings for two weeks. Always off to the library when I arrive. They said she had the soft spot for the librarian. Mr … Mr Sims.’ She rocked her head, smiling with a touch of devilry.

  ‘Then they are barmy, including Eddy Jacks, because he’s one of them. Ought to know better. Just literary friends, her Ladyship and Mr Sims,’ snorted Stock.

  ‘I think it’s only in joke.’

  ‘That’s as may be.’ He changed the subject. ‘You didn’t happen to use the cooker on Thursday, love?’ He understood why they’d especially want to know if the pilot lights had gone on the blink again.

  ‘No, I did not.’ She placed the heaped plates on the table. ‘Not because her Ladyship said not to have coffee. Always, for me, she says such things must be like Shakespeare, er … take it or leave it.’

  He looked puzzled for a moment. ‘You mean, as you like it, don’t you, Tilly?’ He wasn’t an authority, but it was the one he’d learned at school.

  ‘There’s a difference? Bon appétit.’ They both raised their glasses of light ale. ‘The letter, though. It’s a mystery, that one.’

  ‘What letter?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you? When I go to the front hall first thing, there, on the mat, was a letter. I swear.’

  ‘The post?’

  ‘No, no. Not the post. Before the post comes. It comes by hand. Yesterday perhaps. A blue envelope. I think I know the writing. But no. Or I can’t remember. So. I put it on the silver tray on the little table. Later, it’s not there.’

  ‘How d’you mean, love? Someone picked it up?’

  She shrugged, a meaty spoonful of oxtail poised between plate and mouth. ‘Mr Pitty, he is in the hall ten minutes after. I heard him from the salon. I said, “There’s a letter for her Ladyship.” “Where,” he said. “There,” I said.’ Her lips closed over the spoon.

  ‘And it wasn’t?’ her husband asked. She nodded vigorously. ‘Someone else picked it up, love.’

  ‘Pas de personne. There was no one. The inspecteur from the gas and his assistant, they were in the kitchen. Mr Pitty is the only one in the hall.’

  He poured them both more beer. ‘Well, I’d say it stands to reason Mr Pitty isn’t going to pinch Lady Brasset’s letters. Anyway, he probably has a perfect right to appropriate mail, he being her executor, like. Funny, though. You sure you couldn’t have made a mistake, Tilly?’

  ‘Why should I make a mistake over such a thing? Ah, it’s possible. I hope it’s not important.’ She fetched more potatoes from the cooker. ‘Now, I still have all my ’ousework to do yet. Are you going to football, or do I have to have you between my legs all afternoon?’

  ‘Under your feet, you mean, love.’ He smiled at her fondly. ‘No, it’s football for me.’ Not that there hadn’t been a time …

  ‘And you think you’d smell gas in the hall?’ asked Treasure into the telephone.

  He was seated in the Daws’s office behind the reception desk at the Beachcomber. The door was closed. Tracy, who was at the desk outside, had volunteered the use of the private phone. This was the second call he had made. The first, very brief one, had been to Quaint.

  ‘Could smell it in the attic in the circumstances you describe, Mark,’ answered Harold Arkworthy, talking from his home in Chipping Campden, Gloucestershire. ‘Funny stuff, gas. Insinuates. Like some people. It’s an old cottage, you say?’

  ‘Very, but modernized. I mean proper insulation. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Which stops air getting out as well as in, of course,’ commented Arkworthy. He was Managing Director of one of the largest cooking appliance makers in Europe. ‘Makes it more likely a gas leak would spread round the rooms.’

  ‘Under doors, you mean?’

  ‘All round doors. Through floors. Are there central heating radiators?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, there’s your most likely conduit. Right through the place. I mean, not knowing the house it’s difficult to be certain, but if someone left a burner unlit for … how many hours?’

  ‘About eight before someone went in.’

  ‘And the kitchen has a door to the hall. Mmm. I think there’d be something wrong with your nose if you didn’t smell gas in the hall. D’you want some sort of technical report done? I’m only a poor bloody accountant, you know.’

  ‘But quite highly placed, and noted for observation, Harold. No thanks. You’ve confirmed what I thought.’

  ‘Glad to have been of service. What are the bank’s customers for if you can’t interrupt their gin and tonics every time you smell gas. Where are you, anyway?’

  ‘Tophaven.’

  ‘Good God. Is Molly with you?’

  ‘No. In the States.’

  ‘Ho, ho. So you’re shacked up for the weekend in an old world cottage with a platinum blonde and a leaky gas cooker. Very tricky that could be. Hope it’s not one of mine. The cooker, I mean. We don’t want a double scandal if you blow yourselves up.’

 

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