Sins of the Fathers Read online

  "Oh, no, sir, that's what worried Mrs. Clever Crilling. She'd come out into my kitchen when madam was sleeping. 'Alice,' she'd say, 'we ought to get dear Mrs. Primero to make her last will and testament. It's our duty, Alice, it says so in the Prayer Book.' "

  "Does it?"

  Alice looked both shocked and smug. "Yes, it does, sir. It says, 'But men should often be put in remembrance to take order for the settling of their temporal estates whilst they are in health.' Still I don't hold with everything that's in the Prayer Book not when it comes to downright interference—saving your presence, sir. 'It's in your interest too, Alice,' she says. 'You'll be turned out into the streets when she goes.'

  "But madam wouldn't have it, anyway. Everything was to go to her natural heirs, she said, them being Mr. Roger and the little girls. It'd be theirs automatically, you see, without any nonsense about wills and lawyers."

  "Mr. Roger didn't try to get her to make a will?"

  "He's a lovely person is Mr. Roger. When Beast Painter had done his murdering work and poor madam was dead Mr. Roger got his bit of money—three thousand it was and a bit more. 'I'll take care of you, Alice,' he said, and so he did. He got me a nice room in Kingsmarkham and gave me two pounds a week on top of my pension. He was in business on his own then and he said he wouldn't give me a lump sum. An allowance, he called it, bless his heart, out of his profits."

  "Business? I thought he was a solicitor."

  "He always wanted to go into business on his own, sir. I don't know the ins and outs of it, but he came to madam one day—must have been two or three weeks before she died—and he said a pal of his would take him in with him if he could put up ten thousand pounds. 'I know I haven't got a hope,' he said, speaking ever so nice. 'It's just a castle in the air, Granny Rose.'

  " 'Well, it's no good looking at me,' says madam. 'Ten thousand is all I've got for me and Alice to live on and that's tucked away in Woolworth's shares. You'll get your share when I'm gone.' I don't mind telling you, sir, I thought then, if Mr. Roger liked to do his little sisters down he could try getting round madam to make that will and leave him the lot. But he never did, never mentioned it again, and he'd always made a point of bringing the two mites just whenever he could. Then Beast Painter killed madam and the money went like she said it would, to the three of them.

  "Mr. Roger's doing very well now, sir, very well indeed, and he comes to see me regular. I reckon he got the ten thousand from somewhere or maybe another pal came up with something else. It wasn't for me to ask, you see."

  A nice man, Archery thought, a man who had needed money perhays desperately, but would do nothing underhand to get it; a man who provided for his dead grandmother's domestic while he was struggling to get a business going, who still visited her and who doubtless listened patiently over and over again to the tale Archery had just heard. A very nice man. If love, praise and devotion could reward such a man, he had his reward.

  "If you should see Mr. Roger, sir, if you want to see him about the story you're writing, would you give him my best respects?"

  "I won't forget, Miss Flower." He put his hand over her dead one and pressed it. "Good-bye and thank you." Well done, thou good and faithful servant.

  It was gone eight when he got back to the Olive and Dove. The head waiter glared at him when he walked into the dining room at a quarter past. Archery stared about him at the empty room, the chairs arranged against the walls.

  "Dance on tonight, sir. We did make a point of asking residents to take their dinner at seven sharp, but I expect we can find you something. In here, if you please."

  Archery followed him into the smaller of the two lounges that led off the dining room. The tables had been crammed in and people were hastily gobbling their meal. He ordered, and through the glass doors, watched the band take its place on the dais.

  How was he to spend this long hot summer evening? The dancing would probably go on until half-past twelve or one and the hotel would be unbearable. A quiet stroll was the obvious thing. Or he could take the car and go and look at Victor's Piece. The waiter came back with the braised beef he had ordered, and Archery, resolutely economical, asked for a glass of water.

  He was quite alone in his alcove, at least two yards from the next table, and he jumped when he felt something soft and fluffy brush against his leg. Drawing back, he put his hand down, lifted the cloth and met a pair of bright eyes set in a golden woolly skull.

  "Hallo, dog," he said.

  "Oh I'm so sorry. Is he being a nuisance?"

  He looked up and saw her standing beside him. They had evidently just come in, she, the man with the glassy eyes and another couple.

  "Not a bit." Archery's poise deserted him and he found himself almost stammering. "I don't mind, really. I'm fond of animals."

  "You were here at lunch, weren't you? I expect he recognised you. Come out, Dog. He doesn't have a name. We just call him Dog because he is one and it's just as good a name as Jock or Gyp or something. When you said, 'Hallo, dog,' he thought you were a personal friend. He's very intelligent."

  "I'm sure he is."

  She gathered the poodle up in her arms and held him against the creamy lace of her dress. Now that she wore no hat he could see the perfect shape of her head and the high unshadowed brow. The head waiter minced over, no longer harassed.

  "Back again, Louis, like the proverbial bad pennies," said the glassy-eyed man heartily. "My wife took a fancy to come to your hop, but we must have a spot of dinner first." So they were married, these two. Why hadn't it occurred to him before, what business was it of his and, above all, why should it cause him this faint distress? "Our friends here have a train to catch, so if you can go all out with the old speed we'll be eternally grateful."

  They all sat down. The poodle mooched between diners' legs, scavenging for crumbs. Archery was faintly amused to see how quickly their dinner was brought to them. They had all ordered different dishes, but there was little delay and at the same time little hustle. Archery lingered over his coffee and his bit of cheese. Surely he was no bother to anyone in his small corner. People were coming in to dance now, passing his table and leaving in their wake the faint scent of cigars and floral perfume. In the dining room, a ballroom now, the garden doors had been opened and couples stood on the terrace listening to the music in the tranquillity of the summer night.

  The poodle sat on the threshold, bored, watching the dancers.

  "Come here, Dog," said his owner. Her husband got up.

  "I'll take you to the station, George," he said. "We've only got ten minutes, so get a wiggle on, will you?"

  He seemed to have a variety of expressions to impl) the making of haste. "You don't have to come, darling. Finish your coffee."

  The table was veiled in smoke. They had smoked throughout the courses. He would be gone perhaps only half an hour but he bent over and kissed his wife. She smiled at him, lit another cigarette. When they had gone, she and Archery were alone. She moved into her husband's chair from where she could watch the dancers, many she seemed to know, for she waved occasionally and nodded as if promising she would soon join them.

  Archery suddenly felt lonely. He knew no one in this place except two rather hostile policemen. His stay might be for the whole fortnight. Why hadn't he asked Mary to join him? It would be a holiday for her, a change, and—heaven knew—she needed a change. In a minute, when he had finished his second cup, he would go upstairs and telephone her.

  The girl's voice startled him. "Do you mind if I have your ashtray? Ours are all full."

  "Of course not, take it." He lifted the heavy glass plate and as he handed it to her the tips of her cool dry fingers touched his own. The hand was small, childlike, with short unpainted nails. "I don't smoke," he added rather foolishly.

  "Are you staying here long?" Her voice was light and soft, yet mature.

  "Just a few days."

  "I asked," she said, "because we come here so often and I hadn't seen you before today. Most of the people are r
egulars." She put out the cigarette carefully, stubbing it until the last red spark was dead. "They have these dances once a month and we always come. I love dancing."

  Afterwards Archery wondered what on earth had induced him, a country vicar nearly fifty years old, to say what he did. Perhaps it was the mingled scents, the descending twilight or just that he was alone and out of his environment, out of his identity almost. "Would you like to dance?"

  It was a waltz they were playing. He was sure he could waltz. They waltzed at church socials. You simply had to make your feet go one, two, three in a sort of triangle. And yet, for all that, he felt himself blush. What would she think of him at his age? She might suppose he was doing what Charles called "picking her up." "I'd love to," she said.

  Apart from Mary and Mary's sister, she was the only woman he had danced with in twenty years. He was so shy and so overcome by the enormity of what he was doing, that for a moment he was deaf to the music and blind to the hundred or so other people who circled the floor. Then she was in his arms, a light creature of scent and lace whose body so incongruously touching his had the fluidity and the tenuousness of a summer mist. He felt that he was dreaming and because of this, this utter unreality, he forgot about his feet and what he must make them do, and simply moved with her as if he and she and the music were one.

  "I'm not very good at this sort of thing," he said when he found his voice. "You'll have to overlook my mistakes." He was so much taller than she that she had to lift her face up to him.

  She smiled. "Hard to make conversation when you're dancing, isn't it? I never know what to say but one must say something."

  "Like 'Don't you think this is a good floor?' " Strange, he remembered that one from undergraduate days.

  "Or 'Do you reverse?' It's absurd really. Here we are dancing together and I don't even know your name." She gave a little deprecating laugh. "It's almost immoral."

  "My name's Archery. Henry Archery."

  "How do you do, Henry Archery?" she said gravely. Then as they moved into a pool of sunset light, she looked steadily at him, the glowing colour falling on her face. "You really don't recognise me, do you?" He shook his head, wondering if he had made some terrible faux pas. She gave a mock sigh. "Such is fame! Imogen Ide. Doesn't it ring a bell?"

  "I'm awfully sorry."

  "Frankly, you don't look as if you spend your leisure perusing the glossy magazines. Before I married I was what they call a top model. The most photographed face in Britain."

  He hardly knew what to say. The things that came to mind all had some reference to her extraordinary beauty and to speak them aloud would have been impertinent. Sensing his predicament, she burst out laughing, but it was a companionable laugh, warm and kind.

  He smiled down at her. Then over her shoulder he caught sight of a familiar face. Chief Inspector Wexford had come on to the floor with a stout pleasant-looking woman and a young couple. His wife, his daughter and the architect's son, Archery supposed, feeling a sudden pang. He watched them sit down and just as he was about to avert his eyes, Wexford's met his. The smiles they exchanged were slightly antagonistic and Archery felt hot with awkwardness. Wexford's expression held a mocking quality as if to say that dancing was a frivolity quite out of keeping with Archery's quest. Abruptly he looked away and back to his partner.

  "I'm afraid I only read The Times," he said, feeling the snobbishness of the remark as soon as the words were out.

  "I was in The Times once," she said. "Oh, not my picture. I was in the High Court bit. Somebody mentioned my name in a case and the judge said, 'Who is Imogen Ide?' "

  "That really is fame."

  "I've kept the cutting to this day."

  The music that had been so liquid and lullaby-like suddenly jerked into a frightening tempo with a stormy undertone of drums.

  "I haven't a hope of doing this one," Archery said helplessly. He released her quickly, there in the middle of the floor.

  "Never mind. Thank you very much, anyway. I've enjoyed it."

  "So have I, very much indeed."

  They began to thread their way between couples who were shuddering and bounding about like savages. She was holding his hand and he could hardly withdraw it without rudeness.

  "Here's my husband back," she said. "Won't you join us for the evening if you've nothing better to do?"

  The man called Ide was coming up to them, smiling. His evenly olive face, dead black hair and almost feminine standard of grooming gave him the look of a waxwork. Archery had the absurd notion that if you came upon him at Madame Tussaud's the old joke of the naive spectator mistaking a model for a flesh and blood attendant would be reversed. In this case you would pass the real man by, thinking him a figure in wax.

  "This is Mr. Archery, darling. I've been telling him he ought to stay. It's such a beautiful night."

  "Good idea. Perhaps I can get you a drink, Mr. Archery?"

  "Thank you, no." Archery found himself shaking hands, astonished because of his fantasy at the warmth of Ide's hand. "I must go. I have to phone my wife."

  "I hope we shall see you again," said Imogen Ide. "I enjoyed our dance." She took her husband's hand and they moved away into the centre of the floor, their bodies meeting, their steps following the intricate rhythm. Archery went upstairs to his bedroom. Earlier he had supposed that the music would annoy him but here in the violet-coloured dusk it was enchanting, disturbing, awakening in him forgotten, undefined longings. He stood at the window, looking at the sky with its long feather scarves of cloud, rose pink as cyclamen petals but less substantial. The strains of the music had softened to match this tranquil sky and now they seemed to him like the opening bars of an overture to some pastoral opera.

  Presently he sat down on the bed and put his hand to the telephone. It rested there immobile for some minutes. What was the point of ringing Mary when he had nothing to tell her, no plans even for what he would do in the morning? He felt a sudden distaste for Thringford and its small parochial doings. He had lived there so long, so narrowly, and outside all the time there had been a world of which he knew little. From where he sat he could see nothing but sky, broken continents and islands on a sea of azure. "Here will we sit and let the sound of music creep in our ears..." He took his hand from the telephone and lay back, thinking of nothing.

  *9*

  The words of his mouth were softer than butter, having war in his heart: his words were smoother than oil, and yet be they very swords. —Psalm 55, appointed for the Tenth Day

  "I suppose there isn't anything in it?'

  "In what, Mike? Liz Crilling having some dark secret her mother doesn't want extorted from her under the third degree?"

  Burden lowered the blinds against the brazen morning sky. "Those Crillings always make me uneasy," he said.

  "They're no more kinky than half our customers," Wexford said breezily. "Liz'll turn up at the Assizes all right. If not for any other reason simply because Mrs. Crilling doubts her ability to get a thousand quid out of her brother-in-law, or whoever it is supports them. And then if she's got something to tell us, she'll tell us."

  Burden's expression, though apologetic, was obstinate. "I can't help feeling it's got some connection with Painter," he said.

  Wexford had been leafing through a thick orange-coloured trade directory. Now he dropped it on the desk with a deliberate bang. "By God, I won't have any more of this! What is it, anyhow, some sort of conspiracy to prove I can't do my job?"

  "I'm sorry, sir, you know I didn't mean that."

  "I don't know a damn thing, Mike. I only know the Painter case was an open and shut affair, and nobody's got a hope in hell of showing he didn't do it." He began to calm down slowly, and he spread his hands in two large implacable fans on the directory cover. "Go and question Liz by all means. Or tell Archery to do it for you. He's a fast worker that one."

  "Is he? What makes you say so?"

  "Never mind. I've got work to do if you haven't and..." said Wexford, splendidly co-ordinating
his metaphors, "I'm fed up to my back teeth with having Painter rammed down my throat morning, noon and night."

  Archery had slept deeply and dreamlessly. It occurred to him that he had done all his dreaming while he was awake and there was none left for sleep. The telephone roused him. It was his wife.

  "Sorry it's so early, darling, but I've had another letter from Charles."

  There was a cup of cold tea by the bed. Archery wondered how long it had been there. He found his watch and saw that it was nine. "That's all right. How are you?"

  "Not so bad. You sound as if you're still in bed."

  Archery grunted something.

  "Now, listen. Charles is coming down tomorrow and he says he's coming straight over to Kingsmarkham."

  "Coming down?"

  "Oh, it's all right, Henry. He's going to cut the last three days of term. Surely it can't matter much."

  "As long as it isn't the thin end of the wedge. Is he coming to The Olive?"

  "Well, naturally. He's got to stay somewhere. I know it's expensive, darling, but he's got himself a job for August and September—something in a brewery. It sounds awful but he's going to get sixteen pounds a week and he says he'll pay you back."

  "I hadn't realised I made such an avaricious impression on my son."

  "You know he doesn't mean that. You are touchy this morning..."

  After she had rung off he still held the receiver for some moments in his hand. He wondered why he hadn't asked her to join him as well. He had meant to last night and then ... Of course, he had been so drowsy while she was speaking that he hardly knew what he was saying.

  The operator's voice broke in. "Have you finished or did you want to make a call?"

  "No thank you. I've finished."

  The little sandy houses in Glebe Road seemed to have been bleached and dried up by the sun. This morning they looked even more like desert dwellings, each surrounded by its own scanty oasis.