I didn’t say anything, but just limped over to the desk. He had a tabloid open at a page showing a naked girl with a pair of breasts like over-inflated lifebelts. Other similar pictures faded on his walls.
“Johnny,” he said again. “You had a spot of bother, I hear.”
I slammed the stick on to his newspaper so hard that everything on his desktop jumped a full inch into the air. “Listen, you fat swine, I’m going to ask you some questions, and your miserable life depends on the answers you give me. Do you understand that, George?”
He golloped at me like a dying fish, then nodded hastily. “Of course, my lord. Of course I do. Anything you want. Just ask.”
I shoved the metal ferrule of the stick into his fat gut. “You know who Garrard and Peel are, don’t you?”
“Course I do. Yes. I told you I did.” He was staring bug-eyed at me.
“So did you tell them where they could find me on the night when they tipped Sunflower into the dock?”
“No, Johnny. No, my lord. Honest! I didn’t!” I was driving the stick into his belly, making his waistcoat distend about the bulging and displaced flesh. “On my mother’s grave, Johnny, I didn’t!”
I believed him, because I was sure by now that it had been Elizabeth who had guessed that I’d make for George’s junk yard. That wasn’t the question I’d come to ask George, but it was a good way of softening him up for my real query. I released the stick and George scrabbled in a drawer for a bottle of pills and quickly swallowed two of them. “I didn’t say a word, Johnny, I wouldn’t. You’re a friend!”
“So where do I find them, George?”
He gaped at me. “I don’t know.” He flinched from the raised stick. “I mean, they could be anywhere! It depends who they’re working for!”
“So who do they work for, George?”
He shrugged. “Anyone, of course.”
I slammed the stick down again, spilling pills across the naked girl’s photograph. “Who, you bastard?”
“Anyone who’s got property troubles, of course.”
“Name them.”
He was saved the need to answer by the arrival of Rita carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. She must have overheard my angry voice and the noise of the walking stick hitting the desk, but she only beamed a happy smile and said it looked like being another fine day. I waited till she had left. “Who do they work for, George?”
He gave me the names of two men who owned discos and pubs in Union Street, but then warned me against those men. I had enough sense to heed his warning. Every maritime city has a Union Street, a place for homecoming sailors to get drunk and laid, and the men who ran such streets were harder than steel. If I limped down Union Street with naïve questions then I would be lucky to leave alive. Harry Abbott could have done it, but I guessed Harry had already exhausted the names George had just given me.
“I haven’t seen hide or hair of them in weeks,” George said miserably. “I’d tell you if I had, Johnny, you know that.”
“They tried to kill me,” I told George.
“Harry told me.” George tutted disapprovingly to show that his sympathies were with me.
“Not just that night in your yard, but last week. They filled my boat with gas, and like a fool I didn’t check.”
“Jesus.” He gaped at me.
“That’s why I want to find them, George, so I can cut out their livers.”
“I wish I could help you, Johnny. You know that! I’d help you if I could!”
I’d drawn a blank. I swore. I crossed to the window and stared down into the dock. It could make a very nice business, I thought, a most splendid business. I could store boats in the winter, have two covered repair shops, and a permanent berth for whatever boat I ended up buying for myself. Except to buy George’s yard would take more money than I was ever likely to have.
“Have a drink,” George said soothingly. “It might help.”
“Not this early.” I sounded annoyed.
“I’ll do anything to help,” George said pleadingly, “you know that, Johnny! I’ll do anything.”
“Then drive me to the train station.”
He drove me to the station, and I’d learned nothing.
* * *
I caught a train to London. I had a piece of personal business to transact before I resumed Harry’s trail. The business was with Jennifer. I wondered if I’d be refused entry into the hospital, but evidently Sir Leon’s prohibition either carried no weight or had yet to be pronounced.
Jennifer had been taken off the air bed, and now lay belly down on a high, metal-sided bed. I couldn’t see how badly she was burned for her body was covered with a kind of plastic tent. Tubes had been poked into her nostrils. Other tubes disappeared under the tent. Her scalp was smothered with a wig made of some pale liquid over which had been pasted small squares of cotton gauze. Lady Buzzacott had said her face had been spared, but it was patched with the same small squares of cotton. The truth was that she looked dreadful. “Hello, gorgeous,” I said.
“Hello.” Her voice was very hoarse.
“Where can I kiss you?”
“You can’t. Mummy kisses one of the drip bottles.”
I kissed one of the drip bottles.
“I hoped you’d come,” she said.
“I came to apologise.”
She made a tiny shaking motion with her head. “No need.”
“I feel like a shit, and everyone’s being so nice.” I could feel the tears pricking my eyes. “It was my fault. I should have checked the gas. I’m sorry.”
“But you’re all right?” she asked. “You look tired.”
“I’ve been sleeping badly. And I limp a bit, but it’ll pass. They tell me you’re going to be fine.”
“They say that.” Her voice was very laboured, the effect, I guessed, of all the fumes she’d inhaled. “But they would, wouldn’t they?”
“No,” I said. “They’ll tell the truth.”
Again there was the little shaking motion of the head. “It’s going to take a long time. My front isn’t too bad, but my back is pretty foul. My hands are the worst. My hair is beginning to grow again. The doctors say I was lucky, that the fire blew past me, but I don’t feel very lucky.” She gave another tiny shake of her head, almost in resignation. “It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did, but it’s still pretty bloody.”
“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly.
“They tell me it will be all right,” she went on, “but when it’s all done I know I’ll still look horrid.”
“No,” I said, though looking at her I could not see how they could possibly put her beauty back together. “I should have brought you some grapes.”
“You’d have had to mash them up and put them in a tube.”
“Actually,” I said, “I brought you something else.”
“What?”
“This.” I could not give it to her, so I opened the box and showed it to her. It was an engagement ring. It wasn’t a very fine ring, not a chunk of diamond like Hans had bought her, but it was the best I could find in the jewellery shop closest to the hospital.
“Oh, John,” she said, and sounded rather sad.
“It isn’t a very good ring,” I confessed, “but your stepfather is trying to buy me off and gave me a chunk of cash, so I blew most of it on the ring. I didn’t blow it all, because I need a bit for bus fares, but it isn’t a bad little ring. It glints in all the right places. Look!”
She smiled at me under the cotton pads. “You’re mad, John.”
“So marry me.” She didn’t say anything, so I burbled on. “Your stepfather disapproves. He thinks you should marry Hans because Hans is sensible and steady, and the Buzzacott millions will need a bore to run them. So I have to tell you that you’ll be upsetting your stepfather when you marry me, but I think he’ll get over it. I suspect your mother will approve, and I imagine she can usually get her own way with him?”
Jennifer nodded very slightly.
“Is that acceptance?” I asked.
“No, it isn’t. I can’t marry you.”
“Why not? I’m eligible.”
“I shall be ugly.”
“Good. I don’t want other men lusting after you. I shall do all the lusting you’ll ever need.”
She watched me with her dark eyes; the only recognisable things left of her. “You’re being foolish,” she said.
“I love you.”
“That’s what I mean.” She took a rasping breath. “Anyway, there’s Hans.”
“Bugger Hans,” I said. “He’ll just put you down as a bad business investment and find himself a little Swiss bird with big tits and skier’s thighs.”
She shook slightly, and I think she was laughing. “I can’t marry you,” she said after a while. “You’re just making a gesture.”
“Of course I’m making a gesture, you silly woman. I love you. For our honeymoon we’ll sail somewhere delicious.”
“John…” Again there was a sadness in her voice.
“Mind you,” I said, “I can’t marry you yet because I’ve got to find the two bastards who booby-trapped the boat, and when I do I’m going to kill them. I’ll bet Hans wouldn’t kill someone for you?”
“I don’t think he would, no.”
“That proves it, then. I’m a better man.”
“You’re a very impractical man. You’re just making a gesture because you pity me.”
“Balls. In fact I’m being very practical. I’m marrying an excessively rich girl, and it occurs to me that you’ll probably inherit the Van Gogh if we ever get it back, so I’m not really giving it away at all.” I smiled down at her. “Would you very much mind marrying me for your money?”
She paused. “You’ll hate me, John. I’ll be ugly.”
“I will love you” – I looked into her dark eyes – “and within a year you and I will be married, and two years from now we’ll have a child, and though I must confess I can’t stand the sound of a baby screaming, I will love him because he’s yours. So hold on, my love, because we have a lot of living to do.”
“Hold on,” she repeated my words. “You said that to me in the water.”
“You remember?”
“You were swearing,” she said, and I saw she was crying, and I was crying too, so I bent down and kissed one of her closed eyelids. Her tears tasted salty.
“You told me I was a pathetic bloody girl,” she said, “and that I was too feeble to live, and I thought I’ll show you. I’ll prove I’m not feeble.”
“Good for you,” I said. “So now prove that you can get better.”
She smiled, making the little gauze squares twitch. “I will, I promise. But it’s going to take a long time.”
“I’ll wait.”
The edge of the plastic tent shifted and I saw she was putting out her hand. I thought she wanted me to hold it, then I saw that her hand was nothing but black claws inside a plastic bag. She was watching me, and I sensed this was a test. She wanted to see if I’d flinch from the sight. Instead I bent down and, very gently, kissed the plastic bag. “It’s a bit difficult to put a ring on now,” I said, “but I will one day.”
“Maybe,” she said. She sounded tired so I placed the ring on the bedside table where she could see it. “I’ll come back,” I said.
“Please.” Her voice was a whisper.
I thought she was falling asleep so I tiptoed to the door. “John?” Her voice was very low.
I turned back. “My love?”
I waited a long time for her to speak, and when she did her voice was distorted because she was crying. “I love you,” she said, “but it all seems so bloody hopeless.”
“I love you too,” I replied, “and everything will be fine.” Then I left so she shouldn’t see my own tears.
I limped through dusty London streets. I was oblivious to the traffic or to the noise, oblivious to all the horrors of the city, blind to everything except the realisation that at last I had found someone to love, to cherish, but, first and most important of all, someone to avenge.
I reached Perilly House in the early evening. I had gone by train, bus, and foot, and my left ankle felt as if a white hot steel band was being slowly contracted about the bones. I wasn’t very sure how best to proceed for, despite my reputation, I was not a practised burglar, yet this evening I planned a burglary because, if Harry could not legally search Elizabeth’s house, then I would do it illegally. It was clear that I had arrived at an inopportune time for Elizabeth’s two stable girls were still busy giving riding lessons, and the presence of a car parked beside the Land Rover outside the front door suggested that Peter had a visitor, so I decided to wait till the house was either empty or Peter was alone and, presumably, drinking. I limped off the driveway to a copse of trees and settled down to wait.
By half past six the riding school pupils had been driven away by their mothers. Forty minutes later the stable girls locked up the yard and rode their bicycles down the tradesmen’s driveway. Peter’s visitor stayed another half-hour, then drove away. I stayed where I was, giving Peter time to start on his second or third bottle of the day, but it seemed my luck was in for, just a few moments after the visitor had left, Peter appeared at the front door, climbed into the Land Rover and accelerated down the drive.
I stood up, brushed the leaf mould off my jeans, and walked across the pastureland. I’d seen Peter lock the front door, so I went round the back where the house was an ugly clutter of gun room, dairy, sculleries, kitchen and coal stores. The doors were all locked, but I spotted a half-open window high up on the main scullery wall and, abandoning Charlie’s walking stick, I used an empty rain-butt to climb up to the window. It was a tight squeeze, and my left ankle threatened to spill me off the wobbly barrel, but I finally wriggled through the window on to a cobwebby shelf that creaked dangerously under my weight. There was a clatter of food tins hitting the floor as I pulled my legs through the window. I was proving to be a lousy burglar, but it was evident the house was deserted for no one came to investigate the noise.
I put the tins back on the shelf, wiped the cobwebs off my face, and opened the door. I knew the house from the old days. I was in the kitchen passage that was thickly hung with reins, bridles and whips. The kitchen was to the right and the family rooms to the left. I went left, through the baize-covered door, and paused in the hallway.
I knew Elizabeth had a small office behind the dining room, so I decided to begin there. I first unlocked the front door so that if anyone came home I could claim to have found the door open. The decor of the house had not been changed in the years I’d been barred from Perilly House. Peter’s gloomy pictures of long-forgotten battles and Elizabeth’s prints of spindly-legged racehorses jostled for position on the fading wallpaper. A dish of dusty cobnuts sat on the vast sideboard in the dining room. I opened one with the silver-gilt nutcrackers and ate it as I pushed open the unlocked door of Elizabeth’s office.
I knew within minutes that I would find nothing incriminating in the office. The only papers in the file drawers were records of her horses, receipts from the feed companies, vets’ bills, and details of forthcoming Pony Club events. It was plain that the stable girls also used the office, for Elizabeth had left them a message pinned to the top of the rolltop desk: ‘Mrs Peabody owes us £16 so her wretched child is NOT to be given any rides until the bill is paid in FULL.’
I scouted the living room, but found no place where any papers might be hidden. I went upstairs. It was obvious that Lord and Lady Tredgarth slept apart, for the large bedroom was filled with Peter’s things and held nothing whatever of Elizabeth’s. His clothes were strewn on the floor, suggesting that the cleaning woman never reached this dismal domain. A half-empty bottle of whisky stood on a side table with a copy of the Farmer’s Weekly. There was a blurred photograph of his old yacht hanging on the wall. I remembered the boat well, a fine old Vertue 25 that had been his pride and joy, but marriage and financial worries had scuppered that dream. Nex
t to it was a framed photograph of Elizabeth, taken some years earlier at an exotic tropical resort. She was in a bikini top and wrapround skirt, smiling at the camera, and the photograph reminded me of just how attractive my sister was. I wondered if Peter kept the two pictures on his wall as a reminder of old and happier days. The present days were typified by a girly magazine that lay under the unmade bed. The room’s decrepitude reminded me of my brother’s bedroom and also made me feel dirty. There was something very distasteful in my prying, but there was something equally distasteful in a bilge filled with lethal gas.
I closed Peter’s door, then searched the four guest rooms and the two bathrooms, but they were all quite innocent. Which just left Elizabeth’s room. I tried the door, but as I’d feared, it was locked.
I had a choice now. So far, if I’d been found, I could righteously claim to be Lady Tredgarth’s brother who had come into an open house to wait for her, but if I broke down the door I would be committing an offence. I tested the lock by pushing on the door, but there was no play in it. It was an old-fashioned keyhole-type lock of the sort I had used to pick at Stowey, but I had no tools, nor did I know whether the skill was still with me.
I tried. I found some skewers in the kitchen, bent their tips, and tried to find the lock’s levers. After fifteen minutes I had achieved nothing other than a frayed temper. It also occurred to me that Peter might have gone no further than the local pub and could be home at any moment, so I gave up being delicate and just put my shoulder to the door. It took a half-dozen huge heaves, and one painful kick with my right foot, but finally the lockplate splintered off the jamb and the door swung open.
There was a bed, a chest of drawers, a dressing table, a vast wardrobe that had once been in my father’s room at Stowey and, to the left of her fireplace, a long table covered with papers. Above the table was a crucifix carved in ancient, hard wood, while beneath the table was a japanned tin trunk that was closed with a padlock.
I started with the papers on the table. There were letters from old schoolfriends, minutes of charity committee meetings, specimens of wallpaper, and overdue invoices from the builders who were renovating Primrose Cottage. I found the newspaper cuttings of the press conference I’d given with Jennifer, but that was the only matter relevant to my search and it neither confirmed Elizabeth’s guilt nor added to what I already knew.