‘I could probably get you in to see Adrian Pellotte,’ Marsh replied. ‘If you’re looking for the flavour of Whitsun, Adrian’s pretty essential. Unique. He creates the flavour. No, he is it.’
‘You’ve got access?’
‘He pays me a consultant fee. What’s referred to as “a retainer”.’
‘Consultant on what?’
‘They’ll probably be at home now. Dean lives near Adrian. You might be able to meet both, pile up the glimpses.’
‘Great!’
‘But let him, or possibly Dean, start the topics. Don’t do any interrogation. They’ll tell you what they want to tell you.’
‘Understood.’
Marsh went to the telephone in the kitchen, shut the door and rang Pellotte. ‘Someone here wanting to see you, Adrian. He called hoping I could direct him to your place. Well, I replied, “Possibly,” not knowing your view.’
‘Has he got some insights?’
‘What kind, Aid?’
‘We’ve had an attack on the car lately – fixed now, but a nuisance. I had to use a replacement to get to the second day of a conference.’
‘Unbelievable. Your personal BMW?’
‘And problems arising from that. Materials taken from the boot.’
‘Well, no, I don’t think this caller knows about your car and so on.’
‘What then?’
‘He’s interested in the estate. For a tale.’
‘I think I might have heard of him.’ Pellotte went silent for a few moments. Then he said: ‘We’re watching a television awards programme. It’s live. A special friend of my daughter, Dione, is part of the team that might win. In fact, I’m sure they’ll win.’
‘Exciting,’ Marsh said.
‘Yes, I have a real premonition they will.’
‘You’ve made contact with some of the judges, Adrian? Or Dean has?’
‘But I expect it will be over by the time you get here,’ Pellotte said. ‘All right. I’ll see him.’
‘Thanks, Adrian.’
‘How did this visitor locate you, Bert?’
‘He’s done some research. Newspapers – about Gladstone.’
‘Gladstone in William Walton?’ For a moment, Pellotte sounded uncomfortable. So the princely sod should.
‘I was mentioned there,’ Bert said. ‘Oh, Adrian, look, I said a consultancy – not just the pay-off pension re Gladstone. A retainer. It sounded better.’
‘Right. What kind?’
‘Like Public Relations? Quite a lot of that about these days. Devoted to tending your image, Adrian. Ensuring respect and affection.’
‘Right. I’ll ring off now, Bert. The telly programme’s getting to the bit I’m interested in.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ Marsh said. He returned to the lounge. ‘We’ll go, then, shall we, Abel? Best take your car. It’s probably still OK. You haven’t been here long. Stupid to leave it, though.’
As they drew away from Marsh’s house, he saw a Fiat coming slowly towards them down the street with Hodgy driving. Marsh lowered his head, to stay unrecognized. He guessed Hodge must be on his way to visit him. It would figure. The word was around: Hodge had bad trouble and a bad outlook now with Adrian, despite the in-house prize. Gordon Basil Hodge must be touting for people who might take pity and say something nice about him to Pellotte. Nice and possibly life saving. Not the kind of request to do by phone. Most likely, Hodge had tried elsewhere first. Many knew Bert Marsh kept a fine, friendly link with Adrian following Gladstone’s death. But Bert wanted that link to stay friendly, even though Pellotte had failed to get any tit-for-tat scheme against Temperate going yet. For ever? Bert thought Hodgy would have to sort things out with Adrian and Dean for himself, poor bastard. All right, Hodgy needed extra funds because of those kids away at school etcetera. Fine. He should have considered, though, what the result might be if he tried to get the extra how he did. Marsh stayed crouched and face down in the passenger seat.
But, he and Vagrain had been at Adrian Pellotte’s place for only a quarter of an hour when GB Hodge himself arrived, excited, glowing. ‘All at once the idea hit me, Adrian, really hit me,’ Hodge said. ‘I realized something. I realized I had been dealing with things all wrong. Suddenly, I knew I should be more direct. That’s why I’m here, in your home, Adrian. Face to face. Too devious – that’s what I was till now. You’ll reply, “Devious how?” In this way: I’ve tried to persuade people who might be able to say a word in my favour to approach you, instead of coming straight to you myself. Larry Edgehill, for instance, from TV. I feel almost ashamed of it now – seeking his . . . well, his sympathy, really. So weak. Pathetic.’
‘Edgehill?’ Dean said. ‘Why him?’
‘The connection to Adrian – and you,’ Hodge said.
‘What connection?’ Dean said.
‘That Gideon conversation. Much noted. Perhaps about your lovely daughter, Adrian, and her relationship with a regular on one of Larry Edgehill’s programmes. Considerable talk concerning this around Whitsun. I felt it would be an honour to have my problem linked with hers, as it were.’
‘Conversation? Gideon? Oh, just re the arts,’ Dean said. ‘Adrian admires his programme. As a matter of fact, it won a big award tonight. We watched the judging on BBC1.’
‘And then, half an hour ago, I’m on my way to try for Bert’s support, also, knowing of his excellent relationship with Adrian, dating back to Gladstone. But as I arrive at Bert’s home, I see him driving away – or, actually, being driven away from his house. He’s sitting low in the passenger seat, so comfortable looking, so content. A new partner for Bert? I asked myself. That would be brilliant. Bert has grieved, has sincerely grieved, but perhaps the time for grieving is gone and life begins to lighten. William Walton will still darken part of his soul – a very tender and valid part of his soul, yes, but not his total soul from now on. I turn and follow, curious as to their destination. Perhaps a celebratory supper at some quality restaurant. Maybe I can get a word with him there. But, no. They wished to make a happy announcement where that announcement is most due, and most appropriate. To Adrian. To Adrian, with his earned role as chieftain in our community, guardian of our community. And – great good luck! – I’m behind them, tailing! Which brings me here, at last. A move I should have made at the start of all this.’
Dean did introductions: ‘Mr Abel Vagrain’s a writer. And Gordon is a much esteemed commercial associate, Mr Vagrain. We don’t especially mind you coming here, Gordon – entirely without a fucking appointment, as far as I can recall.’
‘Certainly,’ Pellotte said, ‘although we have guests.’
‘A writer?’ Hodge said. ‘I thought I knew that name. And how did you and Bert meet?’
Vagrain felt half drowned by the Niagara of Hodge smarm, and the Hodge haywire interpretation of things. He said: ‘Gordon, as to Bert and myself – it isn’t exactly how you describe. I—’
Dean said: ‘Those items we recovered from the Larch Street property with your very kind and ready assistance not long ago, Gordon, gave us some problems.’
‘Oh?’ Hodge replied.
‘Some disappeared,’ Dean said. ‘And then we get a rumour that a lad from Pine is taken in for trying to pass what might have been some of these as genuine. Didn’t you tell us they were all kosher?’
‘Which kind of items?’ Vagrain said.
‘These will be items of a certain sort, I should think,’ Marsh said.
Pellotte served claret all round. He said heartily: ‘Dean is unhappy about these developments.’
‘Anything wrong, it will be totally inadvertent, let me assure you, Dean, Adrian,’ Hodge said. ‘Look, I would hate to overstay. But, can I speak openly?’
‘Adrian favours total openness in many circumstances if not most,’ Dean replied.
Hodge said: ‘I ask myself: How can I best wipe away all memory of that foolish minor though embarrassing recent tardiness error, especially if some items were false? And, in answer, my
thoughts take me naturally, inevitably, starkly, to the matter of Gladstone.’
‘We have Gladstone’s street murder very much in mind,’ Dean said.
‘But at present unresolved,’ Hodge said.
‘No, not unresolved. Adrian would very much resent that word,’ Dean said. ‘It suggests slackness. We’d prefer “pending”.’
‘Under consideration,’ Pellotte said.
‘Of course. Of course,’ Hodge said. ‘But how would it be, then, if I, Gordon Basil Hodge, promised to take on as my own individual duty that matter still outstanding, still pending, still under consideration? There are people over on Temperate chortling about what happened to Gladstone. Chortling. Hugging themselves, the bland fuckers. They regard the death as a triumph. These people have to be traced and dealt with. Properly dealt with. What’s more, they’ve managed, as I hear, to direct the blame for that reporter’s death on to us. Do I gather that you, Dean, and Gabrielle Barter Cornish, were questioned?’
‘A rubbish move,’ Dean said. ‘Davidson panicking under pressures from the politicos. She’s bound to be nervy, living with that fucking daft bassoonist.’
‘Whitsun pride requires forcible action,’ Hodge said. ‘Absolutely no reflection on you Adrian, or you, Dean, but postponement of a hit-back for the Gladstone matter has puzzled some folk on the estate.’
Marsh said: ‘Mr Vagrain has a book about the insignia of postponement. I’ve seen the jacket. I don’t know if that’s about the delay re Gladstone.’
‘Delay in which regard?’ Vagrain said.
‘Well, I, too, have an announcement to make, here, tonight,’ Hodge said, ‘perhaps not as significant as Bert’s and his new partner’s, but substantial, nonetheless.’
Vagrain watched him, and picked phrases that he might one day use to describe in a novel Hodge’s behaviour now and his state of mind: boldness sparked by despair, cockiness stoked by terror, an agonizing mix.
Hodge said: ‘In the presence of Bert himself and his new, very special, friend, I now gladly take on that mission.’
Although Hodge had misread the link between Vagrain and Bert Marsh, of course, Vagrain loved his style – the solemnity, the grandeur, the sitting-room resonance.
Hodge said: ‘I dedicate myself to the task, a Whitsun answer in similar kind to the brutal termination of one of its own. I will find those responsible and show them they have been judged, condemned and must, in their turn, die. I shall be acting not simply as Gordon Basil Hodge, but proudly, so proudly, on behalf of you, Adrian, you, Dean, you, Bert and all the Whitsun community. I ask, can there be any better way of proving my entire and absolute loyalty to you, Adrian, and the firm?’
Marsh said: ‘Thanks, Gordon.’
‘And now, I will leave,’ Hodge said, ‘so that you may enjoy one another’s company, without an intruder.’
When he’d gone, Vagrain thought: my God, he’s talking about killing someone. Or more than one. He’s the self-designated avenger. It came wrapped up and oracular, but that’s what it meant. He didn’t much care that I was here, listening, because he thinks I’m tied lovingly, gayly, to Bert Marsh – thinks I’ve lately become part of the staunch, inviolate Whitsun team through espousal.
Dean stood suddenly from the armchair where he’d been sitting. Vagrain heard what seemed to be a man’s voice just outside the front door. Dean put his right hand under his jacket up towards the left shoulder and went quickly into the hall. Pellotte stood, too, but his hands remained down at his side. Radiant coolness would be one of his things. He stared towards the door leading to the hall.
In a moment Dean cried out with loud pleasure, ‘Ah, Dione!’
A woman said: ‘Did you see the show?’
‘But of course,’ Dean said. ‘A brilliant and due victory. Congratulations.’
‘I’ve brought Rupert,’ the woman said. ‘All right, I know this is off Temperate, off his normal territory. But such a terrific occasion! Top award for A Week in Review – almost always chaired by Rupe. We wanted to surprise you, but someone was leaving as we arrived and said, “Hello.” He seemed to think he knew us.’
‘Gordon Basil Hodge,’ Dean said. ‘He’d guess – daughter visiting Dad. And I expect he sees TV.’ The three of them – Dione, Bale and Feston – came back into the room. At once, Vagrain recognized Bale from the television.
‘We felt we should come out at once and share the splendid news,’ she said.
‘Splendid, indeed,’ Pellotte said, ‘but as Dean remarks only what has been well earned. A very predictable victory. Great.’
‘Yes, so deserved,’ Dean said.
‘But we didn’t realize we’d be stepping into a party, Dad,’ Dione said.
‘Party?’ Pellotte chuckled and glanced around the big room. ‘Well, not quite.’ He made introductions. ‘Bert and Mr Vagrain called in looking for some background on Whitsun Festival. Mr Vagrain’s an author. But you know that.’
‘Well, of course. We did one of his books,’ Bale said. ‘Grand. The Insignia of Postponement.’
Marsh said: ‘Is it to do with—?’
‘Excuse me, Mr Vagrain,’ Dione said, ‘but I get damned annoyed when people mention the TV discussion of your book. It’s supposed to have been brilliant because Rupert and some woman splurged sex. That cheapens the novel. Makes it seem secondary to the way they presented it. The damn bassoonist husband of that woman pig, Davidson, was on about the impact of Rupert and the telly slut the other night at a concert. So infantile.’
‘Now, Mr Vagrain’s planning a tale set between Whitsun and Temperate,’ Pellotte said. ‘I’m not sure how I feel on that . . . But, anyway, this is why he’s here with Bert. A long-time colleague, Gordon Hodge, arrived soon after Bert and Abel Vagrain with a business proposition. You bumped into him in the front garden. He spoke a greeting and spoiled the surprise, did he? And as for Dean – he turned up earlier than any of them. He’s been busy lately on pressing business near Faunt Castle, after the Anthony Powell conference. Returned by public transport.’
‘Do I know her?’ Dione said.
‘Her?’ Vagrain said.
‘Karen Tyne, a good friend from kiddiedom, told me she was going to the Anthony Powell,’ Dione said. ‘Did you run into her there, Dean? You remember Karen?’
‘Tyne?’ Vagrain said. ‘Karen Tyne?’
‘Definitely a considerable reader,’ she said.
‘Dean was always an admirer, weren’t you, Dean?’ Dione said.
‘Karen Tyne? Lives in Hampstead?’ Vagrain said.
‘You’ve met her? She’s exceptionally literary,’ Dione said. ‘But not exclusively bookish. She gets about. You did come across her there, did you, Dean? Well, like old times!’
Pellotte served Bale and Dione claret from a magnum. To Rupert Bale, the atmosphere seemed all right so far. It was his first visit to the Pellotte house. He expected some tensions. And there might be discoveries: Gordon Basil Hodge – hadn’t that name come up in dinner table talk before the awards announcement tonight at the Savoy?
Pellotte handed out fine china side plates and then went to the kitchen and brought a Stilton cheese on a wooden tray. He passed around a barrel of cream crackers and spooned a portion of the Stilton for everyone. ‘My wife’s in Barbados with some lady friends. She’ll be sorry to have missed you all,’ he said. ‘They go for a month most years. Husbands extremely uninvited!’ The long wide room contained four big, loose-covered settees and half a dozen easy chairs, plus a mahogany bookcase, possibly converted skilfully from an old display stand in a chemist’s shop. There were side tables and a huge Chinese carpet on dark-varnished hardwood boards. Bale guessed Pellotte must have bought two council houses alongside each other and had them turned into one property. Although he could have afforded a Mayfair mansion, he probably wouldn’t feel happy or secure living away from the estate. He had a kind of sacred, devilish bond with the punters. A spiritual matter.
‘We thought it only right that we should come out at onc
e, Mr Pellotte,’ Bale said ‘More personal than the phone.’
‘Call me Adrian, please,’ Pellotte said. ‘Tonight I’m mightily privileged – all these visitors, some unscheduled. And now you and Mr Bale, Dione! Grand!’
‘He’s Rupert, Dad,’ she said.
‘Yes, Rupert, please, Mr Pellotte,’ Bale said.
‘Rupert,’ Pellotte said.
‘Adrian, then,’ Bale said. He felt this to be nuts. There could be no proper closeness with Adrian Pellotte. Bale didn’t have any notion of what Adrian Pellotte was. Well, yes, Bale did have a notion of what he was. Everyone who lived on Temperate or Whitsun had. That offered Bale no comfort: he didn’t have any notion who Pellotte was beyond the drug running, attendant necessary thuggery and regard for Anthony Powell.
‘Yes, a wonderful triumph, that recognition of the programme,’ Pellotte said.
Bale tried to work out from Pellotte’s face and words whether he had landed the victory for A Week in Review, by money dabs to the judges and/or threats to the judges, and/or the promise of several years’ discounted top-bracket coke to the judges. But Pellotte didn’t have the kind of face that told much. In Rupe’s opinion, this did not mean it was a jail face, accustomed to offering long haul blankness to the screws. No, it was a stay-out-of-jail face, accustomed to offering generally a show of refinement, sweet humour and calm to those he considered more or less undangerous. And his words now seemed wonderfully benign and chummy. Some things said about him at the Savoy pre-awards meal earlier tonight had startled Bale though.
He had been sitting between Hector Pye-Oram, A Week in Review’s usual studio manager, and Selina Mysan, often a panellist on the programme, and editor of the bookish magazine, Page Upon Page. Selina went in for big, irrational laughs that would sometimes bring relief if discussion on A.W.I.R. became stifling: laughs sort of ‘in their own right’, unrelated to anything that had been recently said or done or ever would be. Selina must be pushing seventy now, excellent on London literary and similar gossip after years with the magazine, contemptuous of tact.
And she had boomed: ‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one, Rupe?’