Charters and Caldicott (7 page)

‘Reading lights should help its elucidation,' said Charters.

‘Doubt it, old chap. It's the steam.'

‘No, no, no – that's the clue. One down.'

‘Oh, I see. Reading lights should help its elucidation. Beats me.'

‘Nine letters. Something something O, something S, something something something something.'

‘Where do you get the O from?'

‘Five across. Overt.'

‘You didn't pass that on to me.'

‘Didn't think I'd need to,' said Charters, smugly. ‘It's obvious.'

‘It is, now you mention it.' Caldicott wrote in the word before asking, ‘Why overt?'

‘Obvious. “Unconcealed – six balls to a T.”'

‘Yes?'

‘Six balls to an over.'

‘I'm aware of that, Charters.'

‘Add an over to a T and you've got overt. Unconcealed.'

‘Obvious,' said Caldicott, disgusted with himself.

Charters returned to puzzling over one down. ‘Reading lights should help its elucidation.'

The figure of Venables, the clubman, also towel-clad but still looking distinguished, materialised out of the steam. ‘Crossword,' he stated.

‘Yes, difficulr one today,' said Caldicott.

‘That's the answer. Reading lights should help its elucidation. Nine letters. Crossword.'

‘How do you make that out?'

‘Reading
lights
. Crossword lights – in other words, clues.'

‘Yes, thank you, Venables,' said Charters, irritated.

‘Not at all, Caldicott.'

‘Charters!'

‘Sorry.' Venables drifted away and was swallowed up by the steam.

‘He did that to annoy us,' said Charters.

‘Mixed our names up? Doesn't annoy me.'

‘Told us the answer to one down. Just when I was on the verge of solving it.'

‘Never mind, old man. Now we know that nineteen across begins with a D. Four letters.'

Charters brightened. Then hearing a cough behind him, he clutched his newspaper to his damp chest, fearing another intrusion into his crossword. ‘Now look here, Venables...' he began before recognising the Club porter through the steam. ‘Oh, it's you, Barstow. What is it?'

‘There's a gentleman to see you both, sir,' said Barstow.

‘Gentleman? What gentleman?'

‘A Mr Snow, sir.' Barstow lowered his voice. ‘Well – Inspector Snow, to be more exact.'

‘In the Club? I shall write to the Committee!'

‘I should think the Committee will be writing to
us
when they get wind of the police tramping up and down the grand staircase,' said Caldicott. ‘Where have you put him, Barstow?'

‘In the smoking room, sir.'

‘Then take him
out
of the smoking room and put him in the library where no one'll find him,' said Caldicott, much agitated by this breach of Club etiquette.

'Fifth floor,' said Margaret, studying the directory board in the main entrance of the prestige office-block in Mayfair that housed the Zazz Corporation. ‘Don't steal anything I wouldn't steal.'

‘Wish me luck,' said Jenny, Josh Darrell's new temp. She turned to go in and almost collided with the mysterious Cecil St Clair, who also seemed to have business in the building. He stepped back and clicked his heels.

‘See you for lunch,' Jenny called over her shoulder to Margaret.

Margaret cast an amused glance at St Clair. ‘Unless you get a better offer – Miss Brown.'

While Inspector Snow waited for Charters and Caldicott, he entertained himself by straightening all the pictures that covered one wall of the Club's library. Eventually he reached a very large portrait of Sir Robert Peel, hanging high above the mantelpiece. Here he had to admit defeat. Undeniably askew though it was, Snow couldn't reach it without a ladder.

Charters and Caldicott, who had dressed with utmost speed, paused on the threshold of the library and glanced over their shoulders to reassure themselves that no one was following them in. Peering round the library anxiously, they registered not one but two distressing sights: Inspector Snow, wiping dust from his hands as he stared regretfully up at Sir Robert, and another member already in occupation and reading a newspaper. Charters and Caldicott approached the Inspector on tiptoe. ‘Inspector Snow,' Caldicott whispered.

‘Sorry to barge in on your Club, gentlemen,' said Snow in normal tones, to the anguish of the pair.

Charters raised a warning finger to his lips, pointed to a prominent Silence sign, and hissed, ‘Yes it
is
rather unusual.'

‘Grimes said you'd be here, Mr Caldicott, and I did want to get you both together,' Snow went on more quietly. ‘Saves a special journey up to town, look at it that way, Mr Charters.' Charters grunted. Snow nodded towards the portrait and said, ‘Sir Robert Peel. My governor as was.'

The clubman in Caldicott overcame his hostility to the Inspector's intrusion. Beckoning Snow to Jean closer, he whispered, ‘Yes, and how he comes to be up there since he was never a member is rather a curious story. It seems that the first chairman of our wine committee was something of a gambler, who in his cups one evening...'

‘Can we get on,' Charters interrupted. ‘Is this about the murder, Inspector?'

‘Related matters.'

‘It comes to the same thing. You see, there's no reason why you should be acquainted with our Club rules, Inspector, but under them we're not permitted, while
in
the Club, to do business.'

‘A murder inquiry isn't what I'd call business, Mr Charters.'

‘Ah, but it's business to
you
, Inspector,' said Caldicott, keeping an anxious eye on the other occupant of the library. ‘Pursuit of your profession, don't you see? For example, supposing I brought you in here for a quiet Scotch as my guest and you started trying to flog me life insurance.'

‘We could always go down to the Yard,' said Snow, his voice rising. ‘Or there's the Club steps outside, if you'd find that more convenient.'

The other member coughed pointedly. Charters flapped an agitated hand towards the Silence sign and murmured, ‘Shall we sit down?'

They selected a table as far as possible from the other member, pulled chairs up close and put their heads together – literally. ‘That's another thing,' Charters hissed as Snow set his briefcase down on the table. ‘Our guests usually leave their briefcases in the cloakroom.' The inspector gave him a long, withering look. ‘Not allowed to, eh? Well, I suppose you have your rules as we have ours.'

Inspector Snow, pointedly putting an end to further discussion of Club ethics, snapped back the lock catches of his briefcase. ‘I've spent most of the weekend sifting through all Colonel Beevers' documents and papers. Grubby job, I can tell you. There was the dust of ages in that trunk.'

‘I can well believe it. Something of a squirrel, our Jock,' Caldicott whispered.

‘You'd say that, would you?'

‘One-man lumber room. Old diaries, letters, reunion dinner menus, photographs...'

‘Score cards,' Charters supplied.

‘We all keep scorecards, Charters.'

‘Not bridge scorecards, Caldicott.'

‘True.'

The other occupant of the library, tired of rustling his newspaper in a critical manner, got up and departed with an angry glare.

‘Yes, quite a bundle of those,' Snow agreed, abandoning his hunched position over the table with relief. ‘So you'll have had a good look through the trunk yourselves, gentlemen?'

‘Certainly not!' said Caldicott, successfully distracted from the shame his fellow member had inspired in him. ‘Colonel Beevers' hoarding tendencies were well known to all and sundry. Why, he even saved our old school mags.'

‘Yes, I know. They were in the trunk,' said Snow, opening his briefcase.

‘Have you brought them with you?' Charters leaned forward eagerly but all the inspector took out was a passport. ‘That name ring bells?'

Caldicott glanced at it. ‘Buckton.'

‘D. W. Buckton?' Charters asked.

‘Ducky Buckton! Bowling average eight point something, batting average nil. Literally.'

‘Our house captain. Superb bowler – couldn't bat for toffee.' Charters waved an arm at the Wisdens on the shelves. ‘It's all there if you're interested.'

‘The missing volume turned up, by the way, Inspector,' said Caldicott. ‘You'll recall it was because we couldn't find the 1979 Wisden that we went back to my flat and discovered the body.'

‘Yes, it hadn't been taken away, simply carelessly replaced in the wrong order,' said Charters.

‘Quite a weight off my mind,' said Snow.

‘Ducky Buckton,' said Caldicott, drifting back on a wave of nostalgia. ‘Bought it in North Africa, poor chap. But why did Jock Beevers have his passport?'

‘Did he?' Snow asked.

‘Didn't he?'

‘You tell me.'

‘Need we play cat and mouse, Inspector?' said Charters, exasperated. He picked up the passport. ‘Either it was in Colonel Beevers' possession or it...' He stopped abruptly, staring goggle-eyed at the photograph in the passport. ‘But this
is
Colonel Beevers!' He thrust the passport in front of Caldicott.

‘To the life!' said Caldicott excitedly. ‘I'm out of my depth here. What is Jock Beevers doing on Ducky Buckton's passport?'

‘Interesting isn't it?' said Snow. ‘Like the false-bottomed Bible it was tucked inside.'

‘What are you suggesting?' Charters demanded. ‘That this is a forged passport using the name of a schoolmate who died for his country?'

‘What are you suggesting, Mr Charters? That it isn't?'

‘Give it here, Charters.' Caldicott snatched the passport and opened it. ‘Russian visas,' he said, stunned.

‘Quite a regular visitor, wasn't he,' said Snow.

‘Good God,' said Charters, lost for a decent excuse.

Caldicott, totally bewildered, asked, ‘But why?'

‘To be briefed and debriefed, I suppose. About what isn't my pigeon, thank goodness.' Snow went on casually, after scarcely a pause, ‘What's Moscow's interest in Hong Kong, would you say?'

‘Oh, enormous,' said Caldicott. ‘British presence, Chinese presence, lease running out, secret negotiations, no doubt. There's a hell of a lot going on in that little melting-pot that the Russkies would give their...' He stopped, belatedly realising what Snow was getting at. ‘I don't believe it!'

‘That he was a spy? What was he then – a travel courier?'

‘It'll take more than this to convince me, Inspector,' said Charters loyally, giving the passport back to Snow. ‘You see, I
knew
Colonel Beevers.'

Inspector Snow replaced the passport in his briefcase in precisely the correct position and took out two photocopies of a short letter. ‘I know you did, Mr Charters. That's why I'm here. He left you both a letter, by the way. I'm surprised you didn't stumble across it.'

‘We didn't stumble across it because we hadn't looked in the trunk,' said Caldicott heatedly.

‘Don't rise to the bait, old man,' said Charters. ‘What letter?'

‘Well, more of a note, really,' said Snow. ‘In fact, he does seem to have assumed that in the event of his death you
would
open the trunk.'

‘Do you mean to say you've read it?' Charters demanded.

‘I've made you a photocopy each. You can keep it.'

Charters seized his sheet. ‘Thank you! Thank you very much!'

Caldicott read his copy. ‘“Dear old chaps, just in case my plane nosedives or the old ticker packs up before I get there – Mix Well and Serve. Yours aye, Jock.” End message.' Caldicott looked up. ‘Never much of a correspondent, old Jock.'

‘“Mix Well and Serve”,' said Charters, mystified.

‘Yes, I was wondering about that,' said Snow.

‘Quotation, is it?' Caldicott asked.

‘Conundrum?' Charters suggested.

‘Code?' Snow asked, at which Caldicott suddenly looked wary and said unconvincingly, ‘Catchphrase. I've remembered. Does it come back to you, Charters?'

‘What? Oh, indeed,' said Charters, loyally if equally unconvincingly responding to this verbal kick on the ankle.

‘Not a message, then?' Snow asked.

‘Well, farewell message after a fashion,' said Caldicott.

‘No, I meant a message asking you two to do whatever he would have done himself if he'd made it back to the UK.'

‘Contact the Soviet Embassy, I suppose,' said Charters derisively. ‘I'm sorry to disappoint you, Inspector. As Mr Caldicott says, it's no more than a catchphrase.'

‘What does it mean?'

‘It means... Mr Caldicott remembers better than I,' said Charters, cravenly passing the buck.

‘Doesn't mean anything, really,' said Caldicott. ‘It was just what he used to say when he had his dry martini, wasn't it, Charters?'

‘That's it. Mix Well and Serve.'

‘Sort of like “Cheers”?' Snow asked.

‘Or “Chin chin”,' said Caldicott.

‘Or “Bottoms up”,' said Charters.

‘Or “First today”,' the inspector offered. Charters and Caldicott frowned. Their kind of catchphrase belonged to the officers' mess, whereas this one was distinctly public bar. ‘Mix Well – I thought dry martinis were supposed to be shaken not stirred.'

‘Colonel Beevers, Inspector, had no affinity with James Bond,' said Caldicott firmly.

Inspector Snow locked his briefcase and stood up. ‘No, rather the reverse.'

Charters and Caldicott hurried their unwanted and embarrassing guest out of the library and down the grand staircase. ‘Still, as I say, the espionage end of all this isn't really my baby,' said Snow, pausing to straighten a portrait on the wall. ‘There'll be someone in touch with you about that end. And I warn you, gentlemen, when those lads get cracking they make the Murder Squad look like a game of Twenty Questions.'