Murder by the Book (2 page)

At their first meeting, Charles had intimidated Langham with a casual remark. ‘Very interested in the book. We don't usually touch
mysteries
, dear boy, but this one shows distinct promise. Now tell me, where did you school?'

‘Ah …' Langham had flushed, swallowed, and told the truth: ‘I … I didn't. That is, I left school at sixteen and worked in my father's office.'

‘Good God, sir, for someone with no education you write like an angel. You read, of course? I mean Shakespeare, Milton, Marvell. If I'm not mistaken, I detected their influences.'

Langham had used this as ladder to climb from the hole he'd dug for himself. ‘All those, yes,' he'd lied.

‘Had you down as a fellow Oxford man, my dear boy. But no matter …'

Over the years he had come to know and like the man – despite, or even because of, the fact that he was unlike Langham in every respect.

They strolled down Gloucester Street, Charles swinging his stick and humming to himself. Usually Charles would have been enquiring about Langham's latest book, muttering encouragingly about the next advance he'd screw from the shysters at Harrington, but today he was decidedly quiet. Preoccupied, Langham thought. Maria was right: something was troubling him.

They entered the Beeches and Charles made straight for his usual table by the window, the head waiter in flapping attendance. Langham watched the waiter slide the chair beneath Charles's buttocks, and mused that two chairs might soon be needed to bear the load. Charles busied himself with the wine menu, his piggy eyes scouring the vintages, and in due course ordered a claret.

‘Chateau Pontet, nineteen thirty, Donald. One of the finest.'

Langham smiled, wishing he could order a pint of bitter. He glanced around the room at the well-dressed clientele. He forever felt out of place when dining with Charles, conscious of his elbow-patched tweed jacket and threadbare corduroy trousers.

They ordered; Charles a steak
au poivre
, and Langham a pork chop. The wine waiter poured Charles a taster, and he duly swilled the mouthful with a series of theatrical grimaces and pronounced it satisfactory.

Langham watched the waiter depart. ‘The delicate matter?' he asked.

Charles pulled a pained face, took a swallow of claret, then said, ‘I will come to that in due course, my dear boy. Such things cannot be rushed.'

Langham ventured, ‘Harrington getting cold feet about the Sam Brooke series?'

‘What?' Charles waved his napkin. ‘They love the books, dear boy. Don't fret on that score.' He paused, the acreage of his pink face rearranging itself into a frown, as if he were attempting to recall something. ‘Remind me, Donald, immediately after the war … what did you do?'

Thrown by the question, Langham sat back, nursing his glass. ‘A friend I met in field security in India, Ralph Ryland, set up an investigative agency. He wanted someone to do the legwork.' He shrugged. ‘I decided to write part time and work three days a week for Ralph. I saw it as an opportunity to get some experience that might feed into the books.'

‘And I think it did, dear boy. Your books positively
reek
of your time spent chasing cut-throats through Whitechapel.'

Langham smiled. ‘I'd hardly say that …'

‘Too modest! Too modest by half. That is why maiden aunts up and down the country positively lap up your thrillers, Donald. Authenticity. You scare the pants off them with your villains because you're so
convincing
. The doyen of the lending libraries!' Charles finished.

‘Thank you. I'll have that carved on my gravestone.'

Their orders arrived and Charles, goggle-eyed at the prospect of tucking into his inch-thick steak, inserted a napkin between the collar of his shirt and his bullfrog's throat. He looked for all the world, Langham thought, like a pensionable Billy Bunter.

‘Why the interest in what I did back then?'

Charles slipped a wedge of steak into his mouth, chewed, then said, ‘Let me ask a question of my own, dear boy. Is the investigative agency still running?'

‘Well, it was when I bumped into Ralph just before Christmas.'

He started on his chop, watching Charles as he did so. His agent was nodding slowly, mulling something over behind his bright blue eyes. ‘That is interesting …'

Langham leaned forward. ‘Would you mind telling me what all this is about, Charles? Do you need a private investigator?'

Charles masticated another mouthful of steak with porcine industry, laid down his knife and fork, and stared across the table at Langham. ‘My dear boy, how long have you known me?'

Langham blinked. ‘Twenty years, give or take a few months.'

‘And you know very well what I am?'

Langham found himself smiling. ‘An agent of impeccable taste, a gourmand, a
bon viveur
, a collector of
objets d'art nonpareils
…'

‘Your flattery brings a blush to my already sanguine countenance. I mean,' Charles persisted, ‘you are well aware of my predilections? My – how shall I say? – my
preferences
?'

‘How could I not be?'

‘And yet, for a man of your age and upbringing, you show a remarkable tolerance.'

Langham smiled. ‘I had my eyes opened during my time in the army, Charles.'

‘Ah, the armed forces, my boy! I attempted to enlist in 1916; did I ever tell you? Myself and a sweet little thing I first met at Eton. We drilled together in the OTC. Needless to say, I was deemed surplus to requirements. And tragic Crispin stopped a bullet at Ypres.'

While Charles's dewy eyes focused on the past, Langham smiled as he considered his shock, back in 'thirty-seven, when he first realized that Charles Elder was homosexual. He'd kept his agent at a mental arm's length at the time, and it was not until Madagascar, when he met and fought alongside other men of the same persuasion – one of whom became a good friend – that his prejudices were dispelled.

‘Very well, Charles. Out with it. What's happened?'

‘That's what I like about you. You're down to earth, you speak your mind, and if you have any prejudices you keep them well hidden.'

‘You haven't heard my drunken rants about the local Tory council.'

Charles smiled. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, stared at Langham, and then sighed. ‘I've been a damned fool, Donald.'

Langham nodded. ‘Tell.'

‘The same old story, Donald. The cravings of the flesh are tied ineluctably to the desires of the heart; in my case, my boy, the sexual and the personal are, shall we say, conflicted … In here,' and Charles lodged a fist against his breastbone, ‘I want nothing more than the bliss of domesticity, the faithful love of a good man, while another part of me loves, I mean
loves
, the thrill of the chase … Do you appreciate my meaning?'

‘Ah …' Langham nodded. ‘I think so.'

‘I waffle, Donald; I waffle. I could never write with the clipped precision of yourself. My screeds would run to Jamesean prolixity. But I digress. Where was I?'

‘Conflicted desires.'

‘Quite. You see, in a word, I made a silly mistake and now I am reaping the dire consequences. I met a young gentleman … Gentleman? What am I saying? He was a scallywag, albeit a charming scallywag. He works in Hackney swimming baths, where I am wont weekly to disport myself. One day, perhaps six months ago, we found ourselves in conversation and he tipped me the old “How do you do” and suggested I come back at six, when he'd be closing the place, for a few extra-curricular lessons. Do you see what I mean, Donald, about the weakness of the flesh?'

‘You succumbed?'

‘That is one way of describing it, my dear boy. I will spare you the details, suffice to say that we had the place to ourselves and the rapscallion exhibited a desire to please matched only by his gymnastic prowess. I'm sorry, I'm making you blush.'

‘The wine,' Langham said.

‘That was the first occasion. I returned monthly, and again last week, which is when the wretched photographs were taken. To cut a long story short, the photographs – lurid beyond your imaginings – arrived yesterday, along with a typed demand for a hundred pounds.' Charles shook his head. ‘The sad thing is that my recollection of our intimacy is so beautiful, and yet the photographic evidence of the act suggests a grim carnality.' He pushed his plate away, having demolished the steak. ‘I must admit to a terrible rage when I think that our time together meant nothing more to Kenneth than the opportunity to fleece me.'

Tears filmed his eyes like silver cataracts. Langham looked away while Charles dabbed at them with his napkin.

‘And you would like me to approach my contact at the investigative agency and have him look into the matter?'

Charles smiled. ‘Would that be possible, dear boy? I mean, how might this continue? A hundred pounds now – and what next week? I know I'm not short of a penny or two, but a hundred pounds! If I don't pay …'

‘There was a specific threat in the letter?'

Charles waved. ‘Something along the lines of “what might some of my more respectable clients think if the truth got out?” To be honest, I fear more the opprobrium of the judiciary. I fear, I admit, a spell of her Majesty's pleasure in the Scrubs.'

Langham thought about it. ‘Can I give you a word of advice?'

‘I'm all ears, dear boy.'

‘I suggest you don't take it to an investigative agency. I'd keep mum about it. Inform no one.'

Charles looked incredulous. ‘What, and cough up a hundred pounds to the little villain?'

‘Charles, leave it with me. I'll look into it. I'd like to see the note, and I want to know a little more about this young man, Kenneth.'

‘Are you sure you want to get mixed up in all this, my boy?'

Langham reached across the table and patted Charles's hand. ‘I'm doing this for a good friend. I'm sure I can put the frighteners on our Kenneth.'

Charles winced. ‘The frighteners? Now you're sounding like Sam Brooke.'

‘I learned a thing or two at the agency. I just never thought they'd be of much use outside my fiction.'

‘You don't know how grateful I am, dear boy. What say we adjourn to the office? I have the most wonderful twenty-year-old single malt we might sample …'

Maria was on the phone when they arrived back at the agency.

‘The contract stipulates six per cent, Mr Kenyon. And my client wants it understood that the delivery date, as agreed, will not be before the thirty-first of July.'

Maria listened to the response with her head tipped to one side, her lips pursed in an amused moue. Her long dark hair fell around an aquiline face, which with hooded eyelids and downturned mouth gave her a look at once exotically foreign and droll. Langham found it hard to tear his gaze away from her.

‘That's all very well, but my client insists that the agreement – the
gentleman's
agreement – was for a delivery date of the first of August, and I, too, must insist that we keep to this.'

Charles stood beside Maria's desk, a fingertip pressed to his pursed lips as he listened. He winked at Langham, a gesture eloquent of his pride in Maria's negotiating skills.

He waved Langham into his office, eased the door shut and poured two stiff whiskies.

‘She really is the most accomplished
aide-de-camp
I could hope for, Donald. You don't know what a relief it is to be able to leave the running of the agency in Maria's capable hands.'

Charles dropped into his chair behind a vast mahogany desk piled high with books and manuscripts. He raised his glass – reduced to the size of a thimble in his padded paw – to his lips, sipped and closed his eyes in bliss.

‘Ah … Drink has charms to soothe the savage breast, to misquote Congreve.'

Langham sat opposite and took a sip of whisky; it filled his mouth like honey, with a smooth afterburn on the swallow.

Charles said, ‘I suppose you need to see the letter, my boy?'

‘And the envelope.'

His agent opened the top right drawer of his desk and withdrew the envelope.

‘When did you say it arrived?' Langham asked.

‘Two days ago. By some fortuitous stroke of providence Maria was half an hour late, or she would have opened the mail …' Charles closed his eyes in a theatrical display of horror. ‘I don't know what I would have said had she found this … this terrible testimony to my weakness.'

‘She knows about …?'

‘She's no fool, Donald. Of course she knows. But there's a difference between knowing and having one's face rubbed in the sordid facts.'

‘I don't want to see the photos,' Langham hastened to add, ‘just the envelope and the note.'

Pulling a distasteful face, Charles withdrew the photographs, slipped them quickly back into the drawer and passed the envelope to Langham.

The agency's address was typed on the manila envelope, and the postmark at the top right corner was smudged beyond legibility. Langham opened the flap and took out a single sheet of paper.

The short, typed message was brutally, gloatingly, to the point.

Dear Charles,

Enclosed, six of the very best showing you
in flagrante delicto
, shall we say? I'm sure you would not want your clients
au fait
with your peccadilloes … The price for my silence is a bargain at a mere hundred pounds
.

Langham looked up. Charles was wincing. ‘What do you make of it, my boy?'

‘Interesting.'

‘Interesting? Is that all?'

Langham asked, ‘Whoever did this didn't stipulate a time or place for the delivery of the hundred pounds.'

Charles placed a hand on his brow. ‘I have that missive to anticipate. I await the postman's arrival with the eagerness of a lovesick beau. I've told Maria I'm expecting an important communiqué and I want her to send
all
the post in to me.'