Murder by the Book (21 page)

‘And yet you still keep her picture?'

He shrugged. The guilt, he thought. One day, he hoped, he would know Maria well enough to explain how he felt. ‘More tea?'

She returned to the settee and he refilled her cup. She looked at him. ‘Donald, I want you just to hold me, OK?'

He set down his tea cup and stroked a tress of jet-black hair from her cheek.

M
aria awoke suddenly and found herself staring up at a strange ceiling in a strange bedroom. Then she recalled the events of the day before and she experienced a quick surge of despair at what had happened to Charles.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the door. Donald called, ‘Breakfast, Maria?'

‘I would love some,' she said. ‘Just give me a few minutes.'

She found the bathroom, washed and changed into a new dress she'd brought with her for the weekend at Charles's, and then joined Donald in the living room.

He was wearing a bear-coloured dressing gown over striped pyjamas, and she couldn't help but laugh.

‘What?' he asked.

She pointed. ‘You're wearing striped flannel pyjamas.'

He smiled. ‘Well, perhaps it's not the most fetching apparel.'

‘I'm surprised you're not gripping that funny old pipe of yours in your teeth,' she teased.

He made breakfast – fried eggs and toast and Earl Grey tea, and they ate at the table in the bay window of the front room, splashed with sunshine. ‘What do you normally do on Sundays?' he asked.

‘Nothing,' Maria said. ‘That is, I get up late and have a leisurely breakfast, then maybe wander out and pick up a paper and come back and have a cup of tea and read … and by that time it's mid-afternoon. Sometimes I go for afternoon tea with my father, and others I might catch up on a little reading for work. Sometimes I see friends, but not so often these days. They all seem to be married with children, and …' She stopped, suddenly self-conscious, and said, ‘And you?'

‘When I'm working on a book, I write. I don't see it as a day any different from the others. When I'm not writing I buy a paper, read, occasionally see friends.' He gestured. ‘More tea?'

‘Please.'

How pleasant it was to be in his company, she thought. She felt as though she …
belonged
.

‘What?' he said. ‘You're smiling. Does my boring routine amuse you?'

She reached across the table and took his hand to reassure him. ‘Of course not. Nothing of the kind. I was just thinking …' She smiled. ‘Well, I was just thinking how safe I feel with you.'

He laughed at that. ‘Safe? That speaks volumes about the kind of company you must keep.'

‘Well, the last man who was interested in me did pull a gun and asked me to shoot him if I refused a date.'

‘By Jove.' He stared at her above his toast. ‘You didn't shoot him, I take it?'

‘I refused, though I was tempted. So he turned the gun on himself.'

He lowered his toast, looking enthralled. ‘What did you do?'

‘Oh, I just slapped him across the face and told him to get out.'

‘Attagirl! Well, I promise I won't pull any such theatrical stunts to win your heart.'

She smiled at him and almost said, ‘You don't need to do anything to win my heart …' but stopped herself just in time.

She glanced across at the mantelshelf, to the photograph of his ex-wife. ‘Has there been anyone since …?'

He finished chewing his toast and said, ‘I met someone a few years ago. A sub-editor at my publishing house. We went out a few times.' He shrugged. ‘I think she found me dashed boring and refused a fourth date.'

‘Silly woman.'

‘Well, the truth was I found her a tad dull, too. Not the type of woman to slap a gunman's face and order him to get out.' They finished breakfast and he looked at his watch. ‘Ten o'clock. Shall we motor over to the Chelsea Royal and see how …?'

She smiled brightly. ‘Perhaps Charles has managed to pull through?' she said.

He smiled reassuringly. ‘Perhaps,' he said.

They drove to the hospital and Maria spoke to a blue-uniformed nurse on reception. She referred to a stack of paperwork and said, ‘Mr Elder was admitted late last night and underwent an operation at ten. He's currently on ward five and not receiving visitors.'

‘But he pulled through?' Langham asked.

The nurse glanced at a sheet of paper. ‘He did, though I'm unsure as to the patient's condition at the moment. However, even though it isn't strictly visiting time, if you go to reception on ward five someone there might be able to tell you a little more.'

Maria thanked her and they made their way along tortuous, jade-coloured corridors, and then took a lift to the second floor. Ward five was a great dormitory of a room with windows overlooking south London.

A staff sister at the desk informed them that Mr Elder was in an isolation room and receiving round-the-clock attention, and under no circumstances was he to receive visitors. As she was speaking, a tall, white-coated doctor swept past and the sister called after him, ‘Oh, Doctor Robinson … I have friends here of Mr Charles Elder.'

Dr Robinson halted and looked Langham and Maria up and down. He was a lithe ex-RAF type with a bristling moustache and a brusque manner. In his gaze Maria discerned curiosity about the acquaintances of the gunshot victim.

‘Right,' he snapped. ‘Suppose you want the gen on the old man, hm? This way,' and without waiting he set off along the corridor. Maria exchanged a glance with Langham and followed.

Dr Robinson ushered them into a tiny room, where he sat behind a desk and said without preamble, ‘First gunshot wound I've operated on since the war. Your friend was lucky he didn't succumb within the first hour. Lost a lot of blood.'

Maria began, ‘Will he …?'

‘Pull through?' Robinson pulled a face. ‘Hard to tell. I've seen them peg out as a result of much less serious wounds. Then again I've seen men survive much worse.'

‘Is he conscious now?' Langham asked.

‘He's still unconscious, and that's giving us cause for concern. We usually like 'em to come round after the op, y'know. That said, it's not all sackcloth and ashes. Your friend's as tough as old boots, and lucky too, which helps.'

Maria took heart. ‘Lucky?'

‘I'll say. Bullet missed his heart and lungs by a whisker. Now in my experience if the lead misses the old pump'n'bellows it takes a nick out of the spine. Not in this case, though. Don't take this the wrong way, but your friend's on the big side and some of the lard stopped the bullet. I fished it out last night. Oh, it caused a bit of damage in there – lots of blood loss and trauma, but mark my word it could've been a damn sight worse.'

Maria shook her head. ‘When might you know if Charles will pull through?' she asked in a timorous voice.

‘I'll be frank. Impossible to tell. Your friend has jumped a few hurdles, but there's the rest of the race to see out yet. And obstacles ahead: risk of infection, blood loss. You name it. Look here, ask at the desk for a direct line through to sister and she'll give you the gen a couple of times a day. Fair enough?'

Maria smiled. ‘That's wonderful, Doctor.'

‘If he survives a couple of days, then I'd say that the signs are good. If so, then you'll be able to visit, once the bobbies have vetted you, that is.'

‘The “bobbies”?' she repeated.

‘Stationed at his door. They don't want a repeat of the incident that brought him in here.'

‘That is good to know,' she said.

Robinson glanced at his watch. ‘Crikey, is that the time? And I'm supposed to be sawing off a leg at noon. If you'll excuse me …'

He hurried from the room, leaving Maria and Langham staring at each other in bemusement. They returned to reception and, after asking at the desk for the sister's number, made their way from the hospital. Maria glanced at Langham, who was shaking his head wryly.

‘What?' she asked.

‘Doctor Robinson,' he told her. ‘He'll be appearing in my next novel.'

‘He was something of a character, wasn't he? Oh, I just hope Charles will get better, Donald!'

He squeezed her hand. ‘If anyone can save him, it'll be an oddball like Robinson.'

They arrived back at the car and Langham said, ‘Well, if you've nothing planned for the rest of the day, how about a stroll across Hampstead Heath and afternoon tea somewhere?'

She smiled. ‘Capital idea, Mr Langham. Oh … It's my father's birthday today and he's having a little do at his place this evening.' A thought occurred to her. ‘Would you like to come along as my guest? Papa would be delighted.'

He frowned. ‘Would you mind awfully if I didn't? I'm not sure I'm up to being cheerful in public at the moment.'

‘Of course. I understand.' She smiled, despite the disappointment. She really wanted her father to meet Donald, but she reflected that there would be plenty of time for that in the weeks to come.

They drove to Hampstead and strolled hand in hand across the Heath. As if by some tacit agreement they refrained from speaking about what had happened yesterday. She watched Langham light his pipe and puff prodigious billows of smoke, and she hung on his arm and insisted that he tell her all about his next novel.

He squinted at her. ‘Thought you didn't like my books?'

‘I never said anything of the kind! I might have asked why you didn't write something other than mysteries, perhaps.'

He puffed on his pipe. ‘Very well … The next one will be about the theft of a priceless work of art. I've had quite enough of murder and skulduggery for a while, thank you.'

They entered the café in the park and he steered her towards an empty table. For the next ten minutes he outlined a convoluted plot about a gang of art thieves who fake the theft of an old master by placing a false wall before the painting. ‘You see, on this
false
wall is a reproduction of the painting.'

‘Hiding the original?' she asked. ‘But how do they steal the original?'

‘Simple. The wall on which the old master hangs is the shared wall of an empty workroom. They simply make a hole in the wall from the workroom, one night, and take the painting. Hey presto! What do you think?'

‘Mmm …' she temporized. ‘I think it needs work.'

He laughed. ‘Perhaps you're right. But ideas always sound half-baked in précis.'

They ate cucumber sandwiches and drank tea and talked of nothing at all and, before she knew it, it was four o'clock.

‘It's been a lovely afternoon, Donald,' she said as they left the café.

‘I'll drive you home. We could …' he began. Then, ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?'

‘Nothing at all.'

‘Then would you like to go out for dinner?'

She reached up and kissed him. ‘That would be wonderful.'

He dropped her off at her apartment and drove off slowly, waving from the window of his little car.

She bathed and changed into something suitable for the party, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror as she dried her hair. She could not wait to tell her father about Donald, and she laughed at the thought like a lovesick schoolgirl.

Then she remembered Charles and felt a twinge of guilt at her levity.

Before she left the house she rang the hospital and was informed that there was no change in his condition. He was still unconscious, but stable. Maria thanked the nurse and replaced the receiver with a sigh.

At six, heavy of heart, she took a taxi to her father's house in Hampstead.

The party was already under way, with perhaps thirty guests occupying the drawing room in small clusters and constellations, the bright stars of French émigré society attended by the transitory comets of waiters with trays of drinks and canapés.

She accepted a white wine and crossed to where her father was entertaining a knot of dignitaries. She kissed his cheeks.

‘Happy birthday, Papa.' She proffered him the present she had bought last week, an early edition of Voltaire's
Candide
to add to his collection.

‘Maria, how kind! You certainly know how to spoil your father.' He took her arm.

‘But come. The statuette arrived a few days ago. I've had it wrapped. Let us surprise Monsieur Savagne. He is in need of consolation. He attempted to locate the buyer, but of course failed. He knew you were coming and said you would brighten his flagging spirits. Little did he know …'

She smiled as her father led her across to a bureau and unlocked it. He withdrew the wrapped statuette and presented it to her. ‘Now, let us accost old Savagne and watch his face when he opens it.'

He led her across to the guests before the window. Maria held the statuette behind her back.

‘Maria!' Savagne exclaimed. ‘How wonderful to see you! I have been regaling my friends here with my many woes!'

‘Papa told me that you could not find the buyer.'

‘Try as I might, the gentleman remained elusive.'

She tried not to smile. ‘Gentleman? What makes you so sure that the buyer was a gentleman?'

Savagne laughed. ‘Correct. My
bête noir
might have been a member of the fairer sex. Try as I might, I did not see who was bidding against that awful little man Gideon Martin – the very same who once had his beady eyes on you, my dear. The successful bidder was situated at the back of the hall, and for a man of my size …'

A tall, grey-haired woman to M Savagne's right regarded them through a lorgnette and said, ‘That Martin should bid for the statuette, when he knew how you so desired the piece, speaks volumes for the man's duplicity and greed. Most disgraceful conduct!'

Her father cleared his throat. ‘Monsieur Savagne … I think Maria has something to tell you.'