Death of a Mystery Writer (14 page)

“And after that?”

“Well, as I realize now, Oxford was just a period of trying my wings away from the parental shadow. After that I went on and on and down and down. The City—out. Agricultural college—out. Australia—I flew back after two and a half weeks, paying my fare with a check that bounced. Since then—well, whatever I felt would humiliate him most. Door-to-door salesman in ladies' underwear; chucker-out at a Soho club—only the people I had to chuck out were tougher than I was, and not so drunk. Let's see, what else? Oh, I worked behind the counter on the ground floor in Fortnum's—Dad came in and saw me, and had to be carried in to the manager's office. Then odds and sods here and there:
salesman, rep, commission agent—you know the kind of thing. In fact, you name it, I've done it.”

“Was it all done as a sort of revenge against your father?”

“I think so. I've tried to pull myself together and make a go of something now and again, but the thought of his condescension or his sneers always sent me off again. If I ever make a go of anything in the future, it will be because he isn't around to coin witticisms and throw them in my direction when there are plenty of people around to hear.”

“Ever been in trouble with the police?” asked Meredith, knowing very well he had.

“Drunken driving, bad debts, disorderly behavior,” said Mark promptly. “As I'm sure you know only too well, Inspector.” Meredith decided it would be as well not to underestimate Mark. He was, at any rate, too intelligent to be played with. But a flicker had crossed his eyes as he recited his offenses. Had there, conceivably, been something else?

“Your father had to pay the debts, I suppose?” he said.

“Frequently. Less so of late. People have been getting wise—and he put a notice in
The Times
disclaiming responsibility. So credit has been tough for the last year or so.”

“And your mother has helped you too?”

“Oh, Mother is a brick. But she's no fool, either. She's always been good for a small touch, but after the first couple of times she drew a firm line and stuck to it. Anyway, I always thought it was more fun to get it out of Father.”

“Knowing it would come to you in the end anyway?”

Mark paused before he replied, as if it might be a trap. “Suspecting that it would.”

“Because he would want the money and estate to go together with the title?”

“Yes, that's what I guessed. Which is pretty funny when you think of the title.” When Meredith raised his crescent eyebrows, Mark just said: “Ask Mum about it. She's very good on the subject when Dad isn't around to hear her.” He stopped, and smiled, very naturally. “As, of course, he isn't.”

“Well, well,” said Meredith, stretching his legs, “I must be getting back to see what has come up. One last question: did you have a duplicate key to the drinks cabinet in the study?”

“Of course I didn't, Inspector. You'd have been questioning me in a very different tone of voice if you thought that possible.” Mark smiled confidently, got up, and the two strolled toward the house—Cuff scrambling to his feet and following cumbrously behind them, sighing noisily at the restlessness of humankind. “As you know,” Mark went on, “the locks were to keep me out. Though as time went on they also became a sort of symbol that Dad was to cut down himself. But if I had got hold of a duplicate—and I did sound Surtees out, believe me—the locks would have been changed. The amount I drink would have been noted, and Dad certainly wasn't the sort you could fool by watering down.”

“You weren't offered a drink last Sunday?”

“Last Sunday? Was I here then?” He puzzled a little. “Yes, I think I remember. I dropped in while the pubs were shut, since I was in the area. Sunday's a horrible day for a man with a thirst. But Dad was asleep, and Mum couldn't have given me anything even if she'd wanted to. I stayed around for a bit, but I'd had pretty much, and I get gloomy, and it wasn't much fun for Mum. I might have stopped for dinner, but someone was coming, and I knew Dad would perform for the visitors—aim a few hobnailed witticisms at me, and so on. So I sloped off.”

“When?”

“About six, I should think. Ask Mum.” Mark turned and looked straight at him. “Anyway, Father hadn't come down by then. None of the drinks cabinets had been opened. And I didn't come back. Is that quite clear?”

“Do you remember where you were that evening?”

“No, I don't, frankly. But it must have been the Thistle here in Wycherley, or the Horse and Groom at Oakden. I know I didn't drive far, and those are my two usual haunts. If you check there someone should remember. I usually make myself conspicuous.”

As they approached the house (Cuff's breathing becoming even more stentorian, a heavy performance in the Oliver Fairleigh manner, probably to indicate that he preferred a master with more sedentary habits) there emerged from the conservatory at the corner of the house the figure of Surtees. He had obviously observed their approach. There was something about the set of his shoulders, about the way he carried himself, that marked an indefinable shift from the Surtees Meredith had talked to earlier in the afternoon. There was a loss of swagger, of bounce.

“Excuse me, Sir Mark,” he said softly as he came up—whether the softness was of insinuation, or a gesture of respect to a house in mourning, was not obvious—“I wondered if you would like anything special tonight in the way of wine.”

It was the sort of moment, historically sweet, when the scapegrace Prince of Wales stands to receive the crooked knees and courtly kisses of the mourners round a royal deathbed, when he sees the favorites and flunkies who have carried stories of his excesses to the parental ear suddenly acknowledge a shift in power. Instead of the scepter and the great seal, Mark had been granted the keys to the wine cellar and the drinks cupboard. He would have been less than human if he had not relished the situation, though only the briefest of smiles crossed his lips.

“It's hardly a day for celebration,” he said coolly. “We can have the Médoc.”

“Of course, Sir Mark. And would you like your clothes laid out for dinner?”

“My clothes are not the sort that are laid out,” said Mark. “No, thank you.”

Surtees turned and went back toward the conservatory, the set of his shoulders once more eloquent: he was not altogether satisfied. Mark, having watched him, resumed his walk along the path round to the front of the house, his full mouth once more indulging in a tiny smile.

“Surtees has heard about the will,” he said to Meredith. “I wonder how.”

“These things get around,” said Meredith. “I'm afraid I may have said something to Miss Cozzens that could have given her a clue.”

“Miss Cozzens?” said Mark. “How odd. I wouldn't have thought she was the type who would let herself gossip with the servants. I'm not well up with the various leagues and alliances in this house.” He paused, put his hands on his hips, and surveyed the manor house, glowing in the late sun. “Not that I will need to be. The regular staff will have to be cut more or less to nothing, and we'll rely on getting help from the village.”

“I'm surprised Surtees bothers to ingratiate himself,” said Meredith. “It's not as though he's likely to find himself at the Labor Exchange. People in his line can practically name their price today. It seems he wants to stay on.”

“I wondered at that myself,” said Mark. “I expect it's Bella. It usually is Bella, you know. And probably it's Bella who has told him about the will. But in any case, he's batting on a very poor wicket. Whatever happens, Surtees is going to go. I'm looking forward to giving him his notice personally.”

The two men walked up the front steps. Today Mark did not stumble on the last one. The smile was still on his face as he contemplated getting rid of Surtees. Before going in he turned and looked down the drive, curving toward the main gate. It was closed, and on either side of it stood a massive police constable. Outside, on the little country road were several cars and little knots of reporters with cameras. Most of them were in the act of photographing the new master of Wycherley Court, at the entrance to his stately home.

“The vultures are gathering,” said Mark, the smile disappearing from his face. “I suppose it will be up to you to provide them with carrion, Inspector.”

He turned, and went quickly into the house.

 • • • 

Dinner was hardly a more comfortable meal than lunch, and the presence of Bella did nothing to improve matters. The passion of
the morning was—to all appearances—over and had been replaced by a new ice age. Her dress, without being flashy, nevertheless made none of the usual concessions to the custom of mourning. But once more she had made herself into a beautiful object, untouchable. For much of the meal she sat in total silence.

Otherwise the pattern of lunch repeated itself. Mark drank a glass of wine. Terence drank decidedly more. His long fair hair was beginning to look heavy and lank; his face was shiny, sweaty, as if he had forgotten to wash. The conversation was carried on, when at all, by Mark and his mother. He had talked to her before dinner, telling her of Meredith's confirmation that there had been poison in the decanter. Once the suspicion that she had been fighting against was confirmed, Lady Fairleigh seemed to give a great sigh and accept the matter, though there was a sad lethargy about her, as if she could now only expect worse and worse to come. But the presence of the other children at dinner made her make some effort to pretend normality.

“The Woodstocks rang earlier,” she said, addressing her remarks to Bella. “They were very kind, of course. They offered us any help we might need.”

“Really?” said Bella. “It's difficult to think what help either of those two could give.” She returned to her food, seeming hungry.

When Surtees came round with the sweet, Mark had the impression that he was trying to catch Bella's eye. If he was, he failed. Bella remained in her envelope of ice, staring contemptuously ahead of her.

“I'll put the coffee in the lounge, sir, is that all right?” said Surtees, bending by Mark's ear. Mark nodded.

“Enjoying these little marks of respect, Mark?” asked Terence in a thick, unpleasant voice.

“I am, rather,” returned Mark levelly. “I shall have to while they last, because it won't be long. Naturally we shall be cutting down on staff here.”

“Why?” said Bella sharply. Then, as if she had revealed something, she cut her voice down to its usual drawl and said contemptuously:
“There's no reason to, is there? The royalties will be coming in as usual.”

“Except, of course,” said Mark, “that I shan't be writing a book a year to keep the flow going.” The thought didn't seem to have occurred to Bella, and he elaborated: “One profession I do not think of entering is the mystery-writing trade.”

“I hope things won't be too hard for you,” said Bella, the cut of the voice making up for the heaviness of the irony. “I wouldn't want you to miss the royalties from my little legacy.”

“What an appropriate word, royalties,” murmured her mother, whom family disagreements tended to send into fatuities. “In view of the subject matter,” she added feebly.

“I think you should be very happy with
Right Royal Murder,”
said Mark, unruffled. “The Jubilee will soon be over, but probably every royal wedding and birth will lead to a reprint. And heaven knows, there are likely to be plenty of them.”

“Thanks,” said Bella.

“Shall we have coffee?” said Mark, rising. By now his face was a little flushed from the effort of not drinking and of maintaining conversation. Not being able to think of any way of asserting themselves, Terence and Bella trailed along to the sitting room.

Coffee was set on a side table, and the drinks cabinet stood open. The liqueurs from the study had of course been commandeered by the police, but replacements had been brought up, and several bottles of spirits had also been set out by Surtees in a tempting array. Is it a bribe, thought Mark, or an invitation?

“Will you pour, Mother?” he said.

“I'll have a whisky,” said Terence.

“Terence!” said his mother.

“Of course, Terence,” said Mark, going over and taking up the bottle in his hand. “Anything with it?”

“Neat,” said Terence.

“Mark, please don't give it to him!”

“Terence has had a bad day, Mother,” said Mark quietly. “I'm sure it will do him good.” He poured a good stiff measure into the glass. “Anyway, there are far worse things than whisky, aren't
there, Terence?” He straightened himself, the bottle still in his hands, and looked straight at his brother. “Drugs, for instance.”

Mark still stood, his hands automatically screwing on the cap, looking at his brother and sister. Terence's face, already fiery, seemed to grow purple and crumple. Bella's eyes opened wide, and she seemed about to say something to her younger brother. Lady Fairleigh, arrested in the act of pouring, looked from one to the other, her eyes clouded with bewilderment.

“There you are, Terence,” said Mark, going over. “Oh, dear, Mother, is that my coffee? I think you'd better pour me another, if you don't mind.”

Lady Fairleigh looked down and found a dark pool of coffee covering the whole tray.

From
The Times,
obituary page. Monday, 20 June 1977.

OLIVER FAIRLEIGH

The death was announced early yesterday morning of Sir Oliver Fairleigh-Stubbs, Bart, MBE, better known as Oliver Fairleigh, the mystery writer.

Oliver Fairleigh-Stubbs was born on 17 June 1912, the only son of Frederick Fairleigh-Stubbs of Birmingham, a manufacturer of kitchenware. He was brought up in the richly independent atmosphere of a provincial industrial city, and the prosperity of the family firm was greatly augmented when it shifted to war production during the years 1914-1918. However, although his father received a baronetcy in the New Year's honors list for 1922, the Fairleigh-Stubbs works did not easily weather the transition to peacetime production, and went bankrupt in 1925. It was no doubt due to the economic difficulties of the family that Oliver Fairleigh did not go to university, a loss which he never regretted.