Play to the End (8 page)

"I, er, keep my ear to the ground. Anyway, it occurred to me .. . you might want to ... visit Wickhurst Manor. While Mr. Colborn's not in residence."

"That doesn't sound like a very good idea."

"No? Well, it's up to you, Mr. Flood, entirely up to you."

"So it is."

"Marlinspike Hall, I call it." There came a snatch of his whinnying laugh. "Of course, if you're not a Tintin fan .. ."

"It's where Tintin lives in the books. I know that much, Derek."

"Yes. Well done. Actually, Captain Haddock owns the house and Tintin and Professor Calculus also live there. But they didn't always. It originally belonged to Max Bird, the corrupt antiques dealer. In The Secret of the Unicorn He broke off and blushed. "Sorry. You're not interested in all that. Though there's an odd coincidence. Mr.

Colborn runs his business from Wickhurst Manor. Just as Max Bird ran his from Marlinspike Hall. And they both have a habit of overlooking what's right under their noses."

This struck me as no coincidence at all, even if it was all true, but I nobly refrained from saying so. I made to rise. "Well, I think I'd better be '

"Do you want to see a photograph of the house?"

"Of Wickhurst Manor?"

"Yes."

I should have declined the offer. Instead, I heard myself saying, "All right."

"I won't be a tick." He was off again, out through the door and up the stairs.

I gazed at Derek's treasured manuscript. A history of a defunct plastics company. Ye gods! I turned the title page over. Derek, to my surprise, had contrived an epigraph of sorts for his magnum opus, a skit on the start of T. S. Eliot's poem "The Hollow Men'.

We are the plastic men We are the moulded men Leaning together Headpiece filled with polymer.

Yes, I reckoned, Moira was really going to love this.

Then Derek was back, a wallet of photographs in his hand. He sat down and carefully laid the contents out on the table next to the manuscript. A photograph, he'd said, but he'd actually used an entire roll of 24 on assorted middle-distance views of Wickhurst Manor.

A red-brick neo-Georgian residence of considerable size and style, the place is, viewed from any angle, absurdly large for two people to live in. Two matching pedimented bays with tall sash windows flank the central block, which boasts a four-columned portico to the entrance reached across a paved and pot-planted terrace. There are wings to the rear, one connected to a single-storey extension that doubles back on itself to enclose what looks like a kitchen garden. There's a large lawn to the rear, bordered by trees, a smaller one to the front, bisected by a curving drive. At the opposite end of the house from the kitchen garden there's a car park, occupied in most of the pictures by ten or twelve vehicles.

The trees are in full leaf. Sunlight gleams on the car roofs and picks out the white curls of croquet hoops on the rear lawn. This was Wickhurst Manor in high summer. When the photographer, I reflected, would find camouflage easiest to come by.

"I took most of them from the public right of way," said Derek. I noted his delicate use of the word 'most'. "The house was built in nineteen twenty-eight by Mr. Colborn's grandfather, on the ruins of the medieval manor. The family had lived in Brighton until then, in one of the villas along Preston Park Avenue. Business was obviously booming, though Colbonite's wage rates were still rock bottom at the time."

"What business is Colborn in now?"

"General investment. Moving his money around to make the most out of it, day to day. And advising other people on how to do the same. Hence the staff. It's an intensive operation. Mr. Colborn believes in capitalizing on any advantage, however slight."

"Perhaps he needs to, to maintain this place."

"Perhaps so."

"Handy for you, the right of way."

"Rights of way are meant to be handy. I believe in using them."

"I'm sure you do."

"The path leads down from Devil's Dyke, crosses the Fulking road, cuts through the woods near Wickhurst and heads north-west towards Henfield."

"Sounds like you're giving me directions, Derek."

"Well, if you need directions '

"I'll ask." I stood up. "Now, I'd better be going."

"Right." Derek gathered the photographs and replaced them in the wallet. "By the way .. ." He looked at me uncertainly. "Does your offer of a ticket for Wednesday night still stand?"

I smiled. "Of course. Unless the stunt you've pulled today goads the management into withdrawing my privileges."

"Gosh." His eyes widened in horror, causing his glasses to slide halfway down his nose. "Do you think it might?"

"On balance ..." I affected indifference. "Probably not."

I left chez Oswin with The Plastic Men in a Sainsbury's carrier bag and the dregs of the evening ahead of me. The theatre would be turning out shortly. Brian Sallis had probably left a dozen messages on my mobile, none of which I wanted to hear. Nor was I eager to return to the Sea Air where doubtless more messages awaited me any sooner than I had to.

I dropped into a pub halfway down London Road and weighed my options over a scotch. "When do you next intend to speak to your wife?" Derek had asked. It was a good question, given that I knew she'd want to be told what I'd accomplished as soon as possible. And there was only one answer. I finished the scotch in one and headed for the taxi rank at the railway station.

Half an hour later, I was out in the colder, darker world beyond the downs, pressing a button next to an intercom grille set in one of the pillars supporting the high black-railed gates at the head of the drive leading to Wickhurst Manor.

There was a crackle. Then I heard Jenny's voice, nervously pitched.

"Yes?"

"It's me, Jenny."

"Toby?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?"

"Why didn't you phone?"

"I thought you'd want to hear what I have to say in person."

"Oh God." There was a pause. Then she said, "Well, since you're here now .. ." Then there was a buzz. The gates began to swing open.

I stepped back to pay off the taxi driver, then hurried in through the gates and started along the drive.

The noise of the taxi's engine faded into the distance. All I could hear after that was the hiss of the wind in the trees and my own footfalls on the tarmac of the drive. I rounded a screen of shrubs and saw light from the house spilling across the lawn. Then I saw the house itself. There was a figure standing in the brightly lit porch, waiting for me.

Jenny was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, a stark contrast with the outfit I'd glimpsed her in at Brimmers. But her expression, I realized as I drew closer, was much the same. She wasn't smiling. Then a dog barked and appeared at her side a reassuringly placid-looking Labrador.

"Yours or Roger's?" I asked, nodding to the dog, who padded out across the terrace to meet me.

"Roger's father's originally," said Jenny. "Here, Chester." Chester obediently retreated. "You'd better come in."

"Thanks." I followed the pair of them into a wide hall, panelled in light wood and scattered with thick, vividly patterned rugs.

"You shouldn't have come here, Toby," said Jenny, calmly but firmly. "I asked you not to."

"Did you?"

"It was understood between us."

"But we haven't always understood one another properly, have we, Jenny?"

She sighed. "Why did you come?"

"To tell you what's happened." I held up the bag. "This is part of the price I've paid for getting Derek Oswin off your back. For good, this time."

"Are you sure I've seen the last of him?"

"Nothing's certain, I suppose. But I'm confident. Because of this."

"What's in the bag?"

"I'm not sure you'll believe it."

"Try me."

"Why don't we ... go in and sit down?"

"This was just an excuse, wasn't it, to nose around here?"

"Not just, no."

"All right. Come up." She led the way up the elegantly curved staircase. "Roger uses the reception rooms on the ground floor for his office. We do most of our living on the first floor."

The stairway and the landing were decorated with tasteful lavishness, modern abstracts jostling for space on the mellow-papered walls with landscapes and portraits from a more distant era. We entered a drawing room where logs were crackling in a broad fireplace, in front of which Chester had already stationed himself. The furnishings were like a cover shot for an interior-design magazine throws, rugs, urns; fat-spined books on the table; thin-stemmed candlesticks on the mantelpiece. Jenny favouring to my certain knowledge a plainer style, I categorized it as stuff Colborn had probably had shipped in for him by a lifestyle consultant. Disliking him was already proving to be simplicity itself.

"Do you want a drink?" Jenny asked. She held up a bottle of Laphroaig.

"Thanks."

She poured me some and handed me the glass.

"I'd have had Roger down as a Glenfiddich man."

"You've never met Roger." And you're never going to, her eyes added.

"Derek Oswin's met him. Many times."

Any reaction Jenny might have displayed she artfully hid in the motion of sitting down. She waved towards an armchair opposite her and I lowered myself into it. Then she said, "Just tell me, Toby."

"All right. Oswin used to work for Colbonite. You know about the company?"

"Of course. Roger's father closed it down ... years ago."

"Thirteen years ago."

"There you are, then. Ancient history. Roger wouldn't remember one employee out of... however many there were."

"He'd remember this one. Odd you should mention history, actually, because that's what's in the bag. Oswin's history of Colbonite. He's been trying to persuade Roger to help him get it published. Roger hasn't wanted to know. But Oswin's not one to take no for an answer, so, in his very own crackpot fashion, he's tried to pressurize Roger into reconsidering .. . by harassing you. The fact that he's a fan of mine ... is purely coincidental."

Jenny looked relieved to hear this explanation. She even smiled. "I see. So, Roger pretended not to recognize Oswin in order not to worry me. While I didn't mention Oswin in order not to worry him."

"Probably," I grudgingly agreed.

"Why have you got the manuscript?"

"It's part of the deal I struck with Oswin. I'll have Moira give it the once over. In return, he'll lay off you."

"But surely it's unpublishable."

"For certain, I should think. But he'll be content as long as it's given serious consideration. I reckon that was Roger's mistake.

Refusing even to look at it."

"More likely he knows Oswin of old as a waste of space."

We exchanged an eloquent glance. Jenny's sympathy for the flotsam and jetsam of society used sometimes to annoy me. None of it was on show now, though. Was this new hardness, I wondered, one of the consequences of her relationship with Roger Colborn, the plastic man turned arbitrageur and landed gent?

"Will Oswin honour your .. . deal ... if Moira turns the book down?"

"He says so."

"And you believe him?"

"Yes. He knows there's nothing more he can do."

Jenny looked less than wholly convinced. "Well, at the very least, I suppose it'll be a breathing space. And I'm grateful for that. How did you manage to accomplish this so quickly?"

"I missed this evening's performance."

"You did whatT

"It was the only time Oswin was willing to see me."

"Why on earth did you allow someone like that to '

The telephone was ringing. I stared at it and so did Jenny. I think we were both certain who was on the other end. Jenny leaned across the arm of her chair and plucked the receiver out of its cradle.

"Hello?" She smiled. "Hello, darling ... Yes ... Yes, very quiet."

She was on the move now, slipping out through a communicating door into an adjoining room. The door closed behind her and her voice receded to a muffled murmur. Chester opened an eye, registered her absence and sank back into a torpor.

I cast a jaundiced glance round the room, wondering if I'd recognize any of the items she kept when we separated. But there was nothing, not a single familiar object, only more of the same impeccably composed contents of an idyllic country-house life. "Is this really what you want?" I muttered, refraining from supplying the obvious answer.

Then I spotted a framed photograph on top of the cherry-wood hi-fi cabinet. I rose and went across for a gander. There was Jenny, carefree and happy, grinning at the camera as she wrapped an arm round the new man in her life. Her companion had to be Roger Colborn. They were leaning together by the tiller of a yacht, a triangle of sail visible above them, a sparkling chunk of sea behind. Colborn looked lean, muscular and nauseatingly handsome, with thick dark hair greying at the temples, blue eyes, a firm jaw and assorted indicators of rugged machismo. To make matters worse, he and Jenny appeared to be very much in love. I sighed and turned away, only to confront a reflection of myself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Hair thinner and greyer than Colborn's, waistline looser, musculature less evident, I could do no more than shrug.

The door clicked open and Jenny stepped back into the room. "Sorry about that," she said. "Roger always calls around now when he's away."

"Thoughtful of him."

"Look, Toby '

"At a guess' - I tilted the photograph towards her "I'd say he's about my age."

"Yes." Jenny compressed her lips. "He is."

"But wearing better."

"I don't want to play this game, Toby. I'm grateful for what you've done about Derek Oswin. But '