The Nice and the Good (6 page)

What John envisaged with Kate, and envisaged fairly clearly, was something which was new in his life, and in his vision of it there was a kind of resignation, an acceptance of himself as no longer young and no longer likely to marry. He needed a resting point, he needed a home, he needed, even, a family. He knew, without her having said it, that Kate understood this perfectly. She had told him, he had told her, in half passionate, often wholly passionate, kisses which they now exchanged quite easily and spontaneously, smiling into each other’s eyes, whenever they happened to be alone together. He knew that for Kate there was nothing but joy in the prospect of so caging him. For himself, the relationship would at times be painful, and had already been so. But he could embrace these exact, these detailed pains; and even the pain could be an element in something that was wholly good. Kate’s generosity, her happiness, even her love for her husband, perhaps especially her love for her husband, could make a house for John. He liked and respected Octavian, he
was fond of all the children and especially of Barbara. He needed to be committed and attached at last and to be able to love in innocence, and he felt certain now that he could commit himself to Kate, and through her to her family and to her whole household. But to do this with a free and truthful heart he would have to end, and end completely, this muddled compromise with Jessica which should never have come into being at all. Kate had never questioned him. When she did he would have to be able to tell the truth. This was the personal urgency which made him feel, as he heard Jessica sobbing behind him, so like a murderer.

Ducane got into his car. He sat in the front of the car next to his chauffeur. He felt exhausted and frantic and unclean. He had given way, he had taken her in his arms, he had promised to see her next week. All was to do again.

To gain some immediate relief of his feelings he said to the chauffeur, “It’s awful—I mean an awful day—everything has gone wrong.”

Ducane’s chauffeur, a Scotsman called Gavin Fivey, slewed his brown eyes round for a moment in the direction of his employer. He said nothing. But something to do with the way in which he now gripped the wheel conveyed sympathy, like a firm pressure of the hand.

Ducane’s father had been a Glasgow solicitor, but his grandfather had been a successful distiller, and Ducane had money. His one extravagance, apart from his Bentley, was his manservant. He was aware of the jokes and rumours at his expense which this peculiarity occasioned. But Ducane, who suffered from a physical maladroitness which he connected with his being left handed, had never learnt to drive, and saw no reason why he should not treat himself to a chauffeur. He had in fact been indifferently served by a number of men who had not lived in his house. Fivey, fairly new on the job, was his first experiment with a servant who lived in.

Ducane had been influenced in Fivey’s favour by two things, the man’s appearance and the fact, discreetly revealed with no further details by the employment agency, that he was a jailbird. Their common Scottishness was a bond too. Fivey had even been to the same primary school
in Glasgow that had nurtured Ducane. This revelation, together with the dissimilarity of their subsequent careers, rather charmed Ducane. He had hoped to hear something of Fivey’s adventures as a criminal, but so far he had learnt little about his servant’s past except for the fact that Fivey’s mother, as he announced unexpectedly one day, “was a mermaid”. “A mermaid in a circus, you understand,” Fivey had added in his slow Scottish voice. Ducane did not ask whether she was a real mermaid or a fake one. He preferred not to know.

Fivey was very unusual to look at. He had an extremely large shaggy head which made him look like a figure in a carnival, or as Ducane sometimes thought, like Bottom under the enchantment. It was never clear to Ducane whether this feature made Fivey look monstrous or beautiful. His copious hair and long drooping moustaches were reddish brown. His complexion was of a brownish apricot hue and covered with abnormally large freckles so that his broad spotted face suggested that of an animal, a spaniel perhaps. His wide-apart eyes, of a rich clear brown, were slightly slanted and if Ducane had not known him to be Scottish he would have taken him for some kind of Slav. Fivey was still new enough to be, for Ducane who would not have dreamt of discussing his servant with anyone else, an object of private speculation and something of a hobby. Fivey was meticulously neat in the house and could cook two or three dishes. He was taciturn and apparently friendless and seemed to spend his time off in his room reading women’s magazines. He irritated Ducane by eating peppermint creams in the car and by singing Jacobite songs, rather drearily, as he went about his household tasks. Ducane thought it possible that Fivey did not realise that he was singing aloud. So far he had not had the heart to reprimand him. He hoped, at least, that the fellow was reasonably contented.

Ducane’s parents were dead and his only close relation was a married sister who lived in Oban and whom he scarcely saw. Ducane had read history and subsequently law at Balliol, had proceeded to All Souls and had been called to the bar. He had practised briefly as a barrister but he was not enough of an actor to enjoy life in the Courts. He disliked legal wit in serious situations and shunned an exercise
of power which he conceived to be bad for his character. In the war he was early posted to Intelligence and, to his regret, spent the war years in Whitehall. He became a civil servant and was at present the legal adviser to the Government department of which Octavian was head. He had maintained his academic interests and was a noted expert on Roman law, a subject on which he lectured intermittently at a London college. He was a busy successful man and aware of himself as a respected figure. People tended to admire him and find him mysterious. Ducane saw his career with a cool eye. He had retained, and now deliberately fostered, the consciousness, as well as the conscience, of a Scottish puritan. He had no religious beliefs. He simply wanted to lead a clean simple life and to be a good man, and this remained to him as a real, and also feasible, ambition.

As the Bentley now turned into Whitehall Ducane, thinking miserably about Jessica, felt, not for the first time, a distinct impulse to lay his hand upon Fivey’s shoulder. He noticed that he had already stretched his arm along the seat behind his chauffeur’s back. The contact, suddenly so vivid to his imagination, would have brought with it some profound and healing comfort. Ducane smiled to himself sadly. Here was yet another of the paradoxes of life. He withdrew his arm from its dangerous position.

“H
ELLO, OCTAVIAN
. You left a note that you wanted to see me.”

Ducane put his head round Octavian’s door. It was Saturday morning, the day after Radeechy’s suicide.

“Come in, John, come in. You find us in the soup.”

Already seated in Octavian’s room were Richard Biranne and George Droysen, formerly a journalist and now a young Principal in the department.

Ducane came in and sat down and looked enquiringly at Octavian.

“Look,” said Octavian, “you aren’t going to be pleased. Well—shall I start to tell him, Droysen, or will you?”

“You tell him,” said Droysen.

“It’s this matter of bloody Radeechy,” said Octavian.

Ducane had heard yesterday about Radeechy’s death. He had met Radeechy occasionally in the office, but had little acquaintance with him.

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s the press as usual. First the press and then the PM. It would happen on a Saturday. Anyway, to tell the tale as briefly as possible, Droysen was around last night in his old haunts in Fleet Street, and it seems that the press have got hold of some sort of story about Radeechy.”

“What sort of story?”

“This is what we haven’t found out yet, but it sounds like the usual sort of story, at least it’s got the two familiar elements, women and money.”

“You mean blackmail?”

“Well, it sounds like it. It features a girl who’s known as Helen of Troy. I think we can guess her profession. And there’s something about ‘a large sum of money changed hands’. That’s the phrase, isn’t it, Droysen? ‘A large sum of money changed hands’.”

“Whose hands?” said Ducane.

“Don’t know.”

“But they haven’t published this stuff?”

“No, no, it’s far too hot. As far as Droysen could gather one of the larger nastier dailies has bought it. A pretty large sum of money probably changed hands there! And now they’re sitting on it to see what happens next, and mean-while every sort of rumour is going about.”

“You don’t know who provided the story?”

“No, but it’s said to have been someone inside the office. Not nice!”

“Radeechy didn’t have access to any secret material, did he?”

“Well, not officially. But that isn’t going to impress anybody.”

“Have Security been on to you?”

“Not yet. I telephoned to tell them of course, since they’re so mad keen to know every little thing, and they just grunted, but the PM’s been on to me.”

“He’d heard about the story and the rumours?”

“Well, he’d heard
something
, and I told him the rest and he was not pleased.”

“It’s a bit early to get upset,” said Ducane. “We don’t even know what this story is.”

“No, but you know as well as I do that politicians aren’t concerned with justice being done, they’re concerned with justice seeming to be done as a result of their keen-eyed vigilance. Apparently he’s already being pressed to have an official enquiry.”

“Which kind?”

“That hasn’t emerged yet, but the point is, this is where you come in.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You’d be surprised how well thought of you are amongst our leaders. The PM wants you to conduct an enquiry.”

“What status would I have?” said Ducane.

“Well, thank God you’re taking it so coolly, I thought you’d explode! Strictly speaking you wouldn’t have any status, that is the enquiry would be a purely departmental one. I would instruct you to enquire and you would enquire. The rest would have to be played by ear.”

“I see. I suppose quick action is the point.”

“Precisely. The PM doesn’t want this thing to snowball.
If we can clear it all up quickly, establish what went on if anything, and demonstrate that there’s no Security interest, we can avoid an official enquiry which the PM doesn’t want any more than we do.”

“It’s one of those things which it’s not easy to demonstrate,” said Ducane. “If Radeechy had a fishy private life, and if the press keep dropping hints, people will believe anything. It’s become a sort of cliché. However, I’ll certainly have a go. It doesn’t look as if I’ve got much choice anyway! I suppose there isn’t the faintest chance that poor Radeechy
was
being blackmailed into handing over secret stuff?”

“Not the faintest,” said Octavian. “You’d agree, wouldn’t you, you two?”

“One never knows about anyone,” said Biranne, “but I shouldn’t have thought it of Radeechy.”

“I agree,” said George Droysen. “And I knew him reasonably well as far as meeting in the office goes.”

“That doesn’t go very far,” said Ducane. “However it appears he
was
being blackmailed?”

“So the tale runs.”

“And he did shoot himself. Why did he shoot himself?”

“And in the office too,” said Octavian. “That does strike me as somehow odd and significant. Why couldn’t he shoot himself decently at home?”

“He was terribly depressed about his wife’s death,” said George Droysen. “You remember she got killed last year, fell out of a window or something. He was quite shattered.”

“Well, that’s a possible motive,” said Ducane. “He didn’t leave a note, did he?”

“No,” said Octavian. “That’s a bit odd too. He was such a one for writing minutes about every damn thing. You’d think he’d have left us a minute about his own death!”

“If we could discover exactly why he did it, that should settle the Security point. It looks as if we shall have to find out a lot about Radeechy. Did you know him well, Biranne?”

“Scarcely knew him at all,” said Biranne. “We just met in the office, and not much even there. No, I didn’t know him.”

“I never saw much of him myself,” said Ducane, “but I confess I’m surprised about this Helen of Troy story. I shouldn’t have thought Radeechy was that sort of chap.”

“Any man is that sort of chap,” said Biranne, and giggled.

Ducane ignored him. “He seemed to me much more the cranky scientist type. The last conversation I had with him was about poltergeists. He had some theory about their being connected with the water table.”

“He communed with spirits,” said George Droysen.

“After all,” said Octavian, “spiritualism and magic and all that are connected with sex, always have been. Sex comes to most of us with a twist. Maybe that was just his twist.”

Ducane was not sure whether sex came to most of us with a twist. He could not help wondering whether it came to Octavian with one. “Has he any close family?” he asked.

“Apparently there’s no one except a sister who’s been living in Canada for years.”

“I’d better see the police,” said Ducane, “and look over whatever they’ve got, though I imagine that won’t amount to much. Would you see that I’m OK’d with Scotland Yard, Octavian? And perhaps you’d get back to Fleet Street, Droysen, and track down that story for us, and also find out who gave it to the press.”

“Back to the old pubs!” said Droysen. “It’s a pleasure.”

“You’d better write me an official letter, Octavian.”

“I’ve already drafted one.”

“Well, put into it, would you, that I can use my own discretion about not revealing anything which I think is not germane to the purpose of the enquiry.”

“I suppose that’s all right?” said Octavian dubiously.

“Of course it is. After all, we aren’t investigating poor Radeechy’s morals. What was his first name, by the way?”

“Joseph,” said Biranne.

“Are you going to Dorset, Octavian?”

“Certainly! What’s more, you are too. There’s no point in starting in until young Droysen has done his detective work.”