But Travers never did.
It was about a month later that I learned why he would never return. I was lunching at the large center table at my club, as in most all-male establishments the table reserved for members who drift in on their own. Percy Fellows was the next to enter the dining room so he took a seat opposite me. I hadn’t seen him to talk to since the private view of the Vuillard exhibition and we hadn’t really had much of a conversation then. Percy was one of the most respected antique dealers in England and I had once even done a successful barter with him, a Charles II writing desk in exchange for a Dutch landscape by Utrillo.
I repeated how sorry I was to learn about Diana.
‘It was always going to end in divorce,’ he explained. ‘She was in and out of every bedroom in London. I was beginning to look a complete cuckold, and that bloody man Travers was the last straw.’
‘Travers?’ I said, not understanding.
‘Patrick Travers, the man named in my divorce petition. Ever come across him?’
‘I know the name,’ I said hesitantly, wanting to hear more before I admitted to our slight acquaintanceship.
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘Could have sworn I saw him at the private view you gave quite recently.’
‘But what do you mean, he was the last straw?’ I asked, trying to take his mind off the opening.
‘Met the bloody fellow at Ascot, didn’t we? Joined us for lunch, happily drank my champagne, ate my strawberries and cream and then before the week was out had bedded my wife. But that’s not the half of it.’
‘The half of it?’
‘The man had the nerve to come round to my shop and put down a large deposit on a Georgian table. Then he invites the two of us round to dinner to see how it looks. After he’s had enough time to make love to Diana he returns them both slightly soiled. You don’t look so well, old fellow,’ said Percy, leaning across the table. ‘Something wrong with the food? Never been the same since Harry left for the Carlton. I’ve written to the wine committee about it several times but—’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I just need a little fresh air. Please excuse me, Percy.’
It was on the walk back from my club after the conversation with Percy that I decided I would have to do something quite out of character.
The next morning I waited for the mail to arrive and checked any envelopes addressed to Caroline. Nothing seemed untoward but then I decided that Travers wouldn’t have been foolish enough to commit anything to paper. I also began to eavesdrop on her telephone conversations, but he was not among the callers, at least not while I was at home. I even checked the odometer on her Mini to see if she had driven any long distances, but then Eaton Square isn’t all that far. It’s often what you don’t do that gives the game away, I decided: we didn’t make love for a fortnight, and she didn’t comment.
I continued to watch Caroline more carefully over the next two weeks but it became obvious to me that Travers must have tired of her about the same time as he had returned the Vuillard. That only made me more angry.
I then began to form a plan of revenge that seemed quite extraordinary to me at the time and I assumed that in a matter of days I would get over it, even forget it. But I didn’t. If anything, the idea grew into an obsession. I began to convince myself that it was my bounden duty to do away with Travers before he besmirched any more of my friends.
I have never in my life knowingly broken the law. Parking fines annoy me, dropped litter offends me and I pay my VAT on the same day the frightful buff envelope drops through the letterbox.
Nevertheless once I’d decided what had to be done I set about my task meticulously. At first I had considered shooting Travers until I discovered how hard it is to get a gun license and that if I did the job properly, he would end up feeling very little pain which wasn’t what I had planned for him; then poisoning crossed my mind — but that requires a witnessed prescription and I still wouldn’t be able to watch the long slow death I desired. Then strangling, which I decided would necessitate too much courage — and in any case he was a bigger man than me and I might end up being the one who was strangled. I moved on to drowning, which could take years to get the man near any water and then I might not be able to hang around to make sure he went under for the fourth time. I even gave some thought to running over the damned man, but dropped that idea when I realized opportunity would be almost nil and, besides, I wouldn’t be left any time to check if he was dead. I was quickly becoming aware just how hard it is to kill someone — and get away with it.
I sat awake at night reading the biographies of murderers, but as they had all been caught and found guilty that didn’t fill me with much confidence. I turned to detective novels which always seemed to allow for a degree of coincidence, luck and surprise that I was unwilling to risk, until I came across a rewarding line from Conan Doyle: ‘Any intended victim who has a regular routine immediately makes himself more vulnerable.’ And then I recalled one routine of which Travers was particularly proud. It required a further six-month wait on my part but that also gave me more time to perfect my plan. I used the enforced wait well because whenever Caroline was away for more than twenty-four hours, I booked in for a skiing lesson on the dry slope at Harrow.
I found it surprisingly easy to discover when Travers would be returning to Verbier, and I was able to organize the winter holiday so that our paths would cross for only three days, a period of time quite sufficient for me to commit my first crime.
Caroline and I arrived in Verbier on the second Friday in January. She had commented on the state of my nerves more than once over the Christmas period, and hoped the holiday would help me relax. I could hardly explain to her that it was the thought of the holiday that was making me so tense. It didn’t help when she asked me on the plane to Switzerland if I thought Travers might be there this year.
On the first morning after our arrival we took the ski lift up at about ten thirty and, once we had reached the top, Caroline duly reported to Marcel. As she departed with him for the A-slope I returned to the B-slope to work on my own. As always we agreed to meet back on the ski lift or, if we missed each other, at least for lunch.
During the days that followed I went over and over the plan I had perfected in my mind and practiced so diligently at Harrow until I felt sure it was foolproof. By the end of the first week I was ready.
The night before Travers was due to arrive I was the last to leave the slopes. Even Caroline commented on how much my skiing had improved and she suggested to Marcel that I was ready for the A-slope with its sharper bends and steeper inclines.
‘Next year, perhaps,’ I told her, trying to make light of it, and returned to the B-slope.
During the final morning I skied over the first mile of the course again and again, and became so preoccupied with my work that I quite forgot to join Caroline for lunch.
In the afternoon I checked and rechecked the placing of every red flag marking the run, and once I was convinced the last skier had left the slope for the evening I collected about thirty of the flags and hid them behind a large fir tree. My final task was to check the prepared patch before building a large mound of snow some twenty paces above the chosen spot. Once my preparations were complete I skied slowly down the mountain in the fading light.
‘Are you trying to win an Olympic gold medal or something?’ Caroline asked me when I eventually got back to our room. I closed the bathroom door so she couldn’t expect a reply.