Blame The Dead

'Ah.' He nodded, like when you say you clean out dustbins. 'I was only National Service, of course.' He named a Lancer regiment where you have to prove your father was a colonel and your mother a horse, and one of them rich besides.

'Willie Winslow,' he added.

That struck a bell louder than the verger had done so far. 'You're in Fenwick's syndicate? I'm James Card.'

Automatically, he started to hold out a hand – then froze it halfway. His face got wary. 'You weren't the chap who…?'

'That's right.'

'Oh, I say.' He thought about it, frowning. 'It's all right for you to be here, is it?'

Tve got a better reason for feeling sorry than most here today.' Ineeded somebody in the syndicate, and if the Army Pals act wasn't going to work, then maybe the self-pity bit would.

He looked at me sharply, then relaxed into an uncertain smile. 'Well, I suppose that's right…'

In the middle of the black crowd the vicar's voice started buzzing.

I whispered loudly, 'Met a broker chap in the pub just now -he was telling me Fenwick had been the life and soul of the party at Lloyd's.'

Willie looked firmly front but sounded quite friendly out of the side of his mouth. 'Oh, rather. You should have been there the day they launched the new Cunarder. He kidded one old boy the thing had capsized, and the damned fool believed him for quite five minutes. Nearly went through the roof. Terribly funny.'

'Odd… he didn't seem like that to me.'

'Well, you hardly really knew him, did you, old boy?' He was letting me down lightly. Kindly.

Then there was the hollow sound of earth on the coffin lid, and that was the loudest bell of the day. Willie winced, but stiffened himself. 'Suppose I'd better…'

'Not me.' He looked rather relieved, then strode into the crowd with that loose-jointed action of a Lancer walking away from a dead horse.

The crowd began to break up, slowly but speeding up as they got away from the smell of mortality.

Mockby was one of the first going past me. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

'I didn't see Miss Mackwood,' I said pleasantly.

'At leastshe had the decency to stay away.' Thank you, chum – every little helps, even if it's only somebody else's conclusions. 'What happened to you?'

'Some mob tried the same thing that your boys did, only more so.'

He considered this, then nodded. 'Good.'

'Real pros – including the truth-drug bit.'

'My God,' he hissed. 'Did you talk?'

'Some. They didn't seem to think it was enough – so maybe they'll be back.'

'Look, boy, you're too small for this business.' He was talking fast and low. 'Come and see me back in London. Right?'

'Can I bring a bodyguard? '

He gave me a quick sneer. 'D'you know a good one?' and went away.

David Fenwick appeared at my elbow. 'You don't seem to get on with Mr Mockby, sir. Did you have an accident?'

'Nope. It was entirely intentional.'

His eyes opened wide. 'You mean it was to do with…?'

'Yes.'

'Oh. I didn't want you to get involved in-' And just then, Mrs Fenwick appeared behind him. She'd pushed back her veil and it was entirely an improvement; it isn't always, even at weddings. An oval face, almost little-girlish, with a small nose, large brown eyes, and sculptured Cupid's bow lips. She looked pale, but pale looked like her colour, and calm and dry-eyed.

She smiled gently in my direction and murmured, 'I don't think we've…' and let it fade away so I could ignore it if I wanted to. Her voice had a faint American accent.

David stood forward. 'He's Mr Card, Mother. He was with Daddy when…'

For the moment her face went blank. Just zero. 'Oh… you're the… how nice of you to come.' She managed to look pleased.

'I invited him,' David said firmly, not letting me take any of the blame.

Mrs Fenwick nodded without looking away from me. 'Quite right, darling. I do hope you'll come up to the Manor now. I'm sure Willie will give you a lift…' She glanced over her shoulder and Willie appeared there.

'Willie, dear, have you met Mr Card?'

Willie said Yes, and went on looking at me as if I were something new at the zoo whose habits might not be suitable for children.

Mrs Fenwick smiled again and passed on. David gave me a glance and followed.

The crowd flowed around us. After a moment Willie took out a gold cigarette case, offered it to me, took one for himself. 'I suppose it's permitted on Holy Ground… I see you know young David.'

'Yes.'

He thought of asking me how, then didn't. 'Brave young fellow. What a business, what a business.' He puffed for a moment. 'I suppose there wasn't anything else you could do, really.'

'Except get stuck in Arras jail.'

'Oh yes, just so. Quite frightful. D'you think they'll catch the chap that did it?'

'Not unless somebody tells them what it was all about.'

We started to walk towards the gate. He said thoughtfully, 'I say – it couldn't have been anything to do with the syndicate, could it?'

'I'm bloody sure it was.'

He looked at me. 'Did Martin tell you, then, before he…?'

'No, but Mockby's as good as told me since.'

'Really?'

'Well, he's really been threatening me and sending his chauffeur round to sort me out and search my pad. To me, that's telling.'

He went thoughtful. I'd been piling it on a bit, of course. Our Willie seemed a little limp to use as a lever, but when you're trying to prise information out of men like Mockby you take whatever you can get, He went on being thoughtful about it until we reached the cars. There he waved a hand. This is my bus. Be a bit of a squeeze, but…'

The 'bus' was a long black-and-silver streak of pre-war Mercedes, all bonnet and exhaust pipes and huge headlights and twin horns and a sort of miniature engine-driver's cab stuck on the back as an afterthought. It was as old as I was, but lasting a hell of a sight better. I've never seen a car in more beautiful nick.

'Not really the thing for these occasions,' he said, vaguely apologetic, 'but it's the only black job I've got right now.'

I clambered in and he twiddled a few knobs and the engine went off like a peal of thunder, first time, just as you knew it would. We prowled gently round two sides of the green, then blasted off up a short hill. But he never got a chance to get really moving: we were part of a long queue of expensive transportation winding up to the top, turning right, then in through a pillared gateway.

The Manor turned out to be a square Victorian pile, built long after real manorial times. But solid under its Gothic trimmings, with well-kept sloping lawns and rosebeds and low garden walls. He parked on the gravel driveway – the forecourt was jammed already-and we walked round and up half a dozen wide stone steps and in.

The serious drinkers were already scraping the bottoms of their first glasses and the chatter was beginning to warm up. I caught Harry Henderson carting a tray around and latched on to a Scotch, then stood on the fringe of the crowd and looked around. We were in a tall, rather shapeless hallway, with a log fire burning in a grate at one side and a wide staircase on the other. A couple of pictures on the walls looked genuine, if a little pale, and were well lit. The furniture was thin on the ground, but good antique stuff. It hadn't been the same taste that had furnished the St John's Wood flat. And it hadn't been the income declared on those tax returns that had furnished here, either. What had Oscar implied about this house?

Behind me, a man's voice said, 'She makes a damn pretty widow, anyway.'

Another said, 'Don't suppose she'll make one for long.'

'Hardly. Wouldn't mind a nibble meself, if it comes to that.'

'Not quite the thing to say when you're standing here drinking poor old Martin's gin.'

'Hers, old boy, hers.'

The voices faded into the general babble and I drifted on through to a big, light corner room. It was sparsely furnished -even the concert grand didn't crowd you in that room – but all good stuff. I stared at a picture on the wall and decided it must be late Turner. And nobody got later than Turner.