“I had rather expected to see a spit,” said Charles, then: “No, no, old man, I’m only joking. You’re right, it’s quite a place. Marvellous, David.” He put the menu aside. “I think I’ll have the old English sausage and chips, if I may.”
Harton felt that even his wriest smile would not quite meet this one, “Thursday’s a bad night,” he offered, “Staffwise, I mean,”
Charles stared aloft at a ceiling criss-crossed circa 1935 with oak-stained beamwork. He nodded sympathetically.
“Just the same in town, David. But we don’t have the compensation of being able to look around and get this marvellous sense of history,”
Mr Maddox served them himself. He was asked by Charles if the sausages were a speciality of the house—made from boar’s head, were they?—local herbs?—that sort of thing? To the company, Mr Maddox made grave reply that the recipe was the secret of the hotel’s supplier, one of whose ancestors had been tortured to no avail by Cromwellian officers, similarly intrigued. To Mrs Maddox, in the privacy of the kitchen, he announced that some clever dicks from the dog meat factory had been trying to take the piss out of him on account of the Co-op bangers, so instead of making them fresh coffee she could jolly well boil up that lot that had been left over from breakfast.
While sipping which punitive beverage, the Cultox security men broached the matter that had brought them to Flaxborough.
“We had a long talk on the phone yesterday,” said Simon, “with Rothermere. He is not altogether happy.”
“Oh? That wasn’t my impression.”
“When did you last see him, David?” asked Charles.
“Yesterday. There’s a little pub up the road at Pennick. I met him there yesterday morning. It’s an arrangement we have.”
“He filled you in on progress?”
“Right.”
“Did he express no anxiety at all?” Simon asked.
Harton shook his head. “No, I gather he’s got everything pretty well tied up. We can only be sure, of course, when we see what the next couple of days produce.”
“Your wife, David, is an intelligent woman,” said Charles reflectively. He seemed not to relish the thought.
“Intelligent? Julia? Oh, come, Charles. A certain element of cunning, maybe—but instinctive, not intelligent. And too spite-orientated to be effective in the long term.”
“You are taking a subjective attitude, David. We have to view this thing companywise. And I must stress again that the company has been placed in an awkward position.”
“One could almost say an extremely invidious position,” added Simon.
“Yes, but not by me.”
“By whom, then, David?” The question came gently and with no trace of rhetorical overtone.
“Well, this wretched man Tring, primarily. I mean, we all know that.”
“You were his immediate employer,” Simon said.
“Now look: if we’re going to talk about basic responsibility, I think we might start with R.I.P... Who invented that bloody concept?”
“David...” The reproof was quiet but firm. “Matters have gone past the stage when there might have been any point in assessing blame. What is all-important now is to build a wall—an impenetrable wall—round the reputation of the company. You mentioned something just now, David. I didn’t quite catch it, actually. Simon didn’t either. But from now on we all are going to have to be very careful indeed about what we say—in public and in private.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Charles.” Harton signalled to the loitering Mr Maddox and ordered brandies.
Simon spoke. “Reverting to what Rothermere said about Mrs Harton, there are two or three questions I should like to put. The first is this. Has she any knowledge of what Tring was up to before he met with his unfortunate accident?”
“None,” said Harton, bluntly.
“Very well. Two. Is there any way you can think of, any way at all, whereby your wife might grow suspicious about that accident?”
“Put it this way,” said Harton. “I wouldn’t rate her chances as a detective very high. She’s got a one-track mind. Once the idea’s in her head that I’m going to get 20,000 quid squeezed out of me, she’ll be too busy gloating to doubt what she’s been told.”
There was silence. Then the man with white hair looked pensively at Harton and said: “You would appear to have something less than an ideal marriage, David.” His companion looked away and proggled an earhole with his middle finger.
Harton grinned, as if to acknowledge a compliment. “She’s a right bitch.”
“But you do have a replacement in mind?”
“You know I do. That’s what this is all about.” Harton saw the admonitory finger, the mouth opening to object; he added at once: “Apart, I mean, from the main purpose, the company thing. Naturally.”
“Naturally,” echoed Charles, softly.
For a while they sipped their brandy in silence. Harton’s offer of cigars was refused by the others. He lit one himself, after cutting the end with elaborate care and going through a rolling and warming ceremony, then laid it aside on an ashtray, where it went out almost immediately.
It was the generally uncommunicative Simon who resumed the discussion. “Tell me,” he said to Harton, “your opinion of the local police. You do have police here, I suppose?”
“Oh, surely. A full set.”
“Yes, I thought the place would run to something more than a village constable. We’ve seen the inquest report in your local paper. You actually boast a detective inspector, I gather.”
“Chap called Purbright. Yes.”
“Bumpkin?” This from Charles.
“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve not had much to do with him, actually. He’s not in Rotary and he isn’t a Mason, but that’s not to prove he’s a deadhead. My old man loathed him, I remember.”
“Your father?”
“Surgeon. He emigrated to the States last year, having developed a taste for highpriced cock in his old age.”
Simon smiled thinly, without approval. “Why did your father dislike this inspector?”
“Because the man was inquisitive. He was persistent. I believe he turned up things that my father found professionally embarrassing. The old man was bloody annoyed, and I don’t blame him.”
“Let us hope,” said Simon, “that this village Sherlock of yours hasn’t developed a taste for causing embarrassment. We have enough of that to cope with already.”
“No problem,” said Harton. He looked sleek and relaxed, like a four-coloured advertisement for the brandy he cradled in cupped hands and sniffed appreciatively at what he deemed artistic intervals.