Written in Blood(18)

‘Of course.’ Gerald painted a smile on his face. Hanging on to the words ‘drive home’, he emptied the grounds from the smaller of the cafetières. It slipped from his fingers to lie in the sink.

‘Instant will do.’

‘I don’t have instant. One for you, Rex?’

‘Definitely.’

They all stood around like figures in an exhibition until the coffee was made, then took their beakers back to the sitting room. Here, in spite of Max’s previous hint of a fairly prompt departure, he began what proved to be a very lengthy conversation about money. The pound against the dollar and why its fluctuations affected his income. How the spread of democracy meant he was now published in the Eastern bloc, although it wasn’t always easy or even possible to get the royalties out. The frolicsome lira and the advantage of being paid in Deutschmarks. The nervous yen.

Rex listened, wondering how much longer he would be able to stay conscious. He was usually fast asleep by ten, for he would be awoken by Montcalm, seeking his morning constitutional, on the crack of five thirty. He thought, for the first time, that all this wasn’t quite fair of Gerald. Then he became aware that Max had asked Gerald a question and was waiting, with an expression of polite interest, for an answer.

‘Short stories mainly.’ Gerald studied the drawn curtains behind his interrogator’s head. ‘Unpublished, before you ask.’ His nostrils were pinched, rimmed white with tension.

Feeling he was not pulling his weight, Rex described his own attempts at a series of short stories featuring the adventures of an early Gatling gun. His jaw began to ache and his skin itched with tiredness. Then, just as another lengthy pause seemed to be yawning, Max suddenly got up and said he really must be going.

‘It’s been a most enjoyable evening.’

‘It was good of you to come.’ Gerald seemed not to notice the outstretched hand.

In the hall Rex tried to catch Gerald’s eye, hoping for a conspiratorial exchange. A significant glance perhaps? Raised eyebrows. A nod of satisfaction at a job well done. But he was unlucky. Gerald did not even accompany them, but remained at the far end of the hall tapping, then reading, the barometer with close attention as if he was already alone. He did not even say ‘goodnight’, never mind ‘thank you’.

Rex opened the door and stepped over the threshold. Max followed, said, ‘My gloves,’ turned back into the house and closed the door. A bolt slid into place. In less than a second the very thing that Rex had promised faithfully to prevent had taken place.





Half an hour later and Rex was in his bedroom. Not preparing to sleep, for shock had woken him up entirely, but because the view from his window included the frontage of Plover’s Rest. The silver Mercedes was still there. The wind had got up a treat and it was raining.

After the slippy manoeuvre that had left him shut out, Rex had hung around for several minutes not knowing what to do. He had put his ear to the door jamb at one point, listening for he knew not what. Sounds of violence perhaps? Gerald trying to push Max forcibly out? But there was nothing. Not even the murmur of voices.

After a while Rex started to feel foolish. He felt he should have walked off straight away. Perhaps they were waiting for him to do this before starting their conversation. Then he thought, what if someone passed by, saw him hanging round in the porch and reported him. Wasn’t loitering an actionable offence? This disquieting recollection, plus the fact that he was desperate to go to the loo, set him striding down the path, shutting the gate loudly to announce his exit.

Now he was wondering guiltily if he had done the wrong thing. He recalled how vehemently Gerald had spoken when urging his co-operation in the matter of Max’s departure. Anyone would think it was a matter of life and death. Rex was quickly coming round to the idea that he had given up too easily.

Hadn’t the bolting of the front door been rather . . . well . . . sinister? There was no doubt in Rex’s mind that Max had been responsible. It had been so quickly accomplished that Gerald could not have reached the door in time. The conviction that he had made an error grew, soon gripping Rex to a degree where he could no longer stand there and do nothing.

He rushed downstairs, suddenly in a bigger hurry to return to Gerald’s cottage than he had ever been to get away. No need to put on a coat, for he had not taken off his British warm. Rex hesitated by the collection of beautifully polished walking sticks in the hall before, feeling absurdly melodramatic, selecting one with a silver buffalo-head handle. Then he put on his cord cap, secured it with a woollen scarf tied under his chin, and strode off.