Sarah Caudwell - The Shortest Way to Hades

The opportunity could not be disregarded to examine the scene of the supposed crime which I had undertaken to investigate. Going through the door at the far end of the drawing-room from that which led to the bedroom, I found myself at the foot of a wooden stairway. I ascended; but the door to the roof terrace was locked, and there was no key to be found in its immediate vicinity. Disappointed, I descended again. The door at the foot of the staircase opened without resistance into a room furnished as an office: a person trained in accountancy and having leisure to peruse the contents of the filing cabinets would perhaps have learned much of Rupert’s business dealings; but to me the room disclosed no secrets.

I returned to the drawing-room. A glance through the archway on my left persuaded me that the kitchen area held nothing of interest to the investigator. I went out on to the balcony: below me, beyond the road and the now deserted towpath, the Thames wound peacefully under the Victorian ironwork of Barnes railway bridge, the afternoon sunlight dancing on its mud-colored surface; on the other side of the river the willow trees at the edge of Duke’s Meadows dipped low into the water. The prospect was a most agreeable one; and it occurred to me, after a little reflection, that it was also conclusive of my investigation.

I heard Selena’s quick, light footsteps in the drawing-room behind me. Having reached, it seemed, the final stages of the complex process of making Julia ready for departure, she was inquiring whether Julia might have brought a coat with her: and whether she happened, if so, to know where she might have put it. From the direction of the bathroom came the answer, a little muffled, that there might well have been a coat, a sort of beige sort of raincoat, and it might very possibly be found in one of the cupboards in the entrance lobby. Rummaging sounds ensued.

“Selena,” I called, “tell Julia to come out here and look at the view from the balcony — it will have a soothing effect on her. You and Ragwort will also find it of interest.”

“Julia’s still dressing,” answered Selena, amid sounds of further rummaging. “And Ragwort’s tidying the bedroom, and I’m looking for Julia’s raincoat. We don’t have time to stand about looking at views.”

“I ask but a moment,” I said. “And you will not regret it.” At last they all three joined me on the balcony — Julia washed, dressed, brushed and combed, Ragwort modestly complacent at the tidiness of the bedroom and Selena a little dusty but triumphant in her search for the beige raincoat. I invited them to stand at the corner of the balcony from which they would have the best view downstream — that is to say, towards Chiswick — and asked them what they could see.

“The river?” said Julia, with a helpful and intelligent expression, as if anxious to know if this was the right answer.

“Part of the river,” said Selena. “About as far as the top of Corney Reach.”

“Remarkably little of the river, really,” said Ragwort. “In fact, the view downstream is rather poor — I can’t imagine why you think it’s interesting.”

“You will remember,” I said, “that it was from here—”

A key turned in the lock of the front door.

Why this sound should have caused us to shrink back into the corners of the balcony as if to escape detection in some criminal act, I cannot now readily explain, for Selena had been satisfied that we were committing none. To have entered premises by manipulating the lock with a plastic credit card perhaps has some curious psychological effect, making one think that one’s presence may be unwelcome.

There followed sounds of the putting down of luggage, and of voices. I recognized the tones of deferential gallantry in which I had previously heard Rupert address his mother-in-law. They had evidently returned together from Corfu; and Jocasta had broken her journey home to Belgrave Place in order to be provided with certain papers relating to Rupert’s company. (Knowing and cynical glances were exchanged by my companions on the balcony.) We heard her decline offers of refreshment.

The papers, it appeared, were in the little room furnished as an office. We suffered a moment of anxiety while Rupert went in search of them, for Jocasta employed the time in drawing back the heavy hessian curtains; but she did not look out on to the balcony, and our presence remained undetected.

“Here we are, Mama-in-law,” said Rupert. “Capital Statement and Profit and Loss Account for Galloway Opportunities Limited. All duly audited, of course. If there’s anything that isn’t clear, just give me a ring.”

“I’m sure there’ll be no need. I’m only taking them because you insisted on it, Rupert — it’s really quite unnecessary. Mother and I have complete confidence in your judgment.”

“I know you have, bless you,” said Rupert, with great warmth and sincerity. “That’s exactly why I don’t want anyone to be able to say that I’ve talked you into something without explaining what’s involved. What I want to make absolutely clear is that I’m not saying this is to your mother’s advantage in purely financial terms. It might even mean a reduction in income — the whole thing’s geared to capital growth. It’s for Millie’s sake I want to do it.”

“My dear Rupert, you surely know by now that Mother’s only too delighted to help Millie in any way she can.”

“Well, I do know that, of course.” Rupert seemed now almost overcome by an intensity of emotion which it would have been unmanly to express. “Your mother’s been wonderful, simply wonderful — there’s no other word for it. If it hadn’t been for her generosity — well, I don’t mind admitting it, there’s no way I could have given Millie the sort of upbringing she was entitled to. I’m not a rich man, you know, Mama-in-law — not by comparison with the sort of fortune Millie’s going to inherit. But I do have a little bit of a flair for investment, and when I became one of the trustees I hoped I’d be able to use it for Millie’s benefit. Like any father, I suppose — wanting to feel I’ve done something for my little girl. But everything I suggest gets blocked by Tancred — all this rigmarole about the Trustee Investments Act and God knows what. I don’t mind telling you, Mama-in-law, I’ve come pretty close to losing my temper sometimes.”

“Tancred’s an imbecile, I’ve always said so. One would not, of course, like one’s solicitor to be too clever to be respectable; but Tancred goes too far to the other extreme.”

“Well, he’s certainly no fireball when it comes to investment. I sometimes think he’d like the whole fund still to be in Consols.”

“My dear Rupert, I do see how frustrating it must have been. But there’s no difficulty, is there, now that Millie’s of age? Tancred has to do what she and Mother ask him to.”

To this Rupert made no immediate answer, but instead renewed the offer of alcoholic refreshment — evidently as a polite preliminary to pouring a drink for himself. When he spoke again, his remarks had no apparent connection with the previous topic.

“Mama-in-law, may I have a word with you about Millie? I’m — well, I’m just a bit worried about her. To be absolutely candid, I wish she weren’t quite so thick with Dolly’s kids — I sometimes feel they count for more with her than I do. As if they were her family and I was just — well, some kind of distant relative.”

“Nonsense, Rupert. Millie’s devoted to you. She’s very close to the twins, naturally — they practically grew up together. And Dolly’s house in Corfu is like a second home to her.”

“Don’t I know it, don’t I just know it?” Whatever doubts I had previously had of Rupert’s sincerity, I now thought his bitterness entirely genuine. “And what sort of home is it? The whole household revolving round that prize charlatan Dolly’s got herself married to, like some kind of little plastic god. Lucian and Lucinda sitting round pretending to be writers and artists and not doing a damn thing except lie in the sun and drink retsina. Lucian dressing like a hippy and Lucinda dressing like a tart — not just dressing like one, either, from some other things I’ve heard.”