Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

His wife seemed to recognise some signal and took up the conversational baton for the next lap. ‘Incidentally, Daddy, I haven’t said how delighted we all are about this West End play. We really hope to get to see it soon, but, you know, things are pretty busy, what with this and that, and the boys.’

‘Of course.’ He couldn’t help feeling affection for Juliet whenever he looked at her. There was something about the set of her eyes which hadn’t changed since she was three years old, when she had been all hugs and trust for her father. He often wondered what it was that had brought about such a change in their relationship. Maybe his walking out on Frances.

He looked across at his wife. She was unaware of his scrutiny, gazing with fondness at the two blond-headed little boys who were shovelling gravy-sodden potato into their mouths, an exercise — and apparently the only one — that kept them silent.

At such moments he knew that he loved Frances, and he could feel the seductions of a conventional marriage, of meals such as this happening every Sunday, of knowing each other’s daily news, not always having to catch up on a few months’ worth of events. There was a kind of peace about it.

And maybe that peace was not completely beyond his grasp. If he really made an effort, perhaps something could be salvaged.

‘No,’ Juliet continued, ‘I mean this West End thing is something I can really tell my friends about. It was like when you had that part in Z-Cars . Something sort of. . respectable.’

‘Thank you,’ he muttered. Good God, what had happened to Juliet? Her mind had set irrevocably into middle age when she was about ten. Marriage to Miles had only hardened her mental arteries further. The pair of them had just quietly fossilised together.

Julian finished his potatoes and looked gravely round the family gathering. ‘My penis,’ he announced, ‘is as big as the Empire State Building.’

His four-year-old twin, Damian, not to be outdone, immediately responded. ‘Mine penis,’ he proclaimed, ‘mine penis is as big as the World Trade Centre.’

In the confusion of scolding that followed, Charles reflected that maybe there was hope for the family after all.

Closer acquaintance did nothing to dispel his good impression of his grandsons. After lunch, Juliet, looking peaky and feeling grim, as she had done in the early months of her previous pregnancy, went upstairs to lie down. Frances and Miles went off to the kitchen to do the washing-up (and, no doubt, to talk annuities), leaving Charles to entertain the children.

He found that this was a two-way process. The two little boys were full of ideas for games and, even if most of them ended rather predictably in throwing the sofa cushions at their grandfather, they showed considerable powers of invention.

They were also at the stage when they still found funny voices funny, and Charles had his best audience in years for his Welsh, developed for Under Milk Wood (‘A production which demonstrated everything the theatre can offer, except talent’ — Nottingham Evening Post), his Cornish, as used in Love’s Labour’s Lost (‘Charles Paris’s Costard was about as funny as an obituary notice’ — New Statesman) and the voice he had used as a Chinese Broker’s Man in Aladdin (‘My watch said that the show only lasted two and a half hours, so I’ve taken it to be repaired’ — Glasgow Herald ).

Somehow they got into a game of Prisoners. Charles would capture one of the boys and only release him if he said the magic word. The secret of the game was to keep changing the magic word, making it longer and longer and sillier and sillier, in the hope (always realised) that the prisoner would be giggling too much to repeat it. Since, while the prisoner struggled to escape, the unfettered twin would be bombarding his grandfather with cushions, the game was not without hilarity.

Charles clasped his hands round Julian.

‘What’s the magic word?’ Julian gasped.

Woomph, went a cushion from Damian into Charles’s face.

‘The magic word is — Ongle-bongle-boodle-boodle-boodle.’

‘Ongle-bongle-boodle-giggle-giggle,’ Julian repeated, wriggling free.

Damian rushed into the imprisoning arms.

‘What’s the magic word?’

Woomph, went a cushion from Julian into the back of Charles’s neck.

‘Nick-picky-wickety-pingle-pang.’

‘Nicky-picky-diddle-poo-poo.’ Damian snickered at his daring.

But it wasn’t good enough to secure his release.

‘No, you have to repeat exactly what I say,’ insisted Charles.

‘No, you have to repeat exactly what I say,’ repeated Julian, who was catching on. As he said it, he threw a cushion, which went woomph into the side of Charles’s head.

‘But it’s nonsense,’ objected Damian.

‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine.’

‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine,’ crowed Julian.

‘Even if it’s nonsense. You just repeat it like a machine,’ agreed Damian.

‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’

‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’

‘Whatever I say, you have to repeat without thinking.’

Like a light switched on, Charles’s mind was suddenly clear. He knew what it was that had struck him as odd about Michael Banks’s death. And he knew that Alex Household had not committed the murder.

‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ he shouted.

‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ shouted Julian.

‘Good God! I’ve got it!’ shouted Damian.

He was dialling when Miles and Frances came in from the kitchen.

‘Sorry. Hope you don’t mind my using the phone.’

‘Feel free.’ But Miles didn’t look very pleased.

It rang for a long time, and he thought he was going to be out of luck, but eventually the receiver was picked up the other end.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was rather woolly.

‘Lesley-Jane, it’s me — Charles.’

‘Charles?’

‘Charles Paris.’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t say what on earth are you ringing for; she put it all into the oh. ‘Sorry, I was asleep.’

‘I was glad to find you in. I thought you might be away for the weekend.’

‘Yes, I was going to my parents, but I. . I decided not to.’

‘Listen, I’ve just thought of something important.’

‘Oh yes.’ She sounded belligerent and slightly resentful. Was he going to give her some note on performance, some idea he’d had for a new bit of business in the play? Surely it could wait till tomorrow.

‘It’s about Alex.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve just remembered something he said to me in Taunton.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘He said that one should always sort out a bolt-hole for oneself.’

‘Well, what does that mean?’

‘I thought you might know.’

‘No idea.’

‘What I mean is. . when you were in Taunton, you were fairly discreet about your affair. . I wondered where. .’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘You said something last week about “gambolling in the countryside”. Was there somewhere. .’

‘There was, but. .’

‘Where?’

‘Do you think. .?’

‘It’s a possibility. I think it’s worth investigating.’

‘You?’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. It just seems vindictive. The idea of bringing him to justice. Still, I suppose you could just tell the police and — ’

‘I wasn’t thinking of bringing him to justice. I was thinking of finding out from him what actually did happen.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Tell me where it is.’

She told him. ‘But I’ve a nasty feeling,’ she concluded dismally, ‘that if you do find anything there, it’ll just be Alex’s body.’