Gavin Lyall - Blame The Dead

He did his best, but he was carrying too much handicap for that course. Partly because it was soon clear that Fenwick had never been inside the church before, so we had the bit about pressures of honourable toil in the ancient market places of the City; and partly he was obviously scared that the Sunday papers might prove the corpse to have been the biggest frauds-man since the Swedish Match King. Over-all, he ran steadiest on the midst-of-life-we-are-in-death and cut-down-in-his-prime stretches.

I spent most of my time talent-spotting, but all I got was Hawthorn near me, David and young Harry Henderson up front beside a tall, slim woman. No Maggie Mackwood that I could find.

Then we were back on our feet and the coffin was processing past on top of six of the tallest, smoothest-dressed men I'd ever seen. They didn't come out of any Kent hopfield. You know, there is something about the rich being bigger than the rest of us; maybe their mothers' milk comes pasteurised.

I caught David's eye as he passed and got a quick, nervous smile. I tried to get a proper look at the tall woman – who must be Mrs Lois Fenwick – but she was wearing a proper veil, and all I did was confirm that tallness and slimness. And she moved well. A black, prim-looking governess dress that fitted the occasion nicely.

I hung back again, and was just about last out. We didn't have far to go: they'd found a plot in the churchyard itself. And, if you care, there're worse places than an old Kentish churchyard to go down for the last time.

'Can't stand this sort of thing. Harping on death and all that. Turns me over, rather. Sorry, old boy.'

He was standing deliberately well back, just as I was, and stirring a little heap of damp confetti with an elegant black shoe. The rest of him was tall, thin – and also mostly black, of course. Except the tangled fair hair, the blue eyes, the face with its mid-thirties boyish good looks.

'Three quick volleys, shoulder arms, right turn, and run for the canteen?' I suggested. It was a guess, but he was old enough to have done National Service.

'That's more like it,' he admitted, then grinned suddenly. 'What were you in?'

'I Corps.'

'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…'