Edmund Crispin: Swan Song

There seemed, in fact, to be no wholly satisfactory solution, and for a time they contemplated the phenomenon with no stronger emotion than a mild interest. Eventually, however, it became tedious, and at last irritating. Adam was obliged to be fairly often in Shorthouse’s company, and there are few things more exacerbating than an attitude compounded of sneers and snubs – and an attitude the more disconcerting, in this case, because of the real hatred which lurked behind it. In the early days of the engagement, moreover, Adam became aware that sundry vague and discreditable rumours concerning him were going the rounds of his acquaintance, and in one case they found such ready acceptance that he was estranged without explanation from a family with whom he had been for years on the friendliest possible terms. In his innocence Adam did not at first connect Shorthouse with this new affliction, and it needed a chance remark to enlighten him. Even so he controlled himself and carried on as if nothing had happened. Adam had some respect for his work and was determined if possible, to avoid complicating it by an open rift with Shorthouse.

The honeymoon, which followed the Rosenkavalier production, gave him a respite, and when he and Elizabeth returned from Switzerland to set up house in Tunbridge Wells they were too much occupied with organizing their joint ménage to worry about anything else. Shorthouse, presumably, would be simmering down by now; and luckily, their engagements kept the two men apart until November, when both of them were signed up for Don Pasquale . Adam went to the first rehearsal with mild apprehension, and returned perplexed.

‘Well?’ Elizabeth demanded as she helped him off with his coat.

‘The answer is in the affirmative. Edwin would seem to be cured. All the same …’ Adam, who had just removed his hat, absent-mindedly put it on again. ‘All the same …’

‘Darling, what are you doing? Was he friendly? You don’t sound at all sure about it.’ They went into the drawing-room, where a huge fire was burning, and Elizabeth poured sherry.

‘He was friendly,’ Adam explained, ‘in the most overpowering fashion. I don’t like it. In the old days Edwin’s notion of friendship was to bore one perennially with rambling, pointless anecdotes about his professional experiences. He no longer does that – with me, anyway.’

‘Perhaps he’s ashamed of himself.’

‘It’s scarcely likely.’

‘I don’t see why not. He can’t be quite devoid of humanity. Presumably he had a mother.’

‘Heliogabalus had a mother. We all had mothers … What I mean to say is that there’s something artificial about this change in Edwin, it’s decidedly insincere.’

‘But better, one supposes, than open warfare.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Adam dolefully. ‘I’m not at all sure about that. It’s the kiss of Judas, if you ask me.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic, darling, and above all, don’t slop your sherry on to the carpet.’

‘I never noticed I was doing that,’ said Adam.

‘In any case,’ Elizabeth went on, ‘I don’t see what High priest Edwin can have betrayed you to.’

‘Levi, perhaps.’

‘The only qualification Levi has for the part is his race. And anyway, he’d as soon get rid of Edwin as you.’

‘You’re perfectly right, of course.’ Adam frowned. ‘Well, I’ll see how things turn out. Have you got any news?’

‘A commission, darling, and a very profitable one. By the afternoon post.’

‘Oh? Congratulations. A new novel?’

‘No, a series of interviews for a Sunday paper.’

‘Interviews with whom?’

‘Private detectives.’

‘ Detectives? ’ Adam was startled.

Elizabeth kissed him, a little absently, on the tip of the nose. ‘You’ve still got a lot to learn about me, my precious. Didn’t you know that my first books were works of popular criminology? I’m generally supposed to understand something about the subject.’

‘And do you?’

‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I do … Unfortunately it’ll involve a certain amount of gadding about, and I shall have to settle down with Who’s Who and write a lot of tiresome letters tomorrow morning. Do you know any private detectives?’

‘There’s one.’ Adam spoke rather dubiously. ‘A man called Fen.’

‘I remember. There was some business about a toyshop, before the war. Where does he live?’

‘In Oxford. He’s Professor of English there.’

‘You must give me an introduction.’

‘He’s very unpredictable,’ said Adam, ‘in some ways. Are you in a hurry with these articles?’

‘Not specially.’

‘Well,’ said Adam, ‘there’s this Oxford production of Meistersinger in the new year. If it suits you, we’ll get hold of him then.’

The rehearsals of Don Pasquale passed off without incident. Shorthouse, without actually seeking Adam’s company, maintained his curious affability whenever circumstances made a meeting inevitable. And there came a time when he even went so far as to apologize for his earlier behaviour.

It was immediately after the second performance. Adam had lingered for a few minutes in the wings arguing with the producer about some minor awkwardness which had arisen during the evening, and on entering his dressing-room he was surprised to find Shorthouse there, inspecting, or possibly on the point of purloining, a half-empty jar of removing-cream. This, however, he returned hastily to its place when Adam appeared. He was wearing a voluminous dressing-gown and was still powdered, painted, and be-wigged for the name part of the opera, and Adam supposed that he had run short of removing cream and, their dressing-rooms being adjacent, had decided that this was the simplest way of replenishing his supply. It soon appeared, however, that removing-cream must be, at the most, only a subsidiary reason for his visit.

‘Langley,’ he said (and the air at once became aromatic with gin), ‘I’m afraid you’ve no reason to be fond of me. The fact is, I didn’t behave very well over your marriage.’

Adam, embarrassed, made a dull grunting sound. Shorthouse seemed to find this inspiriting, for he went on, with rather more confidence:

‘I came here tonight to apologize. To apologize,’ he repeated, sensing perhaps a certain bareness in his original statement. ‘For my ill-mannered behaviour,’ he added explanatorily after some thought.

‘Don’t think about it,’ Adam mumbled. ‘Please don’t think about it. I’m only too glad—’

‘We can be friends, I hope?’

‘Friends?’ Adam spoke without enthusiasm. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘It’s very generous of you to take it so well.’

‘Don’t think about it,’ said Adam again.

A silence fell. Shorthouse shifted from one foot to the other. Adam removed his wig and hung it with unnecessary deliberation on the back of a chair.

‘Good house tonight,’ said Shorthouse.