Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Kelby Affair

Paul agreed. ‘True-life mysteries sell very well. Did the diary give any answers?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know what credence we could give them. I was hoping that Kelby would tell me how true the allegations might be.’

‘Kelby? You mean he saw this diary?’

‘I took it down to him, the day he disappeared.’

‘Oh my God!’

Scott Reed had sprung from the womb-like chair and was flapping about the room like a moth. ‘I had to get him to sign an indemnity, because he was a guest at the shooting lodge when Delamore was killed, and he is mentioned in the diary. But I wanted his opinion about the facts.’ He shrugged abjectly and looked across the Thames. ‘I was worried about publishing it, Paul. The diary was sensational, but it was also vicious. They were a fast-living set, I know, but I couldn’t believe they were quite so nasty. In the end I decided to ask Alfred Kelby whether the diary was accurate. On Monday morning I drove out to Melford Cross and gave him the diary to read.’

Paul Temple waited for a moment, but nothing more was said.

‘Well?’ asked Paul. ‘What else?’

‘Nothing. Kelby is missing, and so is the diary.’

THE town hall in Melford Cross had been built in 1909, to celebrate the sudden promotion of its occupants from parish vestrymen to borough councillors. It was absurdly grand for the cluster of villages it served. As he went up the twenty-four steps to its entrance Paul Temple half expected the doors to open and two town criers to eject Larry the Lamb. Instead a retired sergeant major in grey uniform saluted and asked if he could help, governor.

‘I’d like to see the town clerk. I’m Paul Temple.’

A painting of the first mayor in all his finery glared down the luxurious winding staircase. The cream and green colour scheme of the interior added a touch of Regency to the atmosphere. It seemed a shame that the building was so silent. The civic splendour of a bygone age. Paul followed the man down hushed corridors to an office looking on to the town square.

‘Mr Temple? I’m Ballard, town clerk. How can I help you?’

They shook hands and Paul sat in a winged leather armchair. The town clerk looked genuinely pleased to see him, which increased Paul’s suspicion that all the other rooms in the building were empty. Ballard was old, absent minded and extremely thin. Perhaps when the place had been evacuated they had forgotten to advise him, they may have even thought he had retired.

‘Things seem very quiet,’ said Paul.

‘It’s all this local government reorganisation. Most of our work has been taken over, and the staff have gone with the work. That’s centralisation, Mr Temple.’

‘But you still administer education from here—’

‘No,’ Ballard interrupted. ‘I suppose you’ve come about Mr Kelby. He’s a co-opted member of the subcommittee for this region. A very good man, very entertaining.’

‘Could you tell me what was on the agenda for Monday’s meeting?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You don’t think he would have been kidnapped to prevent him from attending the meeting? Or to put pressure on him to support some local issue?’

The town clerk was amused by the suggestion. ‘Certainly not. At all our meetings Mr Kelby is in a minority of one.’ His face was creased with happy appreciation. ‘I don’t think Mr Kelby is really in favour of education. He thinks it corrupts young minds, prevents them from learning and exploring.’ He chuckled. ‘Nobody takes Mr Kelby seriously in Melford Cross.’

Paul wondered why he was on the subcommittee.

‘Prestige, I suppose, and the school children love him. He’s very good at speech days.’

Paul asked about the publicity attending their subcommittee meetings.

‘You mean, would anybody know that he had a meeting that morning? Yes, anybody could have known. The meetings of each council cycle are published in the local press. If anybody wanted to know we would tell them and keep no record of the fact. They aren’t secret.’

‘Thanks,’ said Paul. He rose to leave. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

‘I realised what you wanted to know.’ He showed Paul to the door and shook hands. ‘The police inspector asked the very same questions. He even asked why the building was so quiet. But he was rude, he cracked a joke about Larry the Lamb.’

Charlie Vosper was in charge of the case. He was at Melford House interviewing his suspects when Paul called on him fifteen minutes later. Charlie was a copper of the old school, not a bureaucrat. He was a good copper because he knew crooks, he respected them – the ones who were good at their job, and he even liked a lot of them. If Charlie hadn’t joined Scotland Yard and become an inspector he could have been a successful underworld boss. Paul Temple knew him of old. They even liked each other.

‘What do you want, Temple?’ Vosper asked rudely.

‘Just thought you might need some help.’

Charlie Vosper nodded. ‘Like I need a week in hospital. Do you know this chap Kelby?’

‘Slightly.’

‘Come into the library and tell me about him.’

Paul approved of the carved oak and the obvious solidity of the place. It indicated an old-fashioned taste for the good things of life. ‘Kelby seems quite a wealthy man,’ he said as he sat in the chair by the window. He could see the chauffeur–handyman on the lawn: a thickset fellow who was obviously a hard worker.

‘Did you think he was poor?’

‘No. But I thought he might be more superficial than these surroundings suggest.’ When Scott Reed had gone Paul had spent the evening reading history. It was one way of getting to grips with the missing man. And he had found that Kelby’s books were like his television appearances, so brilliant that you suspected him of showing off. He was provocative and witty. Not quite the academic historian.

‘He’s a shabby-looking bloke, I gather,’ said the inspector. ‘Lives a pretty dull life here in Melford.’

‘Yes. I was referring to his mind.’

‘Oh.’

Paul Temple talked for several minutes about the Kelby he had met and how their lives had occasionally intersected. But it didn’t add up to much. On the occasions when Kelby had been accompanied by a woman she had been thirty years younger than himself, which had also seemed ostentatious.

‘Young people have livelier minds,’ said Charlie Vosper. ‘Why should he be compelled to go about with women of his own age? He’s a widower.’

‘Really? I didn’t know he had been married.’

‘His wife died ten years ago. He has a son, Ronnie, who is staying here at the moment. He’s on holiday from America.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Scott Reed said something about avoiding the son; Kelby was fishing after a job for him.’

‘Mr Kelby and his son didn’t like each other,’ Vosper said grimly.

When Paul Temple saw the young man he could understand why. Ronnie was fair haired and charming in an obvious, straightforward way, and his mind was totally conventional. He must have been a grave disappointment to Kelby.

‘Do you think my father has been murdered?’ Ronnie asked.

Inspector Vosper was at his most intimidating. ‘Why, do you think he might have been?’

‘I don’t know. If he’d just been kidnapped we should have heard now, shouldn’t we? It’s five days since he left to attend that council meeting.’ He lit a cigarette and glanced nervously at the constable who was writing everything down. ‘The kidnappers would have asked us for the ransom, or something.’

‘The other alternative is that he simply cleared off. People are doing that all the time, they simply leave home. It isn’t against the law.’