Литагент HarperCollins - Postscript to Murder

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Sally Stacey, ‘I don’t get the tax figures from Mr Kemp as quickly as I used to. I think his mind’s on other things …’

‘And I had to remind him about a maintenance hearing last week which he forgot,’ said Perry Belchamber. ‘Time was when it was him did all the reminding round here.’

‘You have been distrait …’ Michael Cantley had been happily married for years, and was prepared to make allowances. ‘You did rather take the whole place on your shoulders before this, and now you have your own worries setting up home and all that …’

This was surely the time to tell them … Explain that the reason his mind had not been entirely on business lately had nothing to do with Mary or his marriage. They had the right to know about the letters, these colleagues and friends of his … They would exhibit astonishment, outrage, but he would have their sympathy.

But Franklyn Davey, their young articled clerk, was rather nervously putting a question about a recent case in the Court of Appeal, and as everyone clamoured to give their point of view, the moment passed.

Kemp was to regret its passing …

‘You’ll be sure to bring Mary to Anita’s party next week,’ Tony said to him as the meeting was breaking up. ‘We’ve seen so little of her, and I always liked her when she worked in the office. She might find it a little awkward, of course, seeing us all again in such different circumstances …’

Kemp laughed.

‘I’ve come to the conclusion that my wife can handle any situation, but thanks for the thought. We’ll both be delighted to come …’

Once again he would like to have drawn Tony aside and told him about the threats and the break-in, if it was only to share the burden with someone … Yet he hesitated, unwilling to strike a sour note on the evening of the younger man’s celebration. In the past it had been Tony Lambert who had shared his confidences when Kemp felt it necessary, now the timing for such things was all wrong …

Yet as he walked home through the darkening streets he had a premonition that somehow he had missed a chance which would not be given again. He should have grasped it firmly when it was to his hand, not let it be whisked away in a moment of indecision.

One of the maxims by which he lived was never to lose control of events; he had the uneasy feeling that that was exactly what he had done.

CHAPTER 4

No day in the week separated the married from the single as much as Saturday. Hitherto, Kemp had taken the cessation of work lightly but by Sunday evenings, he had tended to return to the office, if only in spirit, out of a certain deprivation, though he would not have called it boredom. He was not a man of hobbies; what went on under the bonnet of his car was a mystery to him and he had never owned a garden until now.

Since his marriage, however, he looked forward to the weekends, and the time they allowed for him and Mary to be by themselves, enjoying each other’s company and planning expeditions into the country. It was a felicity he had long forgotten.

This particular Saturday started off as no exception. Rising late, they were lounging about in their vast sunny kitchen, he drinking coffee at the table, she idly questioning whether soup or smoked salmon should begin their evening meal – idly, because she had already decided.

Newtown’s local paper plopped on the new doormat, through the new letterbox in the new door – one hastily put in place the previous afternoon by a carpenter who said the old one was a fine bit of oak he could use on his garden shed.

‘I like your Newtown Gazette,’ said Mary, bringing it in. ‘It’s all so nicely irrelevant to the national news. All these pictures of happy brides with flowers in their hair beside bright-eyed boys, bashful in their collars and ties. And right next to them there’s more bashful boys up in court for brawling in the pub. Sometimes the names are even the same …’

‘That’s Newtown for you. All human nature in a nutshell of newsprint. I have to read it to keep up with my clients, they only give me expurgated versions of themselves and I learn far more from the press …’

Mary was turning the pages. Suddenly, she stopped.

‘Lennox …’

‘What is it?’

She put down the paper on the table in front of him.

It was a headline, not on the front page, but a headline just the same.

Local Solicitor Threatened

It was divulged yesterday that Mr Lennox Kemp, of Gillorns, Solicitors, The Square, Newtown has been the recipient of ‘poison pen’ letters from an unknown sender. We understand that several of these have been received by Mr Kemp and that not only do they contain threats of personal injury but also imputations affecting Mr Kemp’s professional reputation. On contacting the police we were informed by Detective Inspector John Upshire that the matter was already under investigation.

Kemp was still staring at the item in disbelief when the telephone rang.

‘You can take it as fact it didn’t come from the station.’ Upshire was in a barking mood.

‘Well, it certainly didn’t come from me,’ said Kemp.

‘I couldn’t be sure of that … Thought maybe you’d jumped the gun. I had to think fast when the Gazette got on to me asking if it was true you’d had letters. All I said was that if you had then we’d investigate.’

Kemp took a deep breath.

‘It’s damnable,’ he said at last. ‘Whoever pinched that brief-case leaked those letters to the press … Might not even be the sender. The Gazette phoned you? Why the hell didn’t they get in touch with me first?’

‘Would you have denied it?’

‘I’d have said, no comment. That probably wouldn’t have stopped them. It’s damaging, though … That bit about reputation …’

‘Was there something like that in the letters?’

‘Enough.’ Kemp was terse. ‘Look, John, it’s urgent you get moving on that break-in. I’ll have a word with the editor. Alf Grimshaw’s always played fair with me in the past. I’ll see what I can get out of him as to source.’

‘A journalist’s source? No chance …’ Upshire didn’t sound hopeful as he rang off.

It was obvious at the Newtown Gazette that Alfred Grimshaw was expecting Kemp’s call.

‘Tried your office around five last evening but couldn’t get you. It was too good an item to miss and the paper was ready to roll. You know how it is, Mr Kemp.’

‘All I want from you is where the hell you got your information?’

‘OK. OK. Keep your hair on. There was a phone call earlier. First thing Friday morning. Came in to the desk. The reporter who took it thought I’d better see it … Half a mo … I’ve got the note here. It was a man’s voice, no name, of course. Said Mr Kemp was getting threatening letters, that it was in the local public interest for people to know, etc., etc. Well, I wouldn’t have touched it with a bargepole, you know that, Mr Kemp. A delicate matter, and from an anonymous tip-off …’

‘Then why the hell did you print it?’

‘Because we got proof it was true. Came in later … A packet of letters in their envelopes, postmarked and addressed to you – and opened.’

‘How many?’

‘Three … That’s why I tried to phone you … But the story couldn’t wait. My reporter called Upshire. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? We reckoned if there was anything in it he’d be the one to know. My man was sure he did.’

‘I suppose that packet came by hand and nobody saw who brought it?’

‘Right. Dropped in the outside box Friday lunchtime. Look, Mr Kemp, it was an item of local interest, besides having the makings of a good story. We might even be able to help in following it up … And we certainly wouldn’t print what’s in those letters. It’s vicious stuff. I think perhaps you ought to have them back.’