John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“Offering no explanation?” asked Rollison.

“Not to my knowledge,” said the Vicar. “But there is a man who might be able to give you more information. I’m really telling you what he has told me.”

Rollison left, very thoughtful indeed, to visit a Mr Arthur Straker, a wealthy member of Kemp’s Mayfair church. The name seemed familiar but Rollison did not place it at once.

The man was an urbane, pleasant individual who received Rollison at breakfast in a luxury flat near Hyde Park. Rollison accepted a cup of coffee and explained why he had called. Straker looked intrigued.

“Is that young rebel making trouble again?”

“Rebel?” echoed Rollison.

“There’s no other word for Kemp! Had he found his right medium first, instead of coming to a wealthy parish, he might not have been one—perhaps one should have called him a misfit. It was obvious to me from the start that he would have little patience with orthodoxy. He is not yet old enough to realise that riches and sincerity can go together. Shall I say that he takes many of the passages in the scriptures too literally. ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle—’ ” he paused.

“Yes, I’ve heard the quotation,” said Rollison, drily.

“Kemp read this as meaning that it was impossible for a rich man to behave as a Christian!” went on Straker. “He’s told me so to my face!” He chuckled. “I liked the young scamp, especially for that. Instead of resigning immediately, as I advised him to do, he decided to crusade amongst the vice dens of Mayfair!”

“Oh,” said Rollison, heavily.

“In fact, he got himself into disrepute by visiting unsavoury places and mixing with some of the more hectic young people,” said Straker. “I don’t know that he did himself any harm. Unfortunately, I think he was reproached rather too abruptly about it and refused to try to explain his point of view to the vicar. His point of view was simply that only by knowing what was happening could a bad thing be fought. I’m afraid he left the parish in a very tense atmosphere and took up the curacy of St Guy’s on the rebound. He went from one extreme to the other, genuinely sincere in wanting to find out how the rest of the world lived. I hope he hasn’t got into serious trouble?”

“He’s giving plenty of people plenty of headaches,” said Rollison, and rose to go. “Do you think there is any likelihood of your being deceived about his good intentions?”

“D’you mean, was he really sowing wild oats and using high-sounding motives to explain himself?” Straker asked.

“Yes.”

“It shouldn’t be ruled out as a possibility,” admitted Straker, “but had that been the case, he would have defended himself more—gone to a great deal of trouble to explain himself because his conscience would have been uneasy. As it was he felt quite clear in his conscience. Since others preferred to impute the worst of motives, he allowed them to imagine what they liked. I like to think that he was more frank with me than anyone else,” added Straker. “I often wondered if I could have been more tactful in my handling of him but I was convinced almost from the start that he was a misfit here. He has a better chance of finding his level and crusading where he is now.”

Rollison put his head on one side.

“Do you really think so?”

Straker chuckled, urbanely.

They parted on good terms and Rollison went to Mount Street where Isobel Crayne lived. She had not yet returned but he waited for less than ten minutes when she came in tempestuously, flinging her hat down as she entered the hall, calling ‘good morning’ to the maid who opened the door and then stopping, astonished, at the sight of Rollison in the drawing-room.

“Why, Rolly—what a surprise!”

“You’re very gay for so early in the morning,” Rollison said. “Have you been places?”

“I’ve had a busman’s holiday!”

“I knew you hadn’t been to Caterham,” said Rollison.

Her smile disappeared and she looked at him in sudden alarm.

“You haven’t told—”

“I haven’t told a soul,” said Rollison. The door of the drawing-room was closed and she was looking at him with an intensity which made him begin to worry. But he went on lightly: i got the Caterham “phone number from your mother but was told that you hadn’t been to Caterham. It was not curiosity,” he added, quickly, “I wanted to talk to you—in fact, I want your help.”

“About what?”

“Ronald Kemp.”

“Then you don’t know—” she began and broke off.

Rollison watched her frown as she looked out of the window, obviously collecting her thoughts. The sun was striking through the glass and caught one side of her dark hair, filling it with lights. But for her snub nose she would have been really beautiful; and there was the freshness of youth about her which gave her so much vitality.

“You’re uncanny, sometimes,” she said abruptly. “I suppose I’d better tell you. I went to St Guy’s last evening. It was my night off and Ronald had asked me to spend an evening with him. Rolly, don’t get ideas! I wasn’t sure what time I would get home, so I arranged to stay at a hostel in Mile End Road. We just talked. There’s something—magnificent!— about him, isn’t there?”

“I once thought so,” agreed Rollison.

“Once?” Her forehead wrinkled and she looked as if she could easily take offence, i don’t like the way you said that.”

“I’m not going to make myself popular, I can see,” said Rollison, “Isobel, when you first came to see me about Kemp, did you know him at all?”

She stared at him in astonishment.

“Of course not! Rolly, what are you getting at?”

“I knew this was going to be delicate,” said Rollison. “But I can’t believe you would try to put anything across me.”

Isobel said quietly:

“I don’t know what curious idea you have in your head, Richard, but I don’t like the insinuation. I don’t know why you should worry about it but the truth is that I had heard Ronald Kemp preach in Mayfair once or twice. Later, I heard a rumour that he had left the district in a huff and I had no idea where he was going. I certainly wouldn’t have come to you had I not thought that you might be able to help him. I had never met him personally.”

Rollison’s eyes twinkled.

“ ‘Richard’ being reproving! Isobel, dear, Ronald Kemp is in a bad spot. The police will probably suspect him of knowing more about the goings-on than he professes.”

“Do you mean you suspect him?” Isobel demanded.

“All I know is that there’s some circumstantial evidence against him,” Rollison assured her. “I want to try to make sure of his real motives before going any further. That’s where I want your help.”

“I’ll have nothing to do with any trickery where he is concerned!” Isobel declared, hotly.

“Not trickery,” protested Rollison. “A necessary stage in seeing that he doesn’t get clobbered for something he didn’t do.” He took her hand, “I’ve grown fond of Ronald Kemp and really want to help.”

“What do you want me to do?” Isobel asked, reluctantly.

“When will you be seeing him again?”

“This evening.”

“Tell him that at ten o’clock, in my flat, there is to be a meeting which will solve the whole mystery,” said Rollison. “But don’t let him know a minute before nine fifteen.”

“I don’t think I like it,” said Isobel. “I think you ought to tell me more about what you’re planning.”

He told her just what he planned, what Kemp’s West End reputation had been and just why he wanted to make sure that there was no justification for the canard. Isobel heard him out without an interruption and surprised him by speaking with a wealth of contempt.