Open Writing

As I dropped down the long drive towards Blackwell Hall, I could see Charles trying to fly one of those twenty pence gliders. Every time it nosed-dived into the ground. That didn't mean much: they always did for me, too.

When I got out of the car he came over and stood at a distance watching me. No recognition showed on his strong masculine features. If ever I'd registered with him, it had been wiped out now.

'Hullo there.''

Colonel Danby had been painting the bottom of a French window. He rose into view, brushing the gravel off his knees.

An hour later he was standing in the big window of the drawing room looking out over the land his ancestors had ridden all the way to Scotland, saying, 'I can't believe it.' Over and over again.

First I'd asked him if he'd heard the news item about Crocker. He had, which saved some time. He'd met Crocker once or twice and although Danby himself was one of the old-fashioned pre-war Liberals, he said he always thought he was a sound chap — 'unimaginative, but sound enough.'
Today's news story had incensed him. He said the man should be charged with treason. He was giving comfort to the enemies of the Queen and stabbing our chaps in the back. Deplorable, he said.

Then I gave him the Crocker file. The original letter, the second one, Tidy's notes on tracing him, and the record of payments.

Then I told him about Kentish. I left out his porn-publishing empire and the Hamburg whore. There was a fair chance he thought I was nuts anyway.

'Why would the IRA want to pay £ 150,000 for this ... muck,' he asked, his wrinkled face creased even further in disgust.

'A tame Tory MP? One who'll dance when they pull the strings? Like the chap on the radio said, it makes the Troops Out movement credible.'

'I suppose so. But in that case, why haven't they got these documents?'

'I don't know for sure. My guess is that they haven't paid yet, not until they see how he runs. Once he's made his initial speech today, they hand over the money and Kentish hands over the letters.'

'But he hasn't got them? He must know you have them by now.'

'Yes, but Crocker doesn't know that. He'll do whatever Kentish tells him. And if he gives his speech this afternoon, of course, then he's completely burnt his boats. He'll have to stay with it then.'

'Good Lord,' he said, under his breath, and I knew he believed me.

He walked over to a shelf by the fireplace and took a pipe from a rack. He knocked it out in the empty grate. It made a hollow sound. Then he began to feed tobacco into it from a plastic pouch.

'I don't understand these chaps like Kentish. They always seem nice enough. But they're so ambitious. Always up to something. They make me feel a bit slow, to be honest.'

'Tell me something,' I said. 'Why did you censor the local paper?'

'Oh, it didn't start off like that at all. I've always had to keep an eye on it. We had some rum chaps editing it over the years, before we got Hands, that is. All that stuff about Nightingale, well that was mostly Walsh's idea. Kentish chipped in a bit too. Said we mustn't give people a platform to attack society. I suppose I must've thought there was something in what they said. Hands kicked up a terrible fuss about it. I was sorry about his death. Damned good chap, Hands. Bit too keen on the old bottle, but a first-rate man.'

That was a good time to tell him exactly how Hands died.

I think that shocked him more than the story of the Crocker blackmail. He kept on rubbing his jaw and shaking his head, and giving me an odd look that had a question in it.

'That only leaves one question, doesn't it?' I said.

He was back by the window, his eyes on distant horizons somewhere in the past. He didn't reply.

'Who killed Striker? That's all I need to know now.'

He didn't reply for a long time and when he did his voice was a scrap of sound on the air.

'You take him, Hussy. You'll be fair with him, I'm sure of that.'

'How did it happen? Can you tell me?'

Then he turned. His face was like a cracked glass. Lines ran everywhere. The flesh seemed to have turned to something like dried putty and his eyes were empty.

'He had a bit of a crush on young Fiona, you know. Nothing harmful you understand. He was affectionate, like a big puppy. No one round here really knew her. She'd always been away at school, and came back in the summer holidays. Anyway, Charles took a shine to her, and she was jolly decent with him. Apparently she'd been rather taken with young Nightingale. That was the year before. He used to do a sort of trick thing with his hammer at the annual fair — the gala they call it here. Never saw it myself, but I believe it was very clever. He left town after all that trouble, but apparently he came back this year. Young Charles was up at the Kentish house when Fiona brought him in.'

'What time?'

'Don't know exactly. It would be late, because the fair was over. It was the last night, I believe.'

He went over to the fireplace and stuck an unfolded paperclip into the bowl of his pipe. Then he put it in his mouth and made a squeaking sound through it. I didn't try to rush him. He was only getting control of himself.

'There was a bit of a row. Nightingale said he and Fiona were getting married, come what may. Kentish wouldn't hear of it, of course. From what I gather, there was a bit of a scene. I suppose Charles must have got over-excited. He does, you know - of course, you saw him with the car. This Nightingale chap had his hammer with him, and Charles ...'

He stopped. He jabbed the piece of wire deep into the bowl again.

Then, without looking up, he said, 'Charles gave him a bit of a biff with his hammer.'

I walked over to the window and inspected the faraway hills while he got over it. Still with my back to him, I summarised what happened after that. Tidy took the body up to the quarry, the bike boys helped fix the accident, and Walsh pushed the inquest through.

'I suppose so,' he said, miserably. 'I didn't want to know, to be honest.'

'And it was Fiona that Charles was going to marry?'

He nodded. 'Kentish wanted it. Said she'd agree in time. Blessed if I can see why he wanted that. Haven't got two pennies to rub together and this damned place falling down round my ears. Still, there's a bit of land left. And maybe the old name's worth something. I never know with these chaps like Kentish.'

'Did Charles tell you about hitting Striker?'

'Charles? Lord, no. He can't remember a thing about it. You've seen what he's like. No, it was Kentish who told me.'

'Not Fiona?'

'No. She took it very badly apparently. Had a bit of a breakdown and she's up in Massingham Hall.'

'Could you get me in to see her?'

'Why on earth ... I don't know really. I suppose so. I used to be on the management committee. Yes, look, I'll do you a bit of a note and if you give it to... let's see, who's fairly wide-awake up there ... I know, young Goff. Give it to young Goff.'

He sat at a cluttered bureau and wrote out the note. As he was handing it to me, a telephone rang distantly in the house.

'It's for you,' he said, a minute later. 'Crocker.'