country. Just when you thought you'd got it sussed out, you found yourself eating cake for breakfast. He wasn't going to let himself be surprised again. He said, 'So what precisely is it that you reckon our Mr Pimpernel, and I reckon your Mr Rampling, are trying to hush up?' Waggs laughed almost triumphantly.
'You don't give much away, do you? You want to be absolutely sure that I'm sure what it is we're talking about here. I'll be explicit. I'm a media man, Mr Dalziel, and I know there's nothing more calculated to bring everyone from the Press running to Hollywood with their tongues and their cheque-books hanging out than a story which involves a high-class sex murder, or the British Royal Family. So how could even a computer come up with anything better than the tale of a Royal who does the business on his lovely American wife, then fixes things so that his best friend who's been screwing her hangs for it.' He finished and watched Dalziel's reaction closely. The Fat Man drank some more coffee. There, it hadn't been so bad. Some time, somewhere, someone had been bound to say it, and now it had been said, he could start dealing with it. 'So that's the gospel according to Kohler, is it?' he said. 'That's what Cissy tells me,' said Waggs. 'I'd best talk to her, then. Where's she at?' 'Upstairs in her room waiting for me.'
'You're staying here? Wish I'd known last night, we could have got things straightened out then.' 'Mr Dalziel, I don't know there's much to straighten out…' 'You'd be surprised. Come on.' He rose with a suddenness that sent the table rocking towards Jay Waggs. The American shrugged resignedly and followed him into the elevator. They didn't speak till they came to a halt before Kohler's door. Waggs tapped and said, ‘It's me, Ciss. Open up.' There was no reply. Waggs frowned, took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. The room was empty. 'So where's she gone?' asked Dalziel. 'I don't know.' 'But you can guess? She's gone to see Westropp, hasn't she?' 'Probably. Shit. I told her to wait. I wanted to be there.' 'Why? What's she going to do?
Christ, you're not hoping there's going to be a big climax for your story with Kohler pulling a gun out and blowing Westropp away?' Waggs said, 'I doubt it'll come to that. She's got very mixed-up feelings about this guy.' 'Mixed feelings? About a man who set her lover up for the big drop? And kept her in jail for half a lifetime.' For a moment Waggs looked puzzled, then he began to laugh. 'This really isn't a test, is it, Dalziel? You still haven't got it! I'm wasting time asking you questions. You don't know a thing! It was Jamie Westropp she was crazy about, Jamie Westropp she was screwing. Mickledore and her were never lovers. That was a story you Brits invented because it suited you, and Cissy went along with it because it suited her.''
And now there was no way of not being surprised. It was always the obvious that hit you hardest. But being obvious didn't make it true.
He said, 'I shouldn't be too quick to believe a crazy woman, Mr Waggs.'
'Crazy? Yeah, maybe she was for a while after the little girl drowned. That's what made it all possible, Mr Dalziel. But what really made it work wasn't Cissy's craziness, it was your Mr Tallantire being so hell bent on pinning it on Mickledore, and your Mr Sempernel not giving a fuck who got the blame so long as it wasn't your Right Royal James Westropp!'
He spoke with a passion and force which came of conviction. Or could it be of the desire to be convinced? Perhaps, thought Dalziel, he needs it carved on tablets of stone, which is the way I'll need it too before I accept that Wally was anyone's stooge.
He said, 'So you reckon what got her out of jail was the news that Westropp was dying? Well, this is one reunion I don't want to miss.'
'But you're going to,' said Waggs. 'This is family only, Mr Dalziel. I reckon you'd just complicate matters. So why don't you hang on here?'
He had a gun in his hand. Dalziel looked at it in disbelief.
'You silly bugger,' he said. 'Here's me feeling all virtuous 'cos I'd not thumped you for thumping me, and now you've gone and made me have to thump you anyway.'
Waggs had the puzzled look of one who knows from the movies that it's the guy with the gun who gets to do the threatening.
'Into the bathroom,' he said.
'Nay, lad,' said Dalziel kindly. 'Gun's no use unless you're willing to use it. I reckon you used up your share of GBH when you biffed me yesterday morning. Not your style. Words is what a clever sod like you uses to get out of trouble. Stick to what you do best.'
He moved gently towards Waggs who let the gun dangle limply as he said, 'OK, Dalziel, so you're right, words it is. All I'm asking – '
Dalziel hit him in the stomach, catching the gun as it fell towards the floor and stepping out of the way as Waggs followed it. 'Thing about me is I'm a naturally violent fellow,' said Dalziel. 'I can go on thumping all day.' He dragged the retching man into the bathroom, took the doorknob in both hands, braced his left foot against the door, and pulled. There was some slight resistance before the screw gave way. He then pushed the spindle out on to the bedroom floor, went out and slammed the door shut behind him. He switched on the television. It was tuned locally and there was an item about some visiting Asian politician who was being put up at the Williamsburg Inn for a spot of r-and-r from his official schedule. The camera showed the streets of the historic area and they looked very different from Dalziel's first impression; broad and airy, lined with elegantly proportioned buildings and filled with a golden sunlight which seemed to flow from an older, less hectic age. Even the slow-drifting tourists had the look of genuine time-travellers come in search of the history which their cities had concreted over. It was his history too, he acknowledged with a slight shock of recognition. He went out to see what he could add to it.
THREE
'I am going to see his ghost. It will be his ghost – not him!' The doorbell rang. It was the same bell that had rung ever since the first house had been built on this site in 1741. Its tinny note was imprinted so deep in Marilou Bellmain's consciousness, it came close to being a genetic memory. Once during her marriage to Arthur Stamper she had caught an echo of that sound in the windblown decorations on Sheffield's civic Christmas tree, and that had been the moment when she knew she would leave him. Through the porch outer door she saw a young black woman in shorts and a T-shirt, and she was ready with her little speech pointing out politely but firmly that this was not part of the Colonial Williamsburg public area when the woman said, 'Mrs Bellmain? Hi! My name's Linda Steele. I wonder could I have a word with your husband?' She would have said no if James hadn't been so positive about admitting visitors today. But that was no reason to let insurance salesmen or religious freaks across her doorstep. She said, 'What's your business, Miss Steele?' 'Just a social call. We've got some mutual friends in Washington and they said to be sure to look James up.' 'Who's there, dear?' called Westropp from the sitting- room. He didn't trust her. She didn't resent the thought. He was quite right. She'd have put up a 'Gone Fishing' sign if she thought she could have got away with it. 'Come on in,' she said. Westropp regarded the smiling young woman with interest. 'Forgive me if I don't get up,' he said from the old hickory rocker which gave him the pleasure of movement without the effort. 'But I need to conserve my resources.'
'Hi,' said the woman. 'I'm Linda Steele. Scott Rampling said I should call.' 'I see. Marilou, I wonder if we could have some coffee?'
Reluctantly his wife left. 'I saw Scott only the day before yesterday.
He didn't mention you, Miss Steele.' She looked at him curiously. What all the fuss was about she did not know, but at last she was seeing who it was about. This man with his clear English voice whose tone, at once courteous and amused, still contained charm enough for vivid imagination to flesh him out into the sexy number he must once have been. Silent, he was simply a wreck. A wreck of a wreck. A refugee from a concentration camp with wrists so thin, you'd need a glass to read his number. She was here to save him hassle, was all she knew.
Well, it shouldn't be a long job. She said, 'I guess I'm not important enough for Mr Rampling to mention, sir. I gather things have developed since you and he last talked, and he got kind of anxious in case you might be bothered by anything.' He considered, then said, 'No. No. I don't think anything's bothering me. You can go back and tell him you found me happy as a sandboy.' He was definitely laughing at her but not maliciously. Rather he was inviting her to share the joke. 'I think Mr Rampling's hoping to get to visit you himself,' she said.
'He's coming to Williamsburg in connection with Premier Ho's visit, you've probably read about it, and if he can make time, he says he'll call.' ‘If anyone can make time, it's Scott,' Westropp said, smiling.
'I wish he'd make some for me. Aren't you staying for coffee, my dear?' She'd risen. This guy was at death's
