considering how you used to be with each otherand I blame that money-grubbing Moira, I really do, though Berenice used to think that anything or anyone who came between you and Malcolm could only be to my benefit, because Malcolm might with luck cut you out of his will. Well, I didn't mean to say that, old chap, but it's what Berenice thought, to be honest, until Moira was going to take half of everything in the divorce settlement, and I really thought Berenice would have a seizure when she heard that, she was so furious. It really would save my sanity, Ian, if you could make Malcolm see that we all NEED that money. I don't know what will happen if he goes on spending it at this rate. I do BEG you, old chap, to stop him. Your brother Thomas.
I looked at the letter's general incoherence and at the depth of the plea in the last few sentences with their heavily underlined words and thought of the non-stop barrage of Berenice's disgruntlement, and felt more brotherly towards Thomas than ever before. True, I still thought he should tell his wife to swallow her bile, not spill it all out on him, corroding his self- confidence and undermining his prestige with everyone within earshot; but I did at least and perhaps at last see how he could put up with it, by soothing her with the syrup of prosperity ahead.
I understood vaguely why he didn't simply ditch her and decamp: he couldn't face doing what Malcolm had done, forsaking wife and children when the going got rough. He had been taught from a very young age to despise Malcolm's inconstancy. He stayed grimly glued to Berenice and their two cheeky offspring and suffered for his virtue; and it was from fear of making the same calamitous mistake, I acknowledged, that I had married no one at all.
Thomas's was the last message on the tape. I took it out of the machine and put it in my pocket, inserting a fresh tape for future messages. I also, after a bit of thought, sorted through a boxful of family photographs, picking out groups and single pictures until I had a pretty comprehensive gallery of Pembrokes. These went into my suitcase along with a small cassette player and my best camera.
I did think of answering some of the messages, but decided against it. The arguments would all have been futile. I did truly believe in Malcolm's absolute right to do what he liked with the money he had made by his own skill and diligence. If he chose to give it in the end to his children, that was our good luck. We had no rights to it; none at all. I would have had difficulty in explaining that concept to Thomas or Joyce or Gervase or Serena, and apart from not wanting to, I hadn't the time.
I put my suitcase in the car, along with my racing saddle, helmet, whip and boots and drove back to the Savoy, being relieved to find Malcolm still there, unattacked and unharmed.
He was sitting deep in an armchair, dressed again as for the City, drinking champagne and smoking an oversize cigar. Opposite him, perched on the front edge of an identical armchair, sat a thin man of much Malcolm's age but with none of his presence.
'Norman West,' Malcolm said to me, waving the cigar vaguely at his visitor; and to the visitor he said, 'My son, Ian.'
Norman West rose to his feet and shook my hand briefly. I had never so far as I knew met a private detective before, and it wouldn't have been the occupation I would have fitted to this damp-handed, nervous, threadbare individual. Of medium height, he had streaky grey hair overdue for a wash, dark-circled brown eyes, greyish unhealthy skin and a day's growth of greying beard. His grey suit looked old and un cared for and his shoes had forgotten about polish. He looked as much at home in a suite in the Savoy as a punk rocker in the Vatican.
As if unerringly reading my mind he said, 'As I was just explaining to Mr Pembroke, I came straight here from an all-night observation job, as he was most insistent that it was urgent. This rig fitted my observation point. It isn't my normal gear.'
'Clothes for all seasons?' I suggested.
'Yes, that's right.'
His accent was the standard English of bygone radio announcers, slightly plummy and too good to be true. I gestured to him to sit down again, which he did as before, leaning forward from the front edge of the seat cushion and looking enquiringly at Malcolm.
'Mr West had just arrived when you came,' Malcolm said. 'Perhaps you'd better explain to him what we want.'
I sat on the spindly little sofa and said to Norman West that we wanted him to find out where every single member of our extended family had been on the previous Friday from, say, four o'clock in the afternoon onwards, and also on Tuesday, yesterday, all day. Norman West looked from one to the other of us in obvious dismay.
'if it's too big a job,' Malcolm said, 'bring in some help.'
'It's not really that,' Norman West said unhappily. 'But I'm afraid there may be a conflict of interest.'
'What conflict of interest?' Malcolm demanded.
Norman West hesitated, cleared his throat and hummed a little. Then he said, 'Last Saturday morning I was hired by one of your family to find you, Mr Pembroke. I've already been working, you see, for one of your family. Now you want me to check up on them. I don't think I should, in all conscience, accept your proposition.'
'Which member of my family?' Malcolm demanded.
Norman West drummed his fingers on his knee, but decided after inner debate to answer. 'Mrs Pembroke,' he said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Malcolm blinked. 'Which one?' he asked. 'Mrs Pembroke,' Norman West repeated, puzzled.
'There are nine of them,' I said. 'So which one?'
The detective looked uncomfortable. 'I spoke to her only on the telephone. I thought… I assumed… it was the Mrs Malcolm Pembroke for whom I worked once before, long ago. She referred me to that case, and asked for present help. I looked up my records.' He shrugged helplessly. 'I imagined it was the same lady.'
'Did you find Mr Pembroke,' I asked, 'when you were looking for him?'
Almost unwillingly, West nodded. 'In Cambridge. Not too difficult.'
'And you reported back to Mrs Pembroke?'
'I really don't think I should be discussing this any further.'
'At least, tell us how you got back in touch with Mrs Pembroke to tell her of your success.'
'I didn't,' he said. 'She rang me two or three times a day, asking for progress reports. Finally on Monday evening, I had news for her. After that, I proceeded with my next investigation, which I have now concluded. This left me free for anything Mr Pembroke might want.'
'I want you to find out which Mrs Pembroke wanted to know where I was.'
Norman West regretfully shook his unkempt head. 'A client's trust…' he murmured.
'A client's trust, poppycock!' Malcolm exploded. 'Someone who knew where to find me damn near killed me.'
Our detective looked shocked but rallied quickly. 'I found you, sir, by asking Mrs Pembroke for a list of places you felt at home in, as in my experience missing people often go to those places, and she gave me a list of five such possibilities, of which Cambridge was number three. I didn't even go to that city looking for you. As a preliminary, I was prepared to telephone to all the hotels in Cambridge asking for you, but I tried the larger hotels first, as being more likely to appeal to you, sir, and from only the third I got a positive response. If it was as easy as that for me to find you, it was equally easy for anyone else. And, sir, if I may say so, you made things easy by registering under your own name. People who want to stay lost shouldn't do that.'
He spoke with a touching air of dignity ill-matched to his seedy appearance and for the first time I thought he might be better at his job than he looked. He must have been pretty efficient, I supposed, to have stayed in the business so long, even if catching Malcolm with his trousers off couldn't have taxed him sorely years ago.
He finished off the glass of champagne that Malcolm had given him before my arrival, and refused a refill.
'How is Mrs Pembroke paying you?' I asked.
'She said she would send a cheque.'
'When it comes,' I said, 'you'll know which Mrs Pembroke.'
'So I will.'
