'Anyone's,' she said darkly, and ran weightlessly down the stairs as if skimming were more normal than walking.
When I reached the entrance hall, she was vanishing through the white double doors. it was pointless to pursue her.
I left Deanna's studio feeling I had achieved nothing, and with leaden spirits went back to the car and drove to Wokingham to call on Ferdinand.
I half-hoped he wouldn't be in, but he was. He came to the door frowning because I had interrupted him at his compute rand grudgingly let me in.
'We've nothing to say, 'he said, but he sounded more resigned than forbidding; half-relaxed, as he'd been in my flat.
He led the way into the front room of the bungalow he and Debs had bought on the road to Reading. The front room was his office, a perfectly natural arrangement to Ferdinand, since Malcolm's office had always been at home.
The rest of the bungalow, which I'd visited two or three times before, was furnished sparsely in accordance with Debs' and Ferdinand's joint dislike of dirt and clutter. One of the three bedrooms was completely empty, one held a single bed and a chest of drawers (for Serena's visits), and in the third, the couple's own, there was a mattress on a platform and a wall of cupboards and enclosed shelves that Ferdinand had put together himself. The sitting-room held two chairs, a standard lamp, a lot of floor cushions and a television set. In the tidy kitchen, there was a table with four stools. All visible life was in the office, though even there, in direct contrast to Malcolm's comfortable shambles, a spartan order of neatness ruled.
Ferdinand's computer bore a screenful of graphics. He glanced at it and then looked with some impatience back to me.
'What do you want?' he asked. 'I've a lot to do after being away on a course.'
'Can't you save all that,' I gestured to the screen, 'or whatever it is you do? Record it, and come out to a pub for lunch.'
He shook his head and looked at his watch. Then, in indecision, said, 'I suppose I have to eat,' and fiddled about with the computer. 'All right. Half an hour, max.'
I drove us to the town centre and he pointed out a pub with a car- park. The bar was full of business people similarly out for lunch breaks, and I bought scotch and sandwiches after a good deal of polite elbowing. Ferdinand had secured a table from which he was clearing the past customer's detritus with a finicky expression.
'Look,' I said, handing him his drink as we sat down, 'Malcolm wants me to find out who's trying to kill him.'
'it isn't me,' he said. He took a swallow, unconcerned.
'Do you remember old Fred blowing up the tree roots, that time? When we were about twelve or thirteen? When the blast blew old Fred flat?'
He stared. 'Yes, I do,' he said slowly, 'but that's years ago. it can't have anything to do with the house.'
'Why not?' I asked. 'That bang made a big impression on us. Memories last more or less for ever, they just need digging up. The explosives expert working at Quantum asked if I knew what cordite was, and I remembered old Fred.'
Ferdinand did his own digging. 'Black powder… in a box.'
'Yes, it's still there in the tool shed. Still viable, but not used on the house. They're working now on its being a homemade explosive called ANFO.'
Ferdinand was visibly shaken and after a minute said, 'I suppose I hadn't considered… what it was.'
'Do you know what ANFO is?' I asked.
He said no uncertainly, and I thought he wasn't being truthful. Perhaps he felt that knowing could be considered guilt. I needed to jolt him into being more positive. Into being an ally, if I could.
'Malcolm's made a new will,' I said.
'And left you the lot, I suppose,' he sneered bitterly.
'No,' I said. 'if he dies from normal causes, we all inherit equally.' I paused, and added an invention. 'if someone murders him, it all goes to charities. So how about you getting on the telephone and telling the whole tribe to help me find out who's trying to do them out of their future?'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In my room at Cookham in the evening, I read Norman West's notes on Gervase and Ursula. Gervase first:
Mr Gervase Pembroke (35) lives with Mrs Ursula at 14 Grant St., Maidenhead, a detached house with a quarter-acre garden in good residential neighbour hood They have been married for 11 years and have 2 daughters (8 and 6) both attending a private school. Mr G. is a stockbroker who commutes to the City firm of Wells, Gibson amp; Cathcart. (Wells, Gibson and Cathcart have all died or retired long ago, but the respected name is kept.) Mr Gervase works for his own commission within the firm: each partner does. He has flexible working hours; he's his own boss to a great extent. He used to work harder than he does now but has become erratic of late, according to the firm's lady receptionist. She didn't like to say outright, but I gathered Mr G. sometimes returns from lunch the worse for drink, and sometimes doesn't return at all.
She didn't of course note down such times. She said she'd heard two of the other partners discussing Mr G., saying he'd lost his nerve and was selling his clients only gilts. They thought that too much playing safe was bad stockbroking. She had no qualms in denigrating Mr G., who she said has a filthy temper when things don't go his way, and never appreciates how hard she works (!)
I requested to interview Mr G. at his place of work. I was shown into his office and explained who I was. He said he knew. I said as a preliminary that I understood he was the illegitimate son of Mrs Alicia Pembroke, and the interview ended immediately. He physically hustled me out (bruise on left arm). He said I'd insulted him. Perhaps I did! I managed to say that if he could produce office records – letters written, brokerage transactions – for the Tuesday in question, he would be in the clear. He said to consult his secretary, which I did.
Mr G. went into the office that morning, she confirmed, and dictated two letters. Mr G. told her he was going to see a new client, and left at 10.30 am. She didn't know who the client was, he was not listed on Mr G's office diary. It was more usual for new clients to come to the office, but not invariable. Mr G. didn't return to the office that day, but returned Wednesday in bad mood (with a hangover?).
Mr G. left the office the previous Friday (secretary's notes) at midday, didn't return. (Mr G. worked normally all day Monday.) Mr G. commutes by train, leaves off-white Rover in station car-park. His car clean and unmarked when I saw it.
Visited Mr G. at his home to ask about the client on Tuesday re solid alibi. Mr G. said none of my business. Guess: client was either a mistress or a bottle, or else Mr G. wants me to believe that. Mr G.'s alcohol problem is serious (my opinion) but not incapacitating. He has strong masterful manner, but must have insecurities (illegitimacy??) to make him drink and treat people badly. (His secretary does not love him!) Mr G. appears to make good income, no sign of financial straits.
Attentive to Mrs Alicia. Bossy and possessive with his wife and children. Jealous of Mr Ian and (my judgement) fears him. (I don't know why this is. Something in the past? Mr Pembroke's preference?) Despises but also fears Mr Pembroke. (A lot of bluster when he talked of him.)
Mr G. is physically strong, but getting less so, I'd think. Takes little exercise, somewhat overweight. Difficult personality. A bully. End of enquiry.
I paper clipped Gervase together with a sigh. Norman West, for all his ineffective appearance, had a way of getting to the heart of things pretty smartly.
What had he made of Ursula, I wondered. Ursula, the quiet wife, who had talked in tears to Joyce. Pretty enough in an insipid way, she was like an unfinished painting, without highlights. Pleasant enough to me whenever Gervase allowed, she had never told me her thoughts. I turned with unexpected interest to the West view of Gervase's wife.
Mrs Ursula Pembroke (35) wife of Mr Gervase, lives with him at 14 Grant St., Maidenhead. She has no
