Alibi

“I’m mildly surprised,” Roger declared. “But shocked — no. Why should I be?”

“I—er—I thought you’d hate the idea.”

“It didn’t occur to you that I might be glad to see the back of you?” There was a teasing gleam in his eyes and a teasing tone in his voice, but suddenly it occurred to him that this was no time to tease, that for a moment at least, Martin was taking that remark seriously. Quite suddenly the years rolled away and Roger was jesting with the “child” and immediately reassuring him; “teasing” had been a feature of their early family life and still was; he had forgotten that Martin could be led on almost as — easily as Richard.

“No,” Scoop said. “It hadn’t.”

“That’s good,” said Roger. “I didn’t quite mean what I said.”

Martin smiled with surprisingly evident relief.

“That’s good too!”

“Where do you plan to go?” inquired Roger, choosing “plan” deliberately, thinking it would help to reassure Scoop that there would be no opposition to overcome with him. But it was already evident why he had wanted this talk alone, for Janet would hate the idea of emigration.

“Australia,” Scoop answered promptly.

“I suppose that’s as good as any and no doubt better than most,” remarked Roger.

He ate in silence for a few moments, and so did Martin, whose hunger was getting the better of him. He, Roger, was in fact feeling a delayed shock effect. He had known for years that Martin wasn’t too happy in England, that life hadn’t gone too well for him, but he had seen this in terms of getting a better job, or having a breakthrough with his painting. Scoop spent every moment of his spare time with brush and easel.

“Really not shocked?” Martin asked after a while.

“No, Scoop. Not shocked, but I think Mummy will be.”

“Didn’t I know it!” Scoop could hardly have sounded more rueful.

“How long has it been since you made up your mind?”

“Oh, about a month,” Scoop told him, then coloured and went on with a rush, “I wanted to be absolutely sure before I said anything, so I’ve been along to Australia House, and seen the New South Wales people and made an application for an assisted passage—it only costs ten pounds. Did you know?”

“Yes,” said Roger, and added rather heavily, “so you’ve gone as far as that?”

Scoop nodded, without saying a word.

“Decided what ship yet?” asked Roger.

“The Northern Star,” answered Scoop. “It’s due to sail on June 28th.” He picked up his fork only to put it down again, almost awkwardly. “Dad, I—I had to go ahead. I knew if I talked to you you’d have to tell Mummy, you wouldn’t keep that kind of secret from her, and if Mummy had known she would have worked on you—well, on me too—to dissuade me. And—and well, I thought if everything was cut and dried then there couldn’t be so much arguement—er—discussion, I mean, and perhaps it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Roger looked at him steadily; and looking, he saw the tears close to the boy’s eyes, a boy of twenty-one, a young man, so fearful of hurting that he had felt constrained to keep this tremendous yearning to himself. He felt a great warmth of feeling towards and a compelling need to reassure him and yet he did not quite know what to say.

He was still undecided when the telephone rang. Martin’s brow furrowed and he muttered, “Oh, damn!”

Chapter Five

OFFER

 

The last thing Roger wanted at that moment was a summons to the Yard, and Martin’s muttered imprecation told him how his son felt. He pushed his chair back, and for some reason was more aware of the shock of the boy’s news than he had been earlier. Before he was on his feet, Martin was up and halfway to the extension just in the passage by the kitchen door.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

Roger watched and listened. The boy’s voice was deep and pleasing, his manner nearly always the same: gentle and kindly. He was broad-shouldered and very powerful but the gentleness always hovered in his experience, in his grey eyes, in the way he handled animals and tools.

Now he said, “This is Martin West . . .  Yes, I think so . . .  Who wants him, please? . . .  If you’ll just hold on, I’ll see . . .  Are you from Scotland Yard? . . .  Oh, thank you . . . .” He appeared in the doorway, obviously surprised, looking ten years younger than his twenty-one. “It’s a Mr. Benjamin Artemeus,” he reported, “and he would like to have a word with you. He’s not from the Yard.”

“Then I’d better speak to him,” Roger said, and as he passed Martin he added quietly, “I won’t go out until we’re through.” He reached the telephone and announced, “Roger West speaking.”

“Mr. West,” began a man in a very pleasing voice, continuing without preamble, “I would very much like to meet you and discuss a proposition which I think will interest you.”

It was a suspicious kind of opening and Roger became very wary indeed. He even ran through his mind the cases he was handling or involved in at the Yard; attempts to bribe often began in this way.

“What kind of proposition?” he enquired.

“It is wholly legal,” Artemeus declared, with an unmistakable hint of laughter in his voice. “Are you free for