where an abortion has been necessary. Natural caution has prevented me from getting anyone into trouble. If it happened, no doubt that principle would crumble like any other. But the instinct remained strong.
And as Jacqui’s suffering face looked up at him, he knew he had said the right thing. There was relief and determination there, in spite of her words. ‘But I can’t look after a baby on my own. I can hardly look after myself.’
She sounded so plaintive that Charles laughed and Jacqui even managed a brief grin. ‘Don’t worry’ — at his most avuncular-‘something’ll happen.’
‘What? Nothing can, now Marius is dead.’
‘Something will happen,’ he repeated with a confidence whose basis he didn’t like to investigate. ‘Now, where am I going to sleep?’
‘Oh, with me. It’s daft for you to get a stiff neck on the sofa when there’s room in my bed.’
So they settled down, Charles in shirt and underpants, Jacqui in silk pyjamas, cradled in his arms. It was eight days since they had last lain on the bed together, and sex seemed as far away now as then. But this time Charles’ feelings were mellower. It seemed all right that this sad and trembling body should lie in his arms. There was a lot to be said for cuddling. Now he seemed to find it even more attractive than screwing. Perhaps it was the approach of old age, sliding into impotent fumblings. As he fell asleep, Byron’s lines floated through his fuddled mind.
We’ll go no more a-screwing
So late into the night,
Though the heart is still as loving
And the moon is still as bright.
When he woke, he was alone in the bed. He could hear Jacqui being sick in the bathroom. It was a nostalgic sound, taking him back to the flat in Notting Hill where he and Frances had started their married life; and started Juliet; and, in a way, started living apart. Nappies boiling on the gas-stove, the sweet smell of breast milk-it all came back. ‘I am degenerating into a sentimental old fool,’ he thought as he rolled out of bed.
Jacqui came in as he was pulling on his trousers, and sat down, looking drained. ‘OK?’ he asked.
‘I will be. I hope I will. It’s ghastly. Look.’ She closed her eyes grimly and pointed at the table. There was a letter which had been opened and shoved back into the envelope.
‘Can I read it?’ Jacqui nodded. Charles pulled the papers out. There was a short letter and a smaller envelope, which had also been opened. The letter was on paper headed ‘Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickey-Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.’
Dear Miss Mitchell,
On the instructions of my client, Mr Marius Steen, I am sending you the enclosed letter. I have no knowledge of its contents, but was instructed to send it to you as soon as I heard news of Mr Steen’s death.
Yours sincerely,
Harold Cohn.
‘Can I read the other one?’
‘Go ahead.’
He opened the envelope. The letter was written in a sprawling hand, writing that had once undergone the discipline of copperplate, but long ago broken loose from its restrictions and now spread, thick and unguarded, over the page.
2nd November
Dear Titty…
Jacqui was studying Charles’ face and anticipating his reaction. ‘Marius always called me that.’ Charles continued reading.
If you get this letter, I am dead. So I’m sorry. The old heart or some other bit of my body has given out and fouled the system and I’ve gone. So that’s a pity. Not because I haven’t had a good run, just that I’d like the run to continue. I’m a winner and I want to go on winning. And when you came on the scene, I started enjoying my winning even more.
As you know, I wanted to marry you. Depending on when you get this letter, I may already have married you. If not, believe me, it’s all I want to do. I only care about you and the little bastard in your belly. I’m sure he’ll turn out better than the other one.
And the main purpose of this letter is to tell you and your beautiful body not to worry. If Marius is dead, Marius will still look after you.
There’ll be money for you and the baby. Call him Marius.
Love,
Marius
Charles looked up at Jacqui. In her face was discomfort and sadness, but also an unmistakable gleam of triumph.
Simon Brett
XI
He thought he must be going soft in the head. To have tried to help Jacqui in the matter of the photographs was illogical, but at least generous, getting her out of an awkward situation. But assisting her investigations into a perfectly natural death as if it were murder was little short of lunacy.
She had read so much into Steen’s letter. Channelling all the pain of her loss into arguments to support her theory, she leapt on to the promise of provision for her and the baby, and to the sentence, ‘I’m sure he’ll turn out better than the other one.’ To her mind, these proved conclusively that Marius had decided to change his will in her favour, and that Nigel had got wind of this and forestalled his father’s plans by killing him. Charles put up all the arguments scepticism could muster, but somehow ended up agreeing with Jacqui that it was at least worth further investigation.
Which was why, on Thursday 13th December, he was taking Gerald Venables out to lunch. Gerald had been a contemporary at Oxford, who had read Law and acted a little. He had been elected Treasurer of the Oxford University Dramatic Society and, as such, demonstrated the prime motive of his life-an unashamed love of money. This motive led him after university away from the Theatre and into the Law. He joined a firm of solicitors specialising in show-business contract work, became a partner within five years and thereafter just made more and more money. The subject fascinated him; he always talked about money; but did it with such an ingenuous enthusiasm that the effect was not alienating. At worst he was boring, in the same way that a golfer or a photographer or a dinghy-sailor or any other person obsessed by a hobby is boring.
When the Stilton was produced, Gerald undid another button of his exquisitely cut tweed waistcoat and patted his paunch beneficently. ‘What is it, Charles? Are you putting some work my way? I’d better warn you, my rates, which were always pretty high, are now almost beyond belief.’
‘I anticipated as much. It’s not exactly work. I don’t know how you’d define it…’
‘Ah, if it isn’t readily defined, it’s automatically at double the rate.’
‘Yes. It’s a matter of investigation-or do I mean snooping?’
‘That’s what solicitors are for.’
‘Exactly. The point is, I know solicitors individually are totally immoral’ — Gerald nodded assent as if accepting a compliment ‘-and I suppose, as with any other bunch of thieves, there is honour among you.’ Again Gerald graciously inclined his head. ‘So no doubt you scratch each other’s backs.’ The third nod was very positive. ‘What I want you to do is to find out some information from another solicitor.’
‘Officially?’
‘Unofficially.’
‘Ah. Comes more expensive.’
‘I thought it might.’
