advertisement for ‘Camp Coffee’ on it.
‘No, he wouldn’t. The party was really Bartlemas’ idea…’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, O’Rourke. Let’s say we arrived at the idea mutually…’
‘Yes, let’s. Nearly everyone’s here. Do go through. Bartlemas, do you want a little succour with your vinaigrette?’
‘Wouldn’t say no, O’Rourke. Excuse us. Titivating the goodies. Do go through…’
‘Just toddle through…’ They vanished in a shimmer of saxe-blue silk shirts.
The sitting-room had two walls devoted to prints of Edmund in all his greatest roles, and the other two to William. Between them, sitting with drinks, were Joanne Menzies and Gerald Venables. Gerald rose to greet Charles in typical style. ‘Hello, old boy. What’s the budget going to do to your savings then?’
‘I haven’t got any.’
‘Wise feller.’ Charles greeted Joanne and helped himself to a large Scotch. Gerald continued. ‘Do you realise, Charles, that if these Labour Johnnies go and slap on this gift tax they’re talking about, crimes like young Nigel Steen’s won’t be worth committing.’
‘His wasn’t worth committing anyway, as it turned out.’
‘No. Fascinating, though, from the legal point of view. Do let me in on any more of your detective work, won’t you, Charles?’
‘There won’t be any more, Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Oh, I’m sure there will. How’s the arm?’
‘Healed up long ago. A nice scar though.’
‘And a good story to go with it.’
The conversation drifted. Joanne talked about her new job in a concert agency. Bartlemas and O’Rourke came in and talked about the first night of Gielgud’s Prospero (‘Doing it again, dear’) at the National. Charles felt detached and rather sad. A little parcel had arrived through the post that morning from the old people’s home at Tower Hamlets. Harry Chiltern had died, and asked that all his possessions be sent to Charles. It was depressing to think that he was the closest friend that the old man had, and it stirred all the usual guilt feelings-should have gone to see him more often, and so on. The package contained a watch, a silver cigarette case, a Ronson lighter and Stanley Matthews’ Book of Football.
It suited Charles’ melancholy mood well. Nothing much seemed to be happening. He had finished shooting the rescheduled scenes of The Zombie Walks without meeting Felicity again. (However, the episode was not without profit, since the film company had paid very substantial compensation for his ‘accident’.) He was now involved in a dreary radio serial, which was driving him slowly mad with boredom. Life went on, at its usual alcoholic level.
A ring at the doorbell announced the late arrival of Jacqui, blonde again and resplendently pregnant in a long red and white flowered dress. It was so far from her usual style that Charles thought she must have undergone some violent change of personality. She greeted him slightly gushingly, and that again struck a false note.
The reason for the change soon became apparent. Given Jacqui’s simple character, it could only be a man. Her escort followed her into the sitting-room. It was Bernard Walton.
‘Hello, Charles. Dear boy. Joanne, darling. Hello, all you lovely people. Haven’t met you, have I, sir, but I’m sure we’ll get on. Tell you what, Jacqui and I were thinking of tootling on to the midnight matinee at the Parthenon after this lot. It’s a charity thing-something to do with April Fools’ Day. Perhaps that means it’s raising money for a looney bin. Whole thing will probably be a ghastly no-no, but everyone will be there. What do you all say to the idea?’
Bartlemas and O’Rourke were terribly enthusiastic, and the others mumbled politely. Charles didn’t even mumble. He knew what wasn’t his scene.
The dinner was very good, though the conversation tended to be dominated by Bernard’s stories of his new television series and the director who was disastrous, but disastrous. At one point, however, they did get around to Marius Steen and the circumstances of his death.
‘What I never could understand,’ said Gerald, ‘was why Steen, who was so good with money, made such a cock-up of that final will. I mean, just leaving it to the baby, or making it dependent on the baby’s survival. It’s insane.’
‘But you see, dear,’ said Bartlemas, ‘he only got that one together in a hurry…’
‘Yes,’ said O’Rourke, ‘he was going to sort it all out properly when he got back to England. I mean, the so- called solicitor he found out at Saint-Maxime was a boy, hardly even qualified. Just got his articles-I always think that sounds rude.’ A snigger. ‘So the will was only a stop-gap. But when Marius felt better, he forgot about it …’
‘Yes. He was intending to get married you see.’
Gerald nodded. ‘Of course. Remarriage would revoke all previous wills.’
But Charles was intrigued by something O’Rourke had said. ‘When Marius felt better? What did you mean by that?’
‘Oh no! Didn’t we tell you?’ O’Rourke’s eyes opened wide.
‘I don’t think we did, O’Rourke…’
‘Oh well, you see, Marius had this heart attack while we were out there. Not a bad one, but it frightened him. That’s why he was in such a rush about the will…’
‘That’s right. And that’s why he made us witnesses and executors …’
‘Doesn’t that sound grand…’
‘Yes, because we were the only people there…’
‘And then he gave us the will and the other papers and he said to us, just before we toddled off to Morocco-’
‘Just a minute, O’Rourke,’ Charles interposed. ‘What other papers?’
O’Rourke looked at Bartlemas and both of them opened their eyes wide and put their hands over their mouths in mock horror. ‘Oh no, Bartlemas, we haven’t…’
‘We have, O’Rourke…’
‘Forgotten all about them…’
‘Oh no!’
‘Where did we have them last?’
‘Well, we certainly had them when you were cleaning that playbill of William as Lear at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden…’
‘And then we…’
‘Ooh. Do you know, I think I left them in my dinki-doodi-den …’
‘Oh no, Bartlemas!’
‘I’ll scurry up and get them straight away.’
There was a brief pause. Nobody quite liked to ask what Bartlemas’ dinki-doodi-den was. Fortunately he scurried back before the silence became awkward.
‘Here it is, acres of bills and things.’
Gerald assumed control and looked through the papers while the others watched. Then he chuckled. ‘The old sod.’
‘Who?’ asked Jacqui.
‘Marius Steen. He’d really got it in for Nigel. He must have regretted that gift business.’
‘Why? What did he do?’ asked Charles.
‘Marius wrote a letter to his son last November-this is a copy of it-complaining in humble terms about how he’d left himself short by the gift and not taken inflation into account, and would Nigel let him have a small income from various shares and properties? And here’s the agreement duly signed by Nigel.’
‘And what does it mean?’
‘It means that Marius was retaining a beneficial interest in the gift.’
‘What?’ asked Jacqui blankly, which saved the embarrassment of someone else’s asking.
‘It means that the whole gift thing was invalid. Nigel would have had to pay duty on the whole estate without reduction.’
‘Good God,’ said Charles. ‘You can’t help admiring the old bugger. Making his own son sign away his
