Anything For a Quiet Life (17 page)

Could the whole thing have been his imagination?

He was prepared to believe that a flash of sunlight might have deceived him but regular flashes spelling out a message? Was he becoming like one of those people who saw unidentified flying objects? There had been a story in the papers about a market-gardener at Wrexham who had not only seen one, hovering above his garden, but had read a message, flashed from one of its portholes. Oddly enough that had been in Morse code too.

The Admiral shook his head angrily. He might be over eighty, but he wasn’t cracked. Not yet. Anyway, there was nothing to be done about it. The police had plenty on their hands. He could hardly bother them with a non-burglary.

It was twelve o’clock on the following day and the Admiral, who had been attending morning service at St Michael’s Church, was surprised to find a police car outside his gate. It was Superintendent Queen, and he looked happy.

“We’ve nicked ’em,” he said. “Had a tip-off on the telephone yesterday afternoon. Went round and found all the stuff stolen from the estate, in a sack, hidden under that man Golding’s caravan. The owners have identified every bit of it. We’ve had an emergency meeting of the Watch Committee. No opposition this time. A unanimous recommendation. No licence for Mr Bailey next year. I fancy we’ve seen the last of him.”

“What did Golding say about it?”

“Said it was a frame-up, naturally. But couldn’t suggest who did the framing. It’ll take more than a bit of fast talking to get him out of this one.”

“Excellent,” said the Admiral. A suspicion of the truth was forming in his mind. Too faint as yet to make consecutive sense. Certainly too faint to be expressed to the Superintendent.

As he consumed his solitary Sunday luncheon the picture sharpened and gained definition. Small items were added to other small items, until what had started as suspicion approached certainty.

He was clearing away the dishes when there was a knock on the door. It was the two boys.

Colin, taking the lead as usual, said, “We’ve come to say goodbye. Our holiday’s over. We’ve been ordered to go back and cheer up Dad.”

“I’m sure you will,” said the Admiral.

“It’s been a super holiday,” said David. “We’ll be coming back next year, I hope.”

“One thing you won’t find here, I’m certain, is Bailey’s Circus.”

The boys looked at each other. The faintest flicker of a smile crossed David’s face. Colin was impassive.

The Admiral said, “And when did you learn the Morse code?”

There was a moment of complete silence. Then both boys burst out laughing.

David said, “I told you he’d cotton on to it.” And to the Admiral, “How did you spot it? Were you able to read the flashes?”

“I’ve been reading Morse code since I was a midshipman. Was it you with the pram?”

“It was,” said David, “and I nearly had a fit when I saw you behind me in the queue. I was glad we’d put the make-up on pretty thick.”

“And in the pram, I take it, you had the stuff you’d lifted from Mrs Garibaldi and the others.”

“That bit wasn’t much fun,” said Colin. “We knew the houses were empty, because we knew who lived in them and we’d seen them go out. But all the time we were thinking, suppose someone’s been left behind. There was actually a dog in one, but luckily it was one we’d made friends with.”

“I was scared stiff,” said David. “We just nipped in, picked up the first things we could lay our hands on and nipped out again.”

“I see,” said the Admiral. The boys looked at him anxiously.

“And the second part of your plan, which you also carried out successfully, was to leave the stuff under Golding’s caravan.”

“That bit was easy. It was right away in a corner by itself. We’d spotted it with your telescope.”

“And you gave us the whole idea,” said Colin. “That Dutch skipper’s wife and the baby.”

“So I’m responsible, am I?” said the Admiral.

They guessed from his tone of voice that he wasn’t going to make trouble and smiled at him engagingly.

He said to David, “I’d no idea you were such an accomplished performer.

“Oh, he’s a first-class actress,” said Colin.

After they had gone, something in the tone of the last remark lingered in the Admiral’s mind and stirred a memory. He pulled down his copy of
Who’s Who
and turned to the entry under ‘Bourdon, Sir David’.

First there was a summarised account of his career in the Royal Navy. Then, in the terse shorthand of that compilation: “M 1960 Félicité, née St Honorée (killed in air crash 1983). Two children: one s, one d.”

“I suppose I should have guessed,” said the Admiral as he shut up the heavy scarlet volume. He wondered if he should tell Jonas the end of the story. He would very much have liked to do so, but decided against it. Jonas was a solicitor, and might have some compunction about a brute going to prison for something he hadn’t done.

The Admiral had none at all.

“For the last few months,” said Dan Cullingford, “I’ve been wondering about myself. And when you start wondering about yourself that keeps you awake at night and when you don’t sleep properly that makes you feel worse than ever.”

“A great deal of illness is psychosomatic,” agreed Jonas. “You look fit enough.” His visitor had clear blue eyes and the face, more red than brown, of a man who lived much of his life in the open air.

“I’ve no reason not to be. I still take a lot of exercise. Now that I’ve only got the one full-time assistant we have to share the games between us. On Wednesday I played an hour of football with the boys and felt perfectly all right whilst I was doing it. It was when I sat down afterwards that I began to wonder.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m the wrong side of fifty.”

Jonas, who was the wrong side of sixty, thought of saying that he took a minimum of exercise and managed to get along all right, but realised that this would be little consolation to Dan Cullingford. Instead he said, “I suppose you’ve had a proper check-up?”

“I saw Dr Brassie yesterday.”

“What did he say?”

“The sort of thing doctors always say when they don’t really know the answer. He said he thought it was possible I had what he called a tired heart. For a real check-up I should have to go into hospital for a day or two.”

“He said that, did he?” said Jonas thoughtfully. He knew that Dr Brassie was not an alarmist. “What did you say?”

“That I might be able to manage it at the end of term. That’s only eight weeks away. However, I didn’t really come to talk about my health. That was only incidental. I wanted you to advise me about remaking my will.”

“There’s an existing will, then?”

“I’ve brought it along.” He fished a legal-looking envelope out of his pocket. “I made it when I got married. Hadn’t bothered until then.”

Jonas looked first at the envelope. It had the name Porter and Merriman on it. Cullingford saw him looking at it and said, “It was Ambrose Porter who did it for me. After he died I never had anything more to do with the firm. I mean—it’s all right to come to you, isn’t it?”

Jonas, who like all solicitors, was cautious about appropriating clients from other firms said, “Yes, of course. If Ambrose Porter was the one you really went to and you haven’t consulted them for ten years.”

“I’m glad about that. His son’s all right as a person, I mean. But he seemed a bit lacking in experience.”

Jonas was aware that old men disliked consulting young solicitors. He was reading the will. It was a simple document under which Daniel Stanley Cullingford, schoolmaster, left everything to his wife, Laura, and appointed her sole executrix.

Cullingford said, “The real thing I’m worried about is what might happen to the school if I popped off suddenly. I’ve got an excellent number two, a man called Tim Delavigne. He’d be happy to keep Clifton House going, but only if he could run the show himself.”

“Understandable.”

“And as a matter of fact, it would work rather well, because there’s a spot of romance in the air.”

It took a prep schoolmaster, thought Jonas, to refer to impending matrimony as a spot of romance. He said, “Who is she?”

“Pamela Ricketts. She looks after gym, painting and music.”

“All of them?”

“The iron law of economics. The days are past when you could employ specialists in every department. However, she’s competent enough in music and art and a qualified PE instructor. She did two years at Bedford.”

“PE?”

“In your day,” said Cullingford patiently, “it was called physical training. Now it’s physical education. A subtle difference.”

“I learn a new fact every day,” said Jonas. “Well, I can see that she’d make an admirable schoolmaster’s wife. Tell me exactly what it is you want me to do.”

Cullingford thought about this for some time. Then he said, “What I’m going to tell you is absolutely confidential.”

“Of course.”

“If I left my will as it is now, as soon as I was dead I think Laura would shut the school and sell the property. You know where it is. Between the Lewes road and the factory estate. If she could get planning permission for development – and I don’t see why she shouldn’t – well, she’d get a great deal of money for it.”

“I see,” said Jonas. “Yes. You want to put it out of her power to sell the property, and you want Delavigne to have control of the actual running of the school.”

“I don’t want to cut her out altogether, you understand – it’s just that I don’t want her to be in a position to interfere with Tim.”

Or with Mrs Delavigne-to-be, thought Jonas. He could see considerable complications if the two ladies didn’t get on together. He said, “I’ll draft something for you to look at. It’ll have to be a trust of some sort, and that means you’ll need two trustees. Have you got two reliable friends who’d take the job on?”

“Major Appleby would do it, I’m sure.”

“The headmaster of St Oswald’s? Yes, I know him. A very sound man.”

“The other one might be Leo Sambrooke. You may have seen his name in the High Street. A firm of estate agents. Sambrooke and Dodds. His boy’s at the school now.”

“Sounds just the man for the job. Ask him if he’s prepared to act.” He was examining his desk diary. “In fact I see that Appleby is coming here this afternoon. He wants me to explain the new Finance Act to him. I could tell him what you want him to do, if you like.”

“Please,” said Cullingford. “And I’ll tackle Sambrooke.”

Jonas thought that he looked a bit more cheerful than when he came in.

“Clifton House is a good school,” said Major Appleby, “and Dan Cullingford is a first-class teacher.” He and Jonas had just spent an hour trying to understand the latest piece of gobbledygook put out by the Inland Revenue. “I’d hate to see another outfit go under. I think I told you that when I came here after the war there were eight schools. Now just three, Tanner’s place, my own place – and Dan Cullingford’s. Tanner and I aren’t in competition with Dan. When he saw the other schools folding up he read the signs correctly. He started to phase out all his boarders and take day boys instead. That was about six years ago. Clifton House is entirely a day school now.”

“And there are enough of them to go round?”

“Certainly. In fact he’s got a waiting list. There are a lot of professional and business families in Shackleton who don’t like the idea of sending their sons to state schools, but can’t quite face boarding school fees. Or who want to put off paying them as long as possible. And incidentally, I think Dan’s got a very good number two in Delavigne.”

“I’m glad you think that,” said Jonas, “because it will make it easier to explain what he has in mind.”

He spoke for ten minutes. He was used to expounding legal technicalities to non-legal people, and when he had finished Major Appleby nodded his head.

“In words of one syllable,” he said, “Dan wants to make sure that his wife can’t flog the lot as soon as he’s in his grave.”

“Correct,” said Jonas. “And I do congratulate you. I’ve often heard people start by saying ‘in words of one syllable’ but I’ve never known anyone actually pull it off.”

Appleby laughed and said, “Of course, one can see that she’d have every inducement to do it if she could. Tanner and I have both had that estate agent, Derek Price, of Price and Westbury, nibbling round. He’s dead keen to get hold of building land, and would give a lot for the Clifton House playing fields. We both sent him off with a flea in his ear. To tell you the truth, I can’t stand the chap.”

“Thirtyish, fatter than he should be at that age, smooth dresser, drives a BMW?”

“That’s the fellow. Chases girls as well as building land, so I’m told. One question: you realise that I’m a bit older than Dan. What happens if I die first?”

“Then we appoint someone else. But I don’t think it’s likely to happen.”

Appleby looked at Jonas shrewdly. He said, “You don’t think Dan’s a very good life?”

“I happened to be talking to Dr Brassie. Knowing that I’m Cullingford’s solicitor I suppose he felt able to be frank. What he said was, as long as Cullingford would exercise a little common sense and stop playing violent games of football on cold afternoons there’s no reason he shouldn’t go on happily for years.”

“I see,” said Appleby. “That’s the form, is it? Well, thanks for telling me.”

That was the second week in October. Dan Cullingford died on All Saints Day, which fell on a Monday that year. He had been giving some sort of demonstration in the gym and had fallen dead. When Dr Makepeace, the coroner, heard what Dr Brassie had to say he agreed that there was no need for an inquest. The burial service at St Michael’s was conducted by the Reverend Tobias Harmer and the address was given by the Bishop of Lewes, who also conducted the committal. The sun was shining, but it gave out little heat and Jonas, his coat collar turned up to his ears, felt a shiver run through him as the coffin was lowered into the ground. He had not known Cullingford long, but long enough to become fond of him.

The church had been jam-packed, and most of the congregation had come out to the churchyard to witness the final rites. Laura was there, in a black two-piece suit over a cream-coloured shirt and was veiled. The school staff and the boys of Clifton House were all in attendance. Two of the boys stood in front of the bishop at the head of the grave when he spoke the words of committal. One of them, a stocky, freckled boy, he knew was Superintendent Queen’s son. The other, a tall thin boy in spectacles, was not known to him. Both looked appropriately solemn.