Publish and Be Murdered (28 page)

‘However, we now proceed to the bigger issues. First oî all, I think you were an idiot to turn down the editorship because of what Charlie Papworth told you, but you’re that kind of an idiot, it’s the way you are, and there’s no point in my bleating about that: it’s one of your attractions. One certainly never worries about you becoming corrupt. Ending up in the gutter, yes. Being burnt at the stake, yes. Being hauled off in chains for fiddling the books, no.

‘Which leads us to the two issues you need to address at the moment. First, have you any second thoughts about covering up for Charlie Papworth?’

‘I gave my word,’ said Amiss wearily.

‘Indeed you did. And in your place I expect I’d have done the same. But there’s the corollary that you’re also covering up for Piers. And how do you feel about that?’

‘I don’t like it, but I can’t do anything about it. The only evidence against him is what Charlie told me in confidence. And that would be hearsay, anyway.’

‘Precisely, so it’s not really an issue.’

Plutarch emitted a resentful yowl of deprivation, and the baroness absent-mindedly recommenced the stroking. ‘There’s such a huge moral difference between the two murders. Piers knocked off Henry: bad. Charlie knocked off Willie: good.’

‘Oh, really, Jack. You don’t actually mean good.’

‘I don’t mean I’d do it. I don’t mean I want anyone else to do it. But at least Charlie’s motives were honourable.’

‘Yes, but I would point out that Piers did in Henry in hot blood and Charlie did for Willie in cold.’

‘We’re splitting hairs and it’s pointless. We’ve two murderers and you can’t sneak on either of them.’

‘And even at that, we’re making an assumption that Piers did the murder, when there was only Willie’s word for it.’

‘Quite right. And we’ll never know otherwise, because of course Piers, if asked, would say he didn’t do it whether he did or not. So let’s make things easy for you by adopting the benign interpretation, which is that Willie lied either because he did it himself or because it was an accident, and proceed on the assumption that Piers Papworth is innocent. That makes the road ahead and the choices clearer.’

Amiss lay back on the sofa and passed a hand wearily over his forehead. ‘I’m punch drunk, Jack. Clarify my mind. Please.’

‘Your job is quite straightforward. You must safeguard the future of
The Wrangler
by sorting out this trust business once and for all and by finding the right editor.’

‘You know as well as I do, Jack, that there’s bugger-all I can do about the trustees. That’s in your bailiwick.’

‘You can carry on smarming up to them while I beat them up. But point taken. It’s mostly a matter for me. The problem of the editorship, I’ll leave with you.’

With total disregard for Plutarch, she jumped to her feet. The cat, who had landed on the rug with a thump, set off a piercing yell. ‘Shut up, Plutarch,’ said the baroness: instantly the yells diminished in intensity and, shortly afterwards, ceased.

‘Talk to you soon, Robert,’ she said. ‘But before I go, pay attention. Your duties to
The Wrangler
are twofold and both require you to hang on for a bit. First, you need to make sure that the editorial line is solid before you hand her over to a new captain. Second, you have to find the right successor, so you should be vetting talent at leisure. So whatever you do, don’t tell anyone you’re going. I can see it would appeal to you to walk out now in a haze of moral rectitude, but that would be sheer self-indulgence.’

‘But…’

‘Bugger the buts.’ And after enfolding him in a bear hug, she picked up her cloak from an armchair. ‘Are you going to tell Jim about this?’

‘Probably, but obviously only off the record.’

‘Make sure you’ve got him to sign the confidentiality clause in blood. He’s a nice bloke, but he’s a cop.’

Throwing her cloak over her shoulder, she demanded, ‘Lead me to the fire escape.’

EPILOGUE

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^

‘It was a good funeral.’

‘Charlie deserved it,’ said the baroness. ‘Murderer or not, he was one of the best of men.’

Ellis Pooley stiffened slightly. ‘I’m afraid that professionally, at least, quite apart from personally and morally, Jack, I have to take a rather dim view of that pronouncement. I understand why Robert decided not to provide Jim officially with the information that could have nailed Papworth, but you can’t expect me to approve. Murderers shouldn’t get away with it.’

‘Oh, bugger off, Ellis. You didn’t know Charlie, and, for that matter, you didn’t know Lambie Crump and you should remember that blackmail… I mean serious blackmail – not the sort of thing I go in for – is the most loathsome of crimes and deserves the most condign punishment.’

‘Piers Papworth seemed very cut up when he read the lesson,’ observed Milton.

‘He was,’ said Amiss. ‘I spent a fair bit of time with him over the last few days and there’s no doubt that he mourns Charlie deeply. One thing that came through in conversations with both of them throughout the family row was that it never appeared to affect in any way their mutual devotion.’

‘Any repercussions at the Yard?’ the baroness asked Milton. ‘About your having failed to nab the murderer, that is.’

‘That’s not the sort of thing that gets you into trouble. I’m having more difficulty with an internal policy row than I ever will about an unfinished case.’

‘What’s Tewkesbury’s position?’

‘His mind isn’t on
The Wrangler
, or the sins of the Right, these days. In fact, he’s having such a horrible time working on a gangland murder in Soho that he seems to be developing some sense of perspective. We met in a corridor last Friday, and he greeted me with respect. I have some hopes for him: he might be just young enough to allow reality to penetrate that sanctimonious carapace and stop being such an asshole.’

‘OK,’ said the baroness. ‘Now for the hard news. I’ve got some and Robert’s got some. I’ll start. I’ve done a deal with Sharon McGregor.’

‘What kind of a deal?’ asked Amiss. ‘And why is this the first I’ve heard of it?’

‘Because I only fixed it up last night, you blockhead. It’s taken a while.’

‘Well, go on. Tell us.’

‘You remember that a couple of weeks ago I told you to let me have the run of the building undisturbed one Saturday.’

‘Yes.’

‘I spent the morning taking her round every nook and cranny of
The Wrangler
, telling her about the founder, his successors and the great journalists along the way. I told her of the Papworth involvement down the ages, and then I took her to lunch and told her about Ricketts, and about Ben and Marcia and about loyalty and tradition and continuity and the little
Wrangler
corner of New Britain that is forever the best of England. And having put all that in her head I brought her straight down to St Martha’s again and introduced her to the two most eloquent traditionalists in Cambridge – apart from myself, that is. Then last night I took her out to dinner, put the proposition to her and she accepted.’

‘Accepted what?’

‘That she’s rich enough to do what she likes, rich enough to indulge herself and rich enough to be a great benefactor by becoming the custodian of something worthwhile that might otherwise become extinct. She’s taken onboard the notion that
The Wrangler
is a metaphor for an English Conservative tradition that is at present as close to extinction as the white rhinoceros. The woman has a sense of humour and the idea that she could become a great hostess and mentor of the Right tickled her no end. A powerful weapon in my arsenal was that she hates meaningless rhetoric so the present British and American governments piss her off seriously.

‘Forget the idea of internationalizing
The Wrangler
, I said. Just make it the most effective anti-crap guerrilla organ in Britain.’

‘Do you think she’ll do it?’ asked Amiss.

‘We shook hands on it; we agreed to be allies; and we will be. By the time we’ve finished,
The Wrangler
’s going to be the biggest thorn in the flesh of the complacent Left that there’s ever been in this country.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Pooley. ’But you’re not editing it. I didn’t like to say anything earlier, but I have to say I was surprised to discover today that Papworth had appointed that dull woman Phoebe Somerfield to the job just before he died. She’s hardly colourful or young or hungry, is she?’

‘It was on my recommendation,’ said Amiss.

‘And mine,’ said the baroness.

‘Because…?’ asked Milton.

‘Because of the kind of editor that’s needed. There are journals that need to be shaken up, restructured, relaunched and all the rest of it. And maybe they need thirty-year-olds with vision and energy to turn them upside down. That’s what Robert did,’ said the baroness.

Amiss was so stunned at having had a compliment of this magnitude from such a source, that he could hardly speak. ‘Thanks, Jack. But you’re exaggerating my contribution.’

‘Balls. What you did was to rediscover the journal’s soul and set it on the path of righteousness.’

‘Are you two saying,’ asked Milton, ‘that what’s now required is a safe pair of hands?’

‘Yes and no,’ said Amiss. ‘Phoebe’s safe, in that she understands what
The Wrangler
’s about and will not go in for any mad gambles. But there’s much more to it than that; given scope, she’s shown a genuine instinct for quality and an enthusiasm for young talent, at a time when I believe what’s required is someone low on ego and high on appreciation of others.

‘I made up my mind after a dazzling lunch at the office when Dwight, Amaryllis, Pretoria and Clement Webber jockeyed for position as top intellectual dog, traded ideas and fought each other brilliantly to a standstill. Phoebe contributed little, except occasionally to destroy an illogical argument with a well-timed arrow.

‘Mostly she listened, and afterwards she gave me an assessment of their respective strengths and weaknesses which to my mind was spot on. I think she just could be one of the great discoverers and nurturers of talent. And as she put it herself when I asked if she might be interested in the job: “Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose.” ’

‘Let’s go back to Sharon McGregor,’ said Milton. ‘You’re saying that she’s agreed to buy
The Wrangler
even though the trust remains intact. But for how much, now that she won’t be going global?’

‘It’s just edged into profit and there’s no reason why it couldn’t be a modest money-spinner, so it might be possible to get about a million on the open market. She’s offering three.’

‘Will Piers Papworth take that?’

‘He’s jumped at it. It won’t solve all his problems, but he seems to think it enough to save the Papworth estate from disintegration. Apparently the good news is the state of things is slightly less disastrous than was expected, although the bad news is that Charlie was more generous with bequests than Piers would have wished.’

She stopped and looked at Milton and Pooley. ‘Which leads me to Robert.’ She turned to him. ‘Come on. Talk.’

Amiss looked unhappy. ‘It’s very difficult. I was told yesterday that Charlie Papworth left me a hundred thousand pounds in gratitude for what I’d done for
The Wrangler
.’

‘That’s marvellous,’ said Milton. ‘And well deserved. Materially it slightly makes up for the lunacy of your decision about the editorship.’

‘But I don’t think I can take it.’

‘Sweet suffering Jesus,’ said the baroness. ‘Let me guess. Today’s scruple is that he might be rewarding you for not splitting on him. Is that it?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Listen, you cretin, how much money have you saved Charlie since you took over this job? Now come on, don’t give me a conservative guess. I want a realistic one, which includes what you saved him through the cost-cutting and what you earned him through the increase in circulation.’

‘It’s very hard to put a figure on it,’ said Amiss, ‘but maybe in the region of half a million.’

‘And did you ever hear of such a thing as a bonus?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she said. ‘Even if you can’t grasp that you’re entitled to a generous bonus for doing so much better than expected, you might view it as some compensation for not having the job you would have had if you hadn’t been such a high-minded idiot as to sack yourself when Charlie spilt the beans.’

Amiss looked doubtfully at Milton. ‘She’s right, Robert. This is not a moral issue. Take the money, which you richly deserve; it’ll help tide you over until you get the next decent job. Whenever that is likely to be.’

‘Ellis?’

‘You’d be mad and ungrateful not to. And I’m the official puritan of this group.’

‘Besides,’ said the baroness, ‘you have to find a decent home for you and Plutarch.’

‘Phoebe suggested I should keep the
Wrangler
flat indefinitely. But I said I’d be out within a month.’

‘Why?’ asked all of them in unison.

‘Because I think a clean break would be better for the staff.’

‘Oh, God,’ said the baroness. ‘You really do have a genius for making things difficult for yourself, don’t you?’

The others nodded.

Amiss looked at them in dejection. ‘You all think I screw up, don’t you?’

‘You do and you don’t,’ said the baroness. ‘It’s a peculiar gift you have. You drift into situations unwillingly and by the time you’ve drifted out things are better. That’s why we’re all so pleased, you halfwit, that for once you’ve had some recognition.’

‘So what now?’ asked Milton. ‘What sort of job are you looking for?’

‘God knows. I’m open to offers.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the baroness. ‘I have the very thing.’

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[September 24, 2007]

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