It was the scandal of all those orgies in the shooting lodge that made him into a national figure.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, about two months ago I met a woman called Bella Spender,’ Scott Reed shouted. ‘She lives in the South of France. I was staying there with some friends and—well, we became quite friendly.’
Paul was baffled. ‘Bella Spender?’
‘Yes. You won’t have heard of her, Paul, but you should have heard of her sister, Margaret Spender.’
‘Wasn’t she Lord Delamore’s secretary?’
‘That’s right.’ Scott Reed leaned back in the chair and whispered sepulchrally: ‘But she wasn’t only his secretary. She was also his mistress.’
Steve came in with three cups of coffee and set them down on the glass-topped table. Her interest was immediately aroused by that part of the conversation she had heard.
‘Margaret Spender kept a diary,’ Scott Reed continued. ‘A very detailed diary about her friendship with Lord Delamore and the lives of that whole set. It’s absolutely scandalous. You’ve no idea what those bright middle-aged things got up to just after the war. I mean, that was when rationing was still with us—’ He turned slightly pink as he realised that Steve was amused.
‘Go on,’ said Steve, ‘it sounds fascinating.’
‘Well, about two months ago I had a phone call from Bella Spender. She was over here, staying at Claridges, and she asked me to go round and see her. So I went, because we had been quite friendly, and she gave me the diary.’
‘How had she come by the diary?’ asked Paul.
‘Her sister, Margaret Spender, had died. She was killed in an air crash a few months ago.’
‘And why did she give you the diary?’ Paul insisted.
Steve laughed. ‘Because Scott is a publisher, darling.’ She was enjoying the story. ‘I’m surprised that Margaret herself hadn’t tried to have it published. The mystery surrounding Lord Delamore’s death is one of the most fascinating in the history of murder.’
Paul agreed. ‘True-life mysteries sell very well. Did the diary give any answers?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what credence we could give them. I was hoping that Kelby would tell me how true the allegations might be.’
‘Kelby? You mean he saw this diary?’
‘I took it down to him, the day he disappeared.’
‘Oh my God!’
Scott Reed had sprung from the womb-like chair and was flapping about the room like a moth. ‘I had to get him to sign an indemnity, because he was a guest at the shooting lodge when Delamore was killed, and he is mentioned in the diary. But I wanted his opinion about the facts.’ He shrugged abjectly and looked across the Thames. ‘I was worried about publishing it, Paul. The diary was sensational, but it was also vicious. They were a fast-living set, I know, but I couldn’t believe they were quite so nasty. In the end I decided to ask Alfred Kelby whether the diary was accurate. On Monday morning I drove out to Melford Cross and gave him the diary to read.’
Paul Temple waited for a moment, but nothing more was said.
‘Well?’ asked Paul. ‘What else?’
‘Nothing. Kelby is missing, and so is the diary.’
THE town hall in Melford Cross had been built in 1909, to celebrate the sudden promotion of its occupants from parish vestrymen to borough councillors. It was absurdly grand for the cluster of villages it served. As he went up the twenty-four steps to its entrance Paul Temple half expected the doors to open and two town criers to eject Larry the Lamb. Instead a retired sergeant major in grey uniform saluted and asked if he could help, governor.
‘I’d like to see the town clerk. I’m Paul Temple.’
A painting of the first mayor in all his finery glared down the luxurious winding staircase. The cream and green colour scheme of the interior added a touch of Regency to the atmosphere. It seemed a shame that the building was so silent. The civic splendour of a bygone age. Paul followed the man down hushed corridors to an office looking on to the town square.
‘Mr Temple? I’m Ballard, town clerk. How can I help you?’
They shook hands and Paul sat in a winged leather armchair. The town clerk looked genuinely pleased to see him, which increased Paul’s suspicion that all the other rooms in the building were empty. Ballard was old, absent minded and extremely thin. Perhaps when the place had been evacuated they had forgotten to advise him, they may have even thought he had retired.
‘Things seem very quiet,’ said Paul.
‘It’s all this local government reorganisation. Most of our work has been taken over, and the staff have gone with the work. That’s centralisation, Mr Temple.’
‘But you still administer education from here—’
‘No,’ Ballard interrupted. ‘I suppose you’ve come about Mr Kelby. He’s a co-opted member of the subcommittee for this region. A very good man, very entertaining.’
‘Could you tell me what was on the agenda for Monday’s meeting?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You don’t think he would have been kidnapped to prevent him from attending the meeting? Or to put pressure on him to support some local issue?’
The town clerk was amused by the suggestion. ‘Certainly not. At all our meetings Mr Kelby is in a minority of one.’ His face was creased with happy appreciation. ‘I don’t think Mr Kelby is really in favour of education. He thinks it corrupts young minds, prevents them from learning and exploring.’ He chuckled. ‘Nobody takes Mr Kelby seriously in Melford Cross.’
Paul wondered why he was on the subcommittee.
‘Prestige, I suppose, and the school children love him. He’s very good at speech days.’
Paul asked about the publicity attending their subcommittee meetings.
‘You mean, would anybody know that he had a meeting that morning? Yes, anybody could have known. The meetings of each council cycle are published in the local press. If anybody wanted to know we would tell them and keep no record of the fact. They aren’t secret.’
‘Thanks,’ said Paul. He rose to leave. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘I realised what you wanted to know.’ He showed Paul to the door and shook hands. ‘The police inspector asked the very same questions. He even asked why the building was so quiet. But he was rude, he cracked a joke about Larry the Lamb.’
Charlie Vosper was in charge of the case. He was at Melford House interviewing his suspects when Paul called on him fifteen minutes later. Charlie was a copper of the old school, not a bureaucrat. He was a good copper because he knew crooks, he respected them – the ones who were good at their job, and he even liked a lot of them. If Charlie hadn’t joined Scotland Yard and become an inspector he could have been a successful underworld boss. Paul Temple knew him of old. They even liked each other.
‘What do you want, Temple?’ Vosper asked rudely.
‘Just thought you might need some help.’
Charlie Vosper nodded. ‘Like I need a week in hospital. Do you know this chap Kelby?’
‘Slightly.’
‘Come into the library and tell me about him.’
Paul approved of the carved oak and the obvious solidity of the place. It indicated an old-fashioned taste for the good