A Murder of Quality

Smiley waited while Rigby telephoned to London. Almost mechanically, Rigby described what he wanted done: the parcel and its contents were to be collected and arrangements made to subject them immediately to forensic examination; the surfaces should be tested for finger-prints. He would be coming up to London himself with some samples of a boy's handwriting and an examination paper; he would want the opinion of a handwriting expert. No, he would be coming by train on the 4.25 from Carne, arriving at Waterloo at 8.05. Could a car be sent to the station to collect him? There was silence, then Rigby said testily, 'All right, I'll take a ruddy taxi,' and rang off rather abruptly. He looked at Smiley angrily for a moment, then grinned, plucked at his ear and said:

'Sorry, sir; getting a bit edgy.' He indicated the far wall with his head and added, 'Fighting on too many fronts, I suppose. I shall have to tell the Chief about that parcel, but he's out shooting at the moment—only pigeon, with a couple of friends, he won't be long—but I haven't mentioned your presence here in Carne, as a matter of fact, and if you don't mind I'll…'

'Of course,' Smiley cut in quickly. 'It's much simpler if you keep me out of it.'

'I shall tell him it was just a routine inquiry. We shall have to mention Miss Brimley later… but there's no point in making things worse, is there?'

'No.'

'I shall have to let Janie go, I suppose… She was right, wasn't she? Silver wings in the moonlight.'

'I wouldn't—no, I wouldn't let her go, Rigby,' said Smiley with unaccustomed vehemence. 'Keep her with you as long as you can possibly manage. No more accidents, for heaven's sake. We've had enough.'

'Then you don't believe Perkins's death was an accident?'

'Good Lord, no,' cried Smiley suddenly, 'and nor do you, do you?'

'I've put a detective on to it,' Rigby replied coolly. 'I can't take the case myself. I shall be needed on the Rode murder. The Chief will have to call the Yard in now; there'll be hell to pay I can tell you. He thought it was all over bar the shouting.'

'And in the meantime?'

'In the meantime, sir, I'm going to do my damnedest to find out who killed Stella Rode.'

'If,' said Smiley slowly, 'if you find fingerprints on that mackintosh, which I doubt, will you have anything… local… to compare them with?'

'We've got Rode's, of course, and Janie's.'

'But not Fielding's?'

Rigby hesitated.

'As a matter of fact, we have,' he said at last. 'From long ago. But nothing to do with this kind of thing.'

'It was during the war,' said Smiley. 'His brother told me. Up in the North. It was hushed up, wasn't it?'

Rigby nodded. 'So far as I heard, only the D'Arcys knew; and the Master, of course. It happened in the holidays—some Air Force boy. The Chief was very helpful…'

Smiley shook hands with Rigby and made his way down the familiar pine staircase. He noticed again the vaguely institutional smell of floor polish and carbolic soap, like the smell at Fielding's house.

He walked slowly back towards the Sawley Arms. At the point where he should have turned left to his hotel, however, he hesitated, then seemed to change his mind. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he crossed the road to the Abbey Close, and walked along the southern edge towards Fielding's house. He looked worried, almost frightened.

Chapter 16—A Taste for Music

Miss Truebody opened the door. The rims of her eyes were pink, as though she had been weeping.

'I wonder if I might see Mr Fielding? To say good-bye.'

She hesitated: 'Mr Fielding's very upset. I doubt whether he'll want to see anyone.' He followed her into the hall and watched her go to the study door. She knocked, inclined her head, then gently turned the handle and let herself in. It was a long time before she returned. 'He'll be out shortly,' she said, without looking at him. 'Will you take off your coat?' She waited while he struggled out of his overcoat, then took it from him and hung it beside the Van Gogh chair. They stood together in silence, both looking towards the study door.

Then, quite suddenly, Fielding was standing in the half-open doorway, unshaven and in his shirt-sleeves. 'For Christ's sake,' he said thickly. 'What do you want?'

'I just wanted to say good-bye, Fielding, and to offer you my condolences.'

Fielding looked at him hard for a moment; he was leaning heavily against the doorway; 'Well, good-bye. Thank you for calling.' He waved one hand vaguely in the air. 'You needn't have bothered really, need you?' he added rudely. 'You could have sent me a card, couldn't you?'

'I could have done, yes; it just seemed so very tragic, when he was so near success.'

'What do you mean? What the devil do you mean?'

'I mean in his work… the improvement. Simon Snow was telling me all about it. Amazing really, the way Rode brought him on.'

A long silence, then Fielding spoke: 'Good-bye, Smiley. Thanks for coming.' He was turning back into the study as Smiley called: