A Murder of Quality

'Well, I can't tonight, can I? Her husband will be in. I thought I'd put a letter in the post to her tonight telling her she can come to see me any time. But,' she continued, making a slight, impatient movement with her foot, 'I want to do something now, George.'

Smiley nodded and went to the telephone. He rang directory inquiries and asked for Terence Fielding's number. After a long delay he was told to ring Carne School central exchange, who would connect him with whomever he required. Miss Brimley, watching him, wished she knew a little more about George Smiley, how much of that diffidence was assumed, how vulnerable he was.

'The best,' Adrian had said. 'The strongest and the best.'

But so many men learnt strength during the war, learnt terrible things, and put aside their knowledge with a shudder when it ended.

The number was ringing now. She heard the dialling tone and for a moment was filled with apprehension. For the first time she was afraid of making a fool of herself, afraid of becoming involved in unlikely explanations with angular, suspicious people.

'Mr Terence Fielding, please…' A pause.

'Fielding, good evening. My name is George Smiley; I knew your brother well in the war. We have in fact met… Yes, yes, quite right—Magdalen, was it not, the summer before last? Look, I wonder if I might come and see you on a personal matter… it's a little difficult to discuss on the telephone. A friend of mine has received a rather disturbing letter from the wife of a Carne master… Well, I—Rode, Stella Rode; her husband…'

He suddenly stiffened, and Miss Brimley, her eyes fixed upon him, saw with alarm how his chubby face broke into an expression of pain and disgust. She no longer heard what he was saying. She could only watch the dreadful transformation of his face, the whitening knuckles of his hand clutching the receiver. He was looking at her now, saying something… it was too late. Stella Rode was dead. She had been murdered late on Wednesday night. They'd actually been dining with Fielding the night it happened.

Chapter Three—The Night of the Murder

The seven-five from Waterloo to Yeovil is not a popular train, though it provides an excellent breakfast. Smiley had no difficulty in finding a first-class compartment to himself. It was a bitterly cold day, dark and the sky heavy with snow. He sat huddled in a voluminous travelling coat of Continental origin, holding in his gloved hands a bundle of the day's papers. Because he was a precise man and did not care to be hurried, he had arrived thirty minutes before the train was due to depart. Still tired after the stresses of the previous night, when he had sat up talking with Ailsa Brimley until Heaven knew what hour, he was disinclined to read. Looking out of the window on to an almost empty station, he caught sight, to his great surprise, of Miss Brimley making her way along the platform, peering in at the windows, a carrier bag in her hand. He lowered the window and called to her.

'My dear Brim, what are you doing here at this dreadful hour? You should be in bed.'

She sat down opposite him and began unpacking her bag and handing him its contents: thermos, sandwiches, and chocolate.

'I didn't know whether there was a breakfast car,' she explained; 'and besides, I wanted to come and see you off. You're such a dear, George, and I wish I could come with you, but Unipress would go mad if I did. The only time they notice you is when you're not there.'

'Haven't you seen the papers?' he asked.

'Just briefly, on the way here. They seem to think it wasn't him, but some madman…'

'I know, Brim. That's what Fielding said, wasn't it?' There was a moment's awkward silence.

'George, am I being an awful ass, letting you go off like this? I was sure last night, but now I wonder…'

'After you left I rang Ben Sparrow of Special Branch. You remember him, don't you? He was with us in the war. I told him the whole story.'

'George! At three in the morning?'

'Yes. He's ringing the Divisional Superintendent at Carne. He'll tell him about the letter, and that I'm coming down. Ben had an idea that a man named Rigby would be handling the case. Rigby and Ben were at police college together.' He looked at her kindly for a moment. 'Besides, I'm a man of leisure, Brim. I shall enjoy the change.'

'Bless you, George,' said Miss Brimley, woman enough to believe him. She got up to go, and Smiley said to her:

'Brim, if you should need any more help or anything, and can't get hold of me, there's a man called Mendel who lives in Mitcham, a retired police inspector. He's in the book. If you get hold of him and mention me, he'll do what he can for you. I've booked a room at the Sawley Arms.'