Dead to the World: Based on Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery. Francis Durbridge

      ‘Then I’ve got some bad news for him.’

      The Scrantons started to thread their way through the crush, towards Holt, tentative smiles of gratitude on their faces. It was obvious that they had decided to accept his offer of a lift.

      ‘Miss Sanders,’ Hyde said quietly, ‘do you think you could get Mrs Scranton out of the way for the moment? I’d like to break the news to her husband first.’

      Ruth’s reactions were split-second fast. She broke away from the group and headed Mrs Scranton off with an admiring comment on her hat. In a moment they had been swallowed up by the crowd.

      ‘Mr Robert Scranton?’ asked Hyde politely as the American reached them.

      ‘Sure. That’s me!’

      ‘I’m Detective-Inspector Hyde from Scotland Yard. I don’t want to make a mistake, so may I ask you if you have a son in this country, Mr Scranton?’

      ‘Yes, I have … Why, is there anything wrong?’ Scranton turned pale. ‘He’s a student at University over here – Deanfriston College, down on the south coast. As a matter of fact we’re over here to celebrate his twenty-first birthday.’

      Hyde cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid I have something very unfortunate to tell you, sir. It’s … it’s bad news.’

      Scranton steeled himself. ‘Go on, Inspector.’

      ‘Your son was found dead in his study at Deanfriston early this morning. There seems little doubt that he was murdered.’

      ‘Oh, my God!’ Scranton began to sway, his face assuming a deathly pallor. He looked as though he were about to crumple and Holt jumped forward to steady him. At that precise moment a press camera flashed.

      Hyde’s face registered intense anger as he whirled on the press photographer behind him. ‘How the hell did you get in here, Jenkins?’

      ‘It’s a free press, Inspector,’ said Jenkins smugly, fitting another bulb into his camera and beating a cautious retreat.

      Hyde suppressed his annoyance and turned again to Robert Scranton who asked for a glass of water and felt in his waistcoat pocket for a small silver capsule which contained pills.

      ‘Be … okay in a moment … It’s my heart …’

      Presently a girl in uniform hurried over to him with the water, and as he took the pills he gave them all a beseeching glance. ‘Don’t tell Mother about this – not yet. Leave it to me … She’s not very strong, you know.’

      Holt nodded, and refrained from saying the obvious – that Scranton himself did not appear to be very strong either. To the Inspector Holt said quietly, ‘Is there anything I can do to help? I expect you’ll want them to accompany you up to Town now.’

      ‘Quite so,’ Hyde replied. ‘There is one thing, though. I’d be most grateful if you could steer Mrs Scranton to the upstairs lounge and give her some strong tea. Just say her husband isn’t feeling too well but will be joining her shortly. We’ll take over from there.’

      ‘You’re sure that’s all we can do?’

      ‘I think so. Many thanks to you, Mr Holt. And please convey my thanks to Miss Sanders.’

      Although Holt and Ruth discussed the incident on their way up to Town they did not seriously imagine that it would ever again touch their lives. It was only a chance drink on board a transatlantic plane that had brought Holt and Scranton together, and it was pure coincidence that Detective-Inspector Hyde had been put in charge of the case; had it been any other police officer it was unlikely that they would have been involved in the matter at all.

      By the time Ruth had arrived at the Studio the following morning and they had begun to tackle the arrears of work, the previous day’s events had been practically forgotten.

      It was early afternoon, after a hurried lunch of sandwiches and milk, when the telephone rang.

      Ruth answered it, then placed her hand over the mouthpiece and said with mild surprise, ‘It’s Robert Scranton. Are you at home?’

      Holt looked at his half-cleared desk, made a wry face, then reached for the receiver.

      ‘Mr Scranton?… Yes, this is Holt speaking. How did you know where to find me?… Oh, the telephone directory, of course! What can I do for you?’

      A short conversation followed, in which Holt said little but continued to look perplexed. When he rang off Ruth looked at him expectantly, but he made no comment and stretched out his arm towards the cigarette box on the far side of his desk. He was attempting to cut down on smoking, if not to give it up entirely, but had soon discovered that Ruth’s enthusiasm for this project was greater than his own. When she was present, abstinence usually triumphed, if only temporarily. She slid the box out of reach, silently, and waited for him to speak.

      ‘Scranton wants to see me,’ he said at last. ‘At the Savoy.’

      ‘On business? Does he want you to photograph his washing machines?’

      ‘I don’t think so. It’s got something to do with his son. He says he has something to show me. Why me, I wonder?’

      ‘Perhaps he needs a friend. Maybe he doesn’t know anyone else in London.’

      ‘I don’t think that’s the answer. He told me he comes over here pretty often, travels all over Europe, in fact.’

      ‘Are you going?’

      ‘What else could I say? I can’t really spare the time, but somehow he made it sound quite urgent. His wife chipped in a word, too. Said she’d be eternally grateful if I’d spare them ten minutes. I could hardly refuse.’

      He took his raincoat and hat from the hook and glanced at Ruth’s desk. ‘You’ve got enough to get on with till I get back?’

      ‘Not if you’re going to be away longer than three weeks,’ came the dry reply.

      Holt’s laugh was a shade embarrassed as he descended the narrow staircase and let himself out through the street door. He sometimes wondered if he drove Ruth too hard. If so, she seemed to thrive on it. Women were funny creatures. On the whole, since his divorce, he had been happier without them. The trouble was, of course, he didn’t really understand them …

      Now a car, he thought, as he swung open the garage door and gazed with pride at his gleaming red Mustang – a car was something a man really could understand. No tantrums, no coy or inexplicable moods about those sleek and splendid beasts!

      It was only a month or two since he had parted with his Lancia Flaminia, after barely a year’s ownership, in favour of the Mustang, and he still experienced a feeling of exultation as he slid behind the wheel and fastened his safety belt. It was great to be back with the Mustang!… Now to the Savoy … Turn left, swing round beneath Big Ben, down on to the embankment, and a nice straight run to a parking spot near Waterloo Bridge. It would take him five minutes – well, it rather depended on police speed patrols …

      He backed out carefully and then flicked on the specially-fitted racing speedometer with its wide sweeping secondhand. Say, four-and-a-half minutes!

      Robert Scranton opened the door to his hotel suite almost immediately after Holt had knocked. He must have been waiting in the near vicinity.

      They shook hands and Scranton offered Holt a drink. Then Mrs Scranton, dressed in severe black, came out of the adjoining room. She was very pale, but seemed composed and well able to help Holt over the awkward hurdle of expressing his condolences.

      ‘Mr Holt, I won’t try and describe to you what it means to lose your only son,’ she said. ‘We have two married daughters in the States, but a son … Anyway, we didn’t bring you here to inflict our burden on you. Do sit down.’

      ‘Mother’s right,’ Scranton said, handing Holt his drink. ‘We’ve no right to