Postscript to Murder. Литагент HarperCollins USD

better see it … Half a mo … I’ve got the note here. It was a man’s voice, no name, of course. Said Mr Kemp was getting threatening letters, that it was in the local public interest for people to know, etc., etc. Well, I wouldn’t have touched it with a bargepole, you know that, Mr Kemp. A delicate matter, and from an anonymous tip-off …’

      ‘Then why the hell did you print it?’

      ‘Because we got proof it was true. Came in later … A packet of letters in their envelopes, postmarked and addressed to you – and opened.’

      ‘How many?’

      ‘Three … That’s why I tried to phone you … But the story couldn’t wait. My reporter called Upshire. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? We reckoned if there was anything in it he’d be the one to know. My man was sure he did.’

      ‘I suppose that packet came by hand and nobody saw who brought it?’

      ‘Right. Dropped in the outside box Friday lunchtime. Look, Mr Kemp, it was an item of local interest, besides having the makings of a good story. We might even be able to help in following it up … And we certainly wouldn’t print what’s in those letters. It’s vicious stuff. I think perhaps you ought to have them back.’

      ‘I think so too. After all, they are my private correspondence,’ Kemp said, with some sarcasm. ‘Who’s seen them at your office?’

      ‘Only myself and the reporter who took the call, Dan Frobisher. I can vouch for him keeping his mouth shut, but, as I’ve said, the Gazette may be able to help … Sometimes these things are better out in the open …’

      ‘The voice of the press in the interests of the great British public …’ Kemp could not help the sardonic note, but he had to admit that Grimshaw had a point. ‘Could you send Frobisher round here with those letters before they go any further? And I’d like them in the same packet in which they were delivered. Your item was correct, the police are investigating and John Upshire will soon spike your guns if anything else gets printed in the meantime.’

      ‘Right-oh … Just so long as we get the full story in the end, Mr Kemp.’

      Mary looked at him closely when he came back from the phone.

      ‘More coffee?’ She was calm, she was rarely otherwise.

      She put two fresh cups on the table, poured and sat down opposite him.

      ‘What harm can it do?’ she asked.

      ‘The bit about reputation is nasty … and I’d rather I’d told my colleagues about the letters than have them read about them in the Gazette. I’ve had letters before threatening to have me struck off, usually from people who think we’ve overcharged them or disgruntled husbands who’re sure I’m having it off with their wives … But these are only crackpots getting something out of their systems, and they soon stop. This joker’s different, he or she is relentless – and they hark back to the fact that I’d been struck off before …’

      ‘But that was nearly twenty years ago, and you’ve said yourself anyone in the legal profession can look it up.’

      ‘Mud sticks, Mary …’

      ‘Only if you let it … I grew up in so much of it I never noticed. But I can see how it might be different for you. All the same, I am more concerned with the death threats. Your reputation is important to you but I don’t want to read about it on a tombstone.’

      ‘I think that’s one of the nicest things that’s ever been said to me.’

      Kemp spoke lightly but the underlying meaning was clear to both of them; when people come together in their middle years the relationship is deepened by knowledge of the fragility of such a merger. They were still holding hands when the doorbell rang.

      Daniel Frobisher was not what Kemp expected; he thought of reporters as eager young men in leather jackets. Frobisher was in his fifties and soberly dressed in a grey suit. He was a stocky man of good features. Glasses did not quite conceal a cast in his left eye which gave him a slightly sinister look until one became reconciled to it.

      ‘Mr Kemp? Of course, I’ve seen you in court. Mrs Kemp, we haven’t met?’ His glance swept briefly over her. ‘Sorry to intrude on your Saturday leisure.’

      He was already in the hall. ‘Nice house, this. Glad to see you’ve not altered it. A good period for architecture.’

      ‘Do come in, Mr Frobisher,’ Kemp told him, rather belatedly. ‘We can talk in the study.’

      He led the way into the small room designated as such, though so far unused since the habits of a single man had been already cast off by Kemp, without regret.

      Mary hovered for a moment in the doorway.

      ‘I have to shop, Lennox, or there’ll be no meals in this house today. Nice meeting you, Mr Frobisher.’

      ‘She’s an American, your wife?’ asked Frobisher as soon as he heard the front door close.

      ‘Is she?’ said Kemp, pleasantly. ‘I hadn’t noticed … Now, Mr Grimshaw said you had a packet of letters for me.’

      ‘Sure. Sure. Here it is.’ Frobisher struggled with an inner pocket and produced a brown paper package. Kemp took it from him. It was unmarked, unaddressed and had been originally sealed with Sellotape. He shook out the contents which he recognized instantly: three envelopes postmarked and bearing his address. He was aware of the reporter’s eyes upon him as he carefully scrutinized the letters.

      ‘All present and correct, squire?’ It was a sobriquet which Kemp particularly deprecated, but here the style bespoke the man: Frobisher was the sort who would see himself as equal in any company.

      ‘I think so. Will you thank your editor for me? I understand from him you will keep your discretion.’

      As if on cue, Dan Frobisher laid a surprisingly well-manicured finger along the side of his nose. ‘Mum’s the word. You can count on me. Is that all, Mr Kemp?’

      ‘All for now, Mr Frobisher. What else did you have in mind?’

      ‘I’m a reporter, squire … Just doing my job, like you do yours …’

      ‘Look, there’s nothing further in this for you – at least for the present.’

      Frobisher walked round the big desk, looked down at its bare surface, then transferred his gaze to the bookshelves where Kemp had begun to arrange his literary treasures. ‘H’m … the classics … I’m a great reader myself, Mr Kemp … “A Good Book is the Precious Life-blood of a Master Spirit” … I remember that from my schooldays … You’ve a nice set of Disraeli there … Who do you think wrote them?’

      Kemp stopped himself saying, ‘Disraeli, of course.’ He knew exactly what Frobisher was up to – the man must have been studying the techniques of television interviewers.

      ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, smoothly.

      ‘Oh, come on, surely you haven’t got that many disgruntled clients.’

      Frobisher turned from his contemplation of the Victorian brown-and-gold bindings, and grinned at Kemp.

      There was no doubt here was a man on the make. He had scented a good story, perhaps one of the few to come within the orbit of a small provincial paper, and he had decided to milk it for all it was worth. Kemp was wary of journalists, but they were a breed he had no wish to antagonize.

      ‘Shall we just say the question is an open one? Your editor has suggested the services of the Gazette might be used … These services at the moment require you to keep your mouth shut, Mr Frobisher. When the writer of these letters is discovered Inspector Upshire will issue a statement. In the meantime I have no comment to make.’

      ‘Now there’s a phrase sticks like wax in the ears … Mine, I keep ’em open, Mr Kemp. That little item this morning, you may not like it but it’ll