Paul Temple and the Kelby Affair. Francis Durbridge

years of her life keeping people in their place. Steve found it almost impossible to guess whether she was worried, guilty, or sublimely above the contemporary world. But just as she was about to leave the butler appeared.

      ‘Excuse me, my lady. Sir Philip Tranmere is on the telephone.’

      ‘I’ll ring him back, Simpson.’

      ‘He says that it is most urgent, my lady.’

      Lady Delamore sighed. ‘The silly man. It is not urgent to me. Tell him that everything is perfectly in order, and I’ll ring him this evening. Mrs Temple is about to leave.’

      Steve left. After the afternoon’s ordeal it was almost a shock to see the mini and maxi skirts and fashionable long hair, people on the streets who belonged unmistakably to the 1970s.

      Paul was still out when she reached home. So Steve helped Kate with the housework and allowed her mind to freewheel over the things Lady Delamore had said. She had a record sleeve to design by Monday, but she didn’t want to become absorbed in anything else until she had talked to Paul. He arrived shortly after nine o’clock to find Steve doodling at the drawing board.

      ‘Lady Delamore didn’t feel worried or guilty, I’m sure of that,’ Steve assured him. ‘In fact I don’t think she gives a damn about anything or anybody. I only hope I’ll be like that when I’m eighty-five. She was so dreadful she was rather splendid.’

      Paul laughed. ‘I’m sure that when you’re eighty-five you’ll be absolutely appalling!’

      ‘Flatterer.’

      ‘It’s nice to be back.’ He poured himself a whisky and sat beside Steve. ‘Hello, have you been commissioned to do some work?’

      ‘Yes, I saw Jeremy while you were away.’ She smiled quickly. ‘He said the work was flowing in again. Design looks up. Britain will look a better place to live in—’

      ‘That sounds like Jeremy. While I was pounding along the Atlantic seaboard earning dollars for Britain Jeremy was seducing my wife with record sleeves.’

      Steve laughed. ‘I sat here night after night, thinking of you and knitting in front of the fire. I read Dylan Thomas in America to keep myself company. But did you miss me?’

      ‘I’ll say I did, my darling.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Next time I see Jeremy I’ll punch him on the nose. Do you want some whisky?’

      ‘Not at the moment. I’ve spent a hideous afternoon to discover what that old crone knew about the diary. So listen and sound interested.’

      ‘Mm. Tell me.’

      ‘I think the diary is probably in her possession.’

      Paul stood up in amazement. ‘Really? Steve, you’re marvellous! How did you establish that?’

      She shrugged. ‘I didn’t. Call it feminine intuition.’

      ‘Oh, that. You mean you’re guessing.’

      ‘I’m convinced of it. Can I have some brandy?’

      Paul went across to the sideboard and opened a bottle of brandy. ‘I suppose she would be the number one suspect for stealing it. But I can’t see an eighty-five-year-old woman kidnapping Kelby.’ He looked at the bottle for a moment, then said quietly: ‘Did I tell you? We found Kelby this afternoon.’

      Charlie Vosper had driven like a stunt man in a silent film to reach Ted Mortimer’s farm. He had telephoned for two constables to conduct a search of the premises. The constables arrived from the opposite direction at the same time as Charlie Vosper swung into Galloway Farm and narrowly missed three hens out for a walk. They drove in convoy past the barn and cattle sheds alongside a field of sheep to the rambling farmhouse. By the time the two cars had skidded to a halt Ted Mortimer was already in the doorway.

      ‘Do you realise it’s dangerous to drive at that speed?’ he demanded.

      He was a big man with a red, weather-beaten face. His arms were tattooed with swords and snakes. An aggressive man who was none too pleased to see the police.

      ‘What’s all the panic?’ he asked.

      Charlie Vosper showed his identification. ‘We’re investigating the disappearance of Mr Alfred Kelby. I believe you knew him. He’s been missing since Monday morning, and I wondered whether you could help us to locate him.’

      Mortimer shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. Kelby and I weren’t really on visiting terms.’

      ‘He was coming over here on Monday afternoon.’

      ‘That’s right. But he never arrived.’

      Charlie Vosper stared at the farmer, deciding whether he was ‘straight’ or not. It was a careful examination and Paul could see why the man should glare so aggressively back.

      ‘Do you mind if we look over your farm?’

      Mortimer was ungracious. ‘Go ahead if you must, but don’t disturb my livestock. They aren’t used to policemen.’

      The farm was obviously run down. Ted Mortimer himself bore a grudge against the world, and his men bore a grudge against Ted Mortimer. The animals obviously didn’t give a damn for anyone. It was something to do with the weather, Paul decided as he wandered round in the wake of the police. The weather was always bad for farmers.

      ‘Bad weather for the crops,’ he said conversationally to Ted Mortimer as they came out of the tractor shed.

      ‘We’re mainly livestock here,’ he said. ‘Dairy farm.’

      Paul nodded. ‘Shocking weather.’

      The two constables had been through the rooms and attic and cellars of the house, without success. Of course a body could have been buried in the fields. But they went through the outhouses and ramshackle cattle sheds systematically. They found Kelby when they reached the barn.

      The barn was built on two levels. The ground level was scattered with sacks of fertiliser and a set of disc harrows. On the upper level a rusty old bath kept company with an abandoned sewing machine, a child’s rocking horse and an odd assortment of junk. One of the constables on the top level was leaning out of the loading bay as Charlie Vosper and Paul Temple reached the doors.

      ‘He’s down there,’ the man called. ‘The rain butt by the corner.’

      Paul and the inspector ran to the back of the barn. The rain butt was very large, and unless you were deliberately searching you wouldn’t have seen the hand resting over the edge by the drainpipe.

      A police ambulance and a doctor were sent for, as well as the photographer and a fingerprint man from the lab. Paul Temple watched in fascination as the whole organisation moved smoothly into action. A constable stayed on duty by the body and the other took statements from the farm hands. It was such a routine operation for them that a man’s violent death became almost an irrelevance.

      ‘Nobody’s been near this bloody barn for ten days. You can see it’s hardly used at this time of year.’

      Paul Temple realised that the farmer was still standing next to him. As the only other man without a part to play he had stayed helplessly by Paul’s side, watching and feeling sorry for himself.

      ‘When did you last see Mr Kelby alive?’ Paul asked him.

      ‘I saw him in the village about a week ago. But I didn’t speak to him.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘I saw him first.’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘What do you think it means? It means I avoided him.’ Ted Mortimer stepped aside to allow the doctor to pass. They were about to move the body. It was a bloated, blue-hued impersonal thing, nothing more to do with Alfred Kelby. ‘Wouldn’t you avoid someone if you owed him two thousand quid, and you were up to your bloody ears in debt?’