News of Paul Temple. Francis Durbridge

care of yourself, Iris,’ laughed Temple. ‘I don’t want any accidents happening to my leading lady.’

      Iris was turning to go when Temple’s manservant opened the door and announced Sir Graham Forbes.

      Both Temple and his wife appeared surprised, for they had not seen Sir Graham for some months. Steve was more than a little alarmed, for Sir Graham’s visits were usually associated with something a little more exciting than afternoon tea.

      ‘It’s all right, Steve,’ smiled her husband, ‘there’s nothing to get excited about.’

      ‘Sir Graham Forbes?’ queried Iris, setting her hat at a jaunty angle. ‘Isn’t he connected with Scotland Yard or something?’

      ‘It is Scotland Yard,’ Temple informed her, as she followed Pryce. She bade them an extravagant farewell, and Temple once more repeated his assurance that he would write to Seaman that night.

      As Pryce carefully closed the door, Steve turned to her husband with a worried frown. ‘Paul, if Sir Graham is here because he needs your help, then please—’ There was a catch in her voice.

      Temple squeezed her arm affectionately.

      ‘Sir Graham is here because he needs a cocktail. A very strong cocktail. And nothing else, Mrs Temple,’ came the urbane voice of Scotland Yard’s Chief Commissioner.

      ‘Why, Sir Graham!’ ejaculated Steve.

      ‘Come along in, Sir Graham!’ laughed Temple. ‘It’s grand seeing you again. Though I thought Pryce—’

      ‘Yes, Pryce wanted to announce me all right,’ smiled Sir Graham. ‘But he seemed to have his hands full with the blonde.’

      ‘That was Iris Archer. You’ve probably heard of her,’ Temple informed him.

      ‘Iris Archer?’ Sir Graham was obviously impressed.

      Temple crossed over to the cocktail cabinet.

      ‘What would you like, Sir Graham? Sherry? Bronx?’

      ‘I’d rather like a Bronx,’ said Sir Graham, watching Temple rather curiously as he selected the ingredients. ‘What was the trip like, Temple? Got a bit of a shock when I heard you were coming over on the Clipper.’

      ‘Oh, lovely!’ enthused Steve. ‘We enjoyed every minute of it, didn’t we, darling?’

      ‘Every minute,’ agreed Temple, handing their visitor his drink and then pouring out a glass of sherry for Steve.

      Sir Graham smacked his lips.

      ‘Isn’t Iris Archer going into a play of yours? I seem to remember reading something about it?’ he asked.

      ‘Well, she was going into a play of mine,’ replied Temple. ‘Now things seem a little uncertain.’

      ‘H’m. Pity.’ grunted Forbes, who understood little or nothing of the complications that arise in the theatre world.

      ‘What’s Scotland Yard doing at the moment?’ asked Temple.

      ‘Just at the moment,’ began Forbes with elaborate emphasis, ‘we are up against one of the greatest criminal organisations—’

      Steve had almost risen from her chair, and Sir Graham broke into a heavy laugh.

      ‘He’s only pulling your leg, darling,’ Temple reassured her, but somehow Steve did not altogether appreciate the joke.

      ‘As a matter of fact, things are pretty dead. They have been for months,’ continued the Chief Commissioner evenly. ‘One or two isolated murders, but nothing really big since “The Front Page Men”, and I can’t honestly say I’m sorry.’ He drained his glass and got up.

      ‘I must be on my way – I only dropped in to welcome the wanderers home again.’

      ‘We’re going away again in a day or two,’ said Temple, ‘but when we get back you must come to dinner and—’

      ‘I shall be out of town myself for about a month,’ broke in Sir Graham. ‘First holiday I’ve taken for nearly six years.’

      Temple said casually: ‘Where are you going?’

      ‘Carol’s taken a villa just outside Nice.’

      ‘Nice!’ echoed Steve in some surprise.

      ‘Yes,’ said Forbes. ‘I say, you two don’t happen to be going to the South of France, by any chance?’

      ‘Oddly enough, Sir Graham—’ began Temple.

      ‘We’re going to Scotland,’ finished Steve. ‘You did want to go to Scotland, didn’t you, darling?’

      ‘Why—er—yes. Yes, of course,’ said Temple in some embarrassment.

      ‘Then that’s fine,’ smiled Steve, rather delighted by her husband’s unexpected confusion.

      ‘Well, wherever you go, Temple, keep out of mischief,’ said Forbes.

      Steve smiled. It was a very pleasant smile.

      ‘That’s just why we are going to Scotland!’ she said.

       3

      For five hours Temple had been driving steadily through variable Scottish weather. They had stopped at Dunfermline to gaze open-mouthed upon the many evidences of the benevolence of Mr Andrew Carnegie. They had even paused some time at the tomb of Robert the Bruce, and, rather to Steve’s amusement, Temple had drawn many parallels between the tenacity of that legendary figure and the patience required in the solution of modern crime mysteries.

      As they continued their journey towards Inverdale, where they proposed to spend a few days, the sky suddenly darkened, and on a particularly lonely stretch of moorland the rain lashed furiously against the windscreen.

      Steve was never very comfortable during thunderstorms, and when the sky was streaked with forked flashes she begged her husband to stop. But Temple drove on, holding the theory that a moving vehicle is a less likely target for lightning.

      ‘The rain seems to be getting worse,’ shouted Steve above the noise of the storm. Temple, struggling with the windscreen wiper, which was sticking occasionally, muttered an imprecation.

      ‘I don’t believe the lightning is quite so bad now,’ added Steve, after a pause.

      ‘Perhaps not,’ replied Temple, who had not been paying much attention to it. ‘This road is terrible. If we get a puncture now, everything in the garden will be lovely!’

      ‘I wonder how many miles we are from Inverdale,’ Steve speculated, eyeing a range of mountains which seemed deceptively near.

      ‘I’m beginning to wonder if there is such a place,’ grunted Temple.

      ‘There must be, darling. It’s on the map.’

      ‘That’s a very old map,’ Temple pointed out as he stepped on the footbrake. ‘Hallo, what’s this?’

      ‘This’ was a cluster of about twenty cottages, scattered at varying intervals along the road.

      ‘Looks like a village of some sort,’ said Steve, as the car approached.

      ‘“Some sort” is about right,’ grimaced Temple. ‘I hope this isn’t Inverdale.’

      ‘It can’t be, darling. There’s nothing except cottages.’

      A solitary cow was straying homewards, and Temple had to slow the car down to practically walking pace. The storm had almost passed over by now, and Temple was anxious to find a signpost of some description. ‘It’s no good going on if we’re off the right road,’ he told Steve, who was busy unfolding the map. He stopped the car outside the first of the cottages.

      Temple glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was only half-past six.