The Roar of the Butterflies. Reginald Hill

said, ‘Any chance of getting to the cheating bit?’

      ‘Yes, I’m getting there,’ said Porphyry with just the faintest hint of irritation. Even gods don’t care to be hurried. ‘Syd’s shot was pretty good, he drew it round the bend nicely, leaving himself a medium iron to reach the green in regulation. Now a half was no good to me – you recall I was dormy three. So I took out my three wood. As you’ll have noticed, I didn’t have a view of the green. I was going to need to get not only the distance but put enough draw on the ball to take it round the bend and up to the green. As if to make up for my drive, I hit a cracker. Off it went and when we got to the green it was lying four feet from the flag and I knocked it in for an eagle. That means two under par. Three shots on this hole. So even though Syd got a birdie, that’s four shots on this hole, I won.’

      Joe said, ‘My head’s hurting.’

      Porphyry said anxiously, ‘It must be the sun. You should have worn a hat. Would you like to sit down for a minute?’

      ‘No, I’m fine. We any nearer the cheating?’

      ‘Nearly there,’ said the YFG, heading back into the woods in the direction of the house. ‘What happened was that Syd was a bit demoralized. Getting a birdie and still losing the hole can do that. I won the next two holes so we ended up all square.’

      ‘Like a draw?’

      ‘That’s it. But you can’t have a draw in a knock-out competition, so we went down the first again.’

      ‘To play another eighteen holes, you mean?’ said Joe aghast.

      ‘Oh no. First man to win a hole wins the match,’ said Porphyry.

      ‘Like a penalty shoot-out?’

      ‘Yes, I suppose so. I won that hole too, so we headed back to the clubhouse for a drink. My treat, of course, being the winner. We were standing at the bar. Syd was telling everyone who came in that I must have sacrificed a virgin to the devil or something, coming back from dormy three to win. He was particularly eloquent on my incredible luck on the sixteenth, clattering my drive into the woods, and yet still somehow managing to come up with an eagle to beat his birdie. He’d just repeated the story for the third or fourth time when Jimmy Postgate came in. That’s Jimmy from Penley Farm, the house I showed you on the far edge of these woods. He speaks quite loudly, Jimmy, because he’s a touch deaf. So everyone in the bar heard it loud and clear when he took a golf ball out of his pocket and tossed it to me, saying, “Here’s the one you lost at the sixteenth, Chris. Plopped right into my swimming pool! Good job there was no one in there or it might have been a burial-at-sea job!”’

      Trust

      Now the Young Fair God fell silent, clearly reliving what even Joe with his weak grasp on the finer points of the game could see must have been a devastating moment.

      But just to be quite sure he said, ‘So if that was your ball went into the swimming pool, no way you could have found it sitting nice and handy right at the edge of the fairway. No way except one, that is?’

      ‘Except one?’

      The YFG was regarding him with hope brightening his face. Poor sod thinks I’m going to pull a rabbit out of the hat, thought Joe. Willie Woodbine must really have sold him the notion I’m some kind of voodoo priest. Well, it was disillusion time.

      He said, ‘The except one being that you put it there.’

      The light died.

      ‘Of course. That’s the obvious conclusion everyone reached.’

      ‘Not everyone, surely?’

      ‘Oh, one or two like Jimmy tell me they find it impossible to believe, but I wouldn’t blame them if even they had doubts. Let’s face it, what other explanation can there be?’

      ‘Only that you were fitted up,’ said Joe.

      ‘Fitted up?’

      It was hard to believe in this wall-to-wall TV cop-show age that anybody could still be ignorant of the jargon.

      ‘That it’s a fix,’ said Joe. ‘That someone wants you to be accused of cheating.’

      ‘Oh,’ said the YFG, sounding disappointed again. ‘That’s what Willie suggested.’

      ‘Willie Woodbine? You called in the police?’

      ‘Good lord, no. I didn’t do anything. I really thought it was so absurd it would just go away, some simple explanation would present itself, we’d all have a laugh and that would be that. But as the days went by, it became clear it wasn’t going away.’

      ‘People were accusing you, you mean?’

      ‘Of course not. No, it was people coming up to me and assuring me they didn’t believe a word of it that made me realize how much everyone was talking. I’d invited Willie along for a game on Saturday – I’m putting him up for membership, you know – and while we were playing, it just sort of came up. I suppose I was hoping his professional expertise might be able to show me a way out. He was very sympathetic, but didn’t see how he could help officially. That was when he recommended you, Joe. So that’s why I came to see you yesterday.’

      ‘Yeah. Great. But Willie did reckon it might be an attempt to frame you?’

      ‘Or a bad joke, perhaps, that went wrong. That’s what he said. Told me to ask myself who might be capable of doing such a thing.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘I haven’t been able to think of a soul.’

      ‘You got no enemies then?’ said Joe doubtfully.

      ‘Not that I know of.’

      That figured. Joe too had once had a similar sunny confidence in human kind, till his chosen profession showed him flaws in his argument. Now he knew, sadly, that the fact that Porphyry thought everyone loved him would be enough to make those who didn’t hate him even more.

      So no help with who? Which meant that the poor sod wasn’t going to be much help with why? either. How? was the easy one. Porphyry hit his ball into the wood. A lurking plotter hurled a similar ball into Postgate’s swimming pool, then placed the original one, or a third ball, if he couldn’t find the original, on the fringe of the fairway.

      Or maybe this guy Postgate himself had orchestrated the whole thing. That would make life a lot simpler.

      A few minutes later Joe was scrubbing this particular theory.

      Porphyry now led him to Penley Farm, entering the long rear garden by a wicket gate. A man was dozing on a cane chair by a small swimming pool. He had a mop of vigorous white hair and a sun-browned complexion. As they got near, Porphyry called out, ‘Hello, Jimmy,’ and the man opened his eyes, looking rather disorientated and extremely ancient. But when he saw who it was, a smile lit up his face, reducing him to a healthy eighty-year-old, and he rose to greet them.

      ‘Chris, good to see you,’ he said, shaking the YFG’s hand vigorously.

      ‘You too, you’re looking well, Jimmy. This is Joe Sixsmith. He’s a private detective. Joe, meet Jimmy Postgate, last of his kind – more’s the pity.’

      Joe, who’d been expecting his role as prospective member to be maintained everywhere in the club, was a bit taken aback by Porphyry’s sudden attack of directness, but Postgate seemed to take it in his stride.

      ‘Private detective, eh?’ he said. ‘Never met one of them before. You look a bit overheated to me, Joe. Fancy a glass of lemonade? Or do you chaps only drink straight