It’s around 9am on Saturday morning. Marker is asleep on the couch in his office, having missed the last bus home the previous night. He’s in his shirt, underpants and socks – his jacket, trousers, tie (already looped) and shoes are draped around the office.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. Marker opens his eyes but doesn’t move. The knock is repeated, louder this time. In the gap under the door, Marker sees the shadow of someone standing behind it. The shadow moves towards the lock, which has the key in it. Marker swears silently to himself, then rolls back his blanket, grabs something heavy from his desk and creeps across the room. In spite of the tension, he feels a bit foolish stalking across his office in his underpants.
A newspaper is pushed under the door directly below the key. Marker crouches down beside it. The key moves in the lock as it’s pushed from the other side. Suddenly, the telephone rings, startling Marker. The key stops moving for a moment, then continues. Marker draws his shirt tails around his cold knees as he crouches and waits. The key drops out of the lock and bounces off the newspaper. Marker grins, picks it up, and puts it on the newspaper as it disappears under the door. The phone stops ringing.
Marker hears the key being inserted in the lock. He moves quietly to the other side of the door so he’s behind it when it opens. It does so slowly… revealing a young man, who peers nervously into the room. As the man edges forward, Marker slams the door in his face, making the man cry out in pain and surprise. Then Marker flings the door open again and leaps out into the corridor, where the man has staggered back against the wall, clutching his nose. Marker is just about to clobber the man, when he recognises him. “Oh, it’s you,” says Marker. “Why didn’t you say?” In the office, the phone starts ringing again.
“You’ve busted by dose,” complains the man, whose name is Tony Naylor.
“Give me the key and shut up,” says Marker. He hauls Tony into the office and locks the door. “You should be more careful,” he advises, pocketing the key and moving to the phone. “If a door is locked and the key is on the inside, there must be someone at home.” He picks up the phone and answers it. “Yes?”
“Marker?” asks the voice of a middle-aged man.
“Who?” says Marker, acting dumb.
“Is that Marker?” reiterates the voice.
“What section is he in?” asks the Marker, confusing the caller. “What extension do you want?”
“Is that MACaulay 2810?” asks the voice, losing patience.
“This is Lavender Hill police station,” lies Marker. “Who is it you want?” The voice swears unintelligibly and quickly hangs up. Marker puts the phone down and starts dressing.
“Is that Holliday?” asks Tony – referring to ‘Happy’ Holliday, the head of a gang that’s been trying to fix horse races.
“Yes,” replies Marker, zipping up his trousers. “He got hold of one of the stable lads last night. The boy was scared and told him who’d put water in the syringe. As far as I can gather, their horse is still running and I’m going to be chomped about a bit by Holliday’s two playmates – Beauty and the Beast.”
“My old man’s dead chuffed,” says Tony. “You saved him about eight thousand quid. Him and the other on-course bookies.” He feels in his pocket for something.
Meanwhile, the phone rings again. Marker answers it, briskly. “Lavender Hill police station – emergency. Would you please state your name, address and telephone number before passing your message?”
The voice on the phone is beginning to sound angry. “What the hell’s the matter with this –?” The phone is slammed down again.
“He’ll catch on soon,” says Marker, moving around the office as he puts on his tie. “I’m leaving town for a while. Going to give my skin a chance to stay in one piece. Somewhere hot. I’ll phone up London Airport and ask ’em where their next plane’s going to.” He notices the cheque that Tony is holding out. “What’s this?” asks Marker.
“Your fee,” replies Tony. “£250. My old man slung in an extra fifty for good measure.”
Marker looks upset. “I said cash.” Tony assures him it won’t bounce, but that’s not the point. “It’s Saturday,” explains Marker. He points to the cheque. “Look. Bookmakers’ Association cheque and a Newmarket branch. While I’m trotting about all weekend trying to get this lot cashed, I’ll be carved like tomorrow’s joint.”
Tony looks apologetic. “Nobody told me.” He rummages in his pockets and finds £18 in cash, which he offers to Marker. “Pay me when you like.”
The phone rings yet again. Marker picks it up. “Lavender Hill police station – emergency. Would you –?”
“All right, Marker,” says the voice of the phone. “Cut the funny stuff. Holliday here.”
Marker pretends to be delighted to hear from him. “Happy! How are you?”
“We haven’t met yet, but we’re going to.”
“I look forward to it,” lies Marker.
“And you haven’t met the co-directors of my company, have you?”
“You mean, your out-of-work wrestling friends? No.”
“You will soon,” promises Holliday. “And then you’ll stay out of my business in future.”
Marker tries to deter him. “If I should happen to walk under a ladder and anything happened to me, there’s a long tape recording and a lot of evidence will leave a safe deposit box and find its way to Scotland Yard, Happy.” He hangs up.
“Is that true?” asks Tony. Marker admits that it isn’t. Immediately, the phone starts ringing again. “Persistent, isn’t he?” says Tony.
Marker frowns at the instrument. “He wouldn’t have had time to dial.” Tony asks if there’s any way he can help, such as by cashing the cheque for him. Marker looks up, eagerly. “Could you?”
“Monday,” promises Tony.
Marker shakes his head, declining the offer. “I’ll get some money somehow.” He bids Tony goodbye. The young man smiles briefly and goes, while Marker answers the phone.
The caller is Donald Halston, the solicitor who previously hired Marker to investigate the Robert Spanier blackmail case. This time it’s another of his firm’s clients who has a problem. “We thought it might be in your province.” Marker listens as he stares at his useless cheque. The client in question is the Countess of Llandwyr and Gwylraith. “Her son has acquired a girlfriend who seems to be on the make. Lord Trepolwyn.” Marker has heard of him, having seen him in the gossip columns. “He will inherit the earldom of Llandwyr and Gwylraith, with a fair amount of land and some money,” explains Halston. “Our client thinks this girl has her eye on the title. Wants her removed. Can you go to our client’s home and discuss the matter?”
Marker isn’t keen. “Sorry, Mr Halston. I can’t take on anything in London just now.”
“Well, this isn’t in London,” Halston points out. “It’s in the country.”
“But I’m rather keen to go abroad, you see, so –”
“This is almost abroad,” chuckles Halston. “The Welsh Borders. Shropshire. Right off the beaten track.”
Marker becomes interested. At that moment, however, the door is flung open and Tony darts back in. “Holliday’s boys,” he announces, breathlessly. “Coming up the stairs.”
Marker takes this in while continuing his conversation with Halston. “Expenses?” he asks.
“Well,” says the solicitor, cautiously, “nothing ridiculous –”
“I’ll take it,” says Marker. “Address?”
“Llandwyr Castle, Shropshire. Take a train from –”
Marker doesn’t have time to listen to directions. “I’ll find it,” he says. “Tell her I’ll be there tonight. Bye.” He rings off, then hands Tony the cheque and grabs his coat. “Cash this on Monday and bring the money to Llandwyr Castle, Shropshire,” he instructs. “Can you do that?”
Tony looks confused. “Llan – what?”
“Llandwyr,” repeats Marker. “Look it up.” His tone becomes more urgent. “Can you do it? Quick!”
“Yeah, but what about –?” Tony indicates downstairs.
“I’ll get rid of ’em,” Marker assures him. He tells Tony to go up the stairs, through the fire exit and on to the roof. “Stay there till they’ve gone. They won’t follow you.”
“Right,” says Tony, who then runs off.
Marker dons his coat, hurries out into the corridor, closes the door and locks it. Then he leans in an attitude of impatient boredom against the door jamb and hammers slowly and methodically on the door. “All right, Marker,” he shouts. “It’s no good lying doggo. I know you’re in there. I want my money now. So you might as well open the door. I can wait as long as you.” As he’s saying this, Holliday’s two thugs come around the corridor and stand watching him. Marker sees them and stops knocking. “Do you know this bloke?” he asks.
“Yeah,” says the Beast, the uglier of the two heavies.
“Friend of yours?” asks Marker.
“No.” Again, it’s the Beast who does the talking. Beauty, the better-looking bruiser, remains silent.
“Join the club,” says Marker. He resumes his hammering. “Come on, Marker. Open up. You’ll have to pay sooner or later. Why make things hard?”
“He owe you money?” asks the Beast.
“Not me,” replies Marker. “My boss.” He takes an envelope from his pocket and waves it under their noses. “Look at that,” he says. “250-quid cheque. Bounced like a golf ball.” He stops knocking. “Oh, I’ve had enough.” He turns to the two thugs. “You going to be here for a bit, are you?”
“Yeah,” replies the Beast.
Marker rubs the fingers of his knocking hand. “I feel like a cuppa. Rest my knuckles.”
“We’ll look after him for you,” grins the Beast. He indicates to his colleague to get hammering.
“Ta. I’ll be right back.” Marker vanishes from view as Beauty begins knocking on the door.
* * *
Late that afternoon, the doorbell of Llandwyr Castle jangles. The butler goes to the front door and opens it, admitting Marker into the vast hallway. The butler observes that he has no luggage with him. “No,” replies Marker. “I left in a bit of a rush. I thought I might beg, borrow or steal some gear.”
The butler takes this in his stride. “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” he says, calmly, as he leads Marker through the hallway to the lounge, where Her Ladyship is waiting for him. “By the way, sir,” the butler adds. “Her Grace has asked me to tell you that your name is Smith while you’re here.”
Marker frowns. “Smith?”
“Yes, sir,” confirms the butler. “The idea is to keep you a sort of secret. Since I answer the door, she had to let me in on it. And you’ve come about the pictures.” Again, Marker is confused, so the butler elaborates. “The paintings, sir.” He gestures to an old portrait as they pass by it. Others can be seen lining the staircase of the stately home. “You’re here to see about cleaning and restoring them.”
Marker protests. “But I don’t know –”
“In here, sir.” The butler pushes open the door to the lounge, announcing, “Mr Smith, m’lady.”
The lounge opens out on to a terrace. Marker enters the room to meet the Countess. He falters as he isn’t sure how to address her. “How do you do, your – um –”
“Ma’am will do,” says the Countess. “In London at lunchtime and here already. You’re very prompt.”
“I was anxious to get out of town,” replies Marker, vaguely.
The Countess looks a little concerned. “You’re not ill, I hope?”
“Not now.” Marker touches a nearby piece of wooden furniture.
“I changed your name because it really wouldn’t do to let everyone know that I have a detective watching one of my guests,” explains the Countess.
“I understand,” says Marker. The Countess says nothing, scrutinising him. Finally, she makes a noise, halfway between a “hmm” and a clearing of the throat. “Something wrong?” asks Marker.
“You’re not what I expected,” admits the Countess. “My solicitor gave you excellent recommendations.”
“That’s nice of him.”
The Countess continues to examine Marker, critically. “I wonder if you’re suitable to deal with this matter.”
“If you’d like to tell me what the matter is, I’ll tell you if I wish to deal with it.”
Marker’s attitude disarms the Countess. “Hm. Very well.” She begins to describe the problem. “The present earl, my husband, can’t go on forever – even if he seems to sometimes – and my son, Lord Trepolwyn, is the heir. Now that he has reached manhood – if that is the word in this case – he must marry, and produce an heir. Anyone who drives as fast, skis as badly and is as cretinous as he, is, in my opinion, in constant danger. I had a healthy, fertile-looking gel of suitable family picked out, but she seems to hold no place in his affections. She’s staying here now. A bit broody sometimes, but better now the hunting season’s started. But Timothy has arrived home with this gel.” The Countess makes a disapproving noise. “She has him eating from her grubby little hand, and must be removed. I don’t care if you bribe, beg or kidnap her away – as long as she goes. Well?”
“I’ll see the girl and let you know what I think, ma’am.”
“You’ll –!”
The Countess’s indignant response is interrupted by the arrival of her son, Timothy, a tall and rather gormless toff, who is presently annoyed. “Mother,” he protests, through an alarming set of protruding teeth, “what’s all this – arranging for Penelope to come with Sonia and me tomorrow? Three’s a crowd and we don’t –”
The Countess interrupts by introducing their guest. “Timothy, this is Mr Smith, who’s come about the paintings. He’ll be staying for a while.”
This cheers Timothy up a little. “Ah, good. He can make up four for this binge, and take Penelope off our hands!”
“No, he can’t,” insists the Countess. “He’ll be busy.”
“Nonsense.” Timothy turns to Marker. “You’d like to come out, wouldn’t you? Very fair hunt. A few sewers come along, but… Anyway, they probably won’t bother you much. And the foxes are strong as elephants after last summer. Always give us a decent run. And you can keep your eye on Penny. Pretty girl. Well, pretty in its loosest sense. Haw!”
“Penelope’s a charming gel,” states the Countess.
“Yes, charming,” says Timothy, sarcastically. “That’s what they say in Country Life when the poor cow is too horrible to be called anything else!”
The Countess is furious. “You will not call a guest of ours a poor cow behind her back!”
Timothy grins. “I’ll say it to her face if it’ll make you happier!”
At that moment, the Honourable Miss Penelope Hunter-Bruton, a brunette in houndstooth riding gear, comes in from the terrace. Subdued, close to tears, she greets Timothy and the Countess. “Hello, Timmy. Good evening, ma’am. There’s a fabulous sunset.” There’s an ugly pause. Penelope forces a smile. “I’ve just been for a ride. Super. Took the grey. Over towards Llan-thingummy. You know.” She gestures feebly to indicate the direction. “Simply divine.”
“Splendid,” declares the Countess. Keen to change the subject, she introduces ‘Mr Smith’. “He’s come about the paintings.”
“Oh, fab,” says Penelope.
“You’ll have to excuse the atmosphere, Penelope. Timothy and I were just having a quarrel.”
“Yes, I heard.”
The Countess looks worried. “How much?”
“Enough,” replies Penelope, barely holding back the tears.
The Countess tries to make light of the situation. “Ah, ha. Timothy was joking, weren’t you?”
“No,” says Timothy, bluntly.
The Countess fixes him with a fierce stare. “Nonsense. Of course you were.”
“It’s not the remarks I mind so much, Timmy,” says Penelope, bravely keeping her end up. “It’s saying them in front of people like –” She glances briefly at Marker. “It’s so disloyal.” She runs through the room and out into the hallway.
The Countess looks at her son, accusingly. “Now look what you’ve done. Lacerated the poor gel.”
Timothy is unconcerned. “She’s loving it! It’s the first time she’s been the centre of attention since she was christened.”
“You’re a rude, selfish, stupid brute,” says the Countess.
Timothy smiles. “Flatterer.”
“And you have piggy little eyes.”
Timothy’s smile drops. “Eh?”
“And ridiculous teeth.”
Timothy gets upset. “There’s no point in just being unpleasant.”
“What Penny sees in you I don’t know.”
“I’m your son!”
“Or that other gel. What’s her name?”
“Sonia.”
The Countess shudders. “Sonia. Sounds like a grocer’s daughter.”
“She is,” says Timothy, taking considerable delight in disappointing his mother.
Marker, having heard enough, creeps from the room, closing the door on them. He looks around the hallway and staircase. He sees the butler and approaches him. “Have I a room or something I can go to?”
“Yes, sir,” replies the butler. “I’ll take you.”
Before he can do so, however, a female voice asks, “Is that the one next to mine – that they were airing this morning?” A young woman has appeared from a doorway. She’s blonde, very attractive and well dressed, but clearly not a member of the aristocracy.
“Yes, miss,” replies the butler.
“Then I’ll take him,” says the woman. “I’m going up.”
The butler isn’t happy about that idea. “I think perhaps I ought to –”
“I’ll take him,” repeats the woman, authoritatively. “Don’t worry.” Reluctantly, the butler goes about his business. The woman turns to Marker. “You’re Mr Smith, the paintings man, aren’t you?” Marker doesn’t deny it. “Good,” says the woman. “I’m Sonia. Come on.” She leads him up the stairs. Now that they’re closer to the paintings on the staircase, it’s apparent that they’re all portraits of Trepolwyn ancestors – they all look unnervingly like Timothy. “I love the stuff they’ve got here,” says Sonia. “I’m dying to have a yak with you about it. I was an art student, you know.”
Marker tries to sound pleased about that. “Oh, really.”
* * *
Upstairs, a maid emerges from a room. She puts some dusters in a box on the floor, picks it up and walks away. Sonia and Marker walk along the corridor, inspecting more paintings. “Look at that Turner,” says Sonia. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
Marker is uncertain. “Very nice.”
Sonia points to another painting. “And that one from the Dutch School.” Then another. “Oh, and that one, by Gainsborough. Hasn’t that face got marvellous character?”
Even Marker can tell that the portrait she’s pointing to is Elizabethan. “Gainsborough wasn’t born when that was painted, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, no,” says Sonia, pretending to have only just realised. “What year was he born? I just forget.”
“Join the club.”
“Here we are,” says Sonia. They’ve arrived at Marker’s room. She opens the door for him.
Marker looks at her and goes inside, where he finds pyjamas, underclothes, razor, towel, etc, all laid out for him. There’s even a telephone next to the four-poster bed. “That’s quick service,” he remarks.
“Nice, isn’t it?” agrees Sonia, following him in. Then her tone changes. “All right, what’s the game?” she says, accusingly. “You’re here because of me, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” replies Marker, innocently.
“She thinks I want Timothy, doesn’t she?”
“Does she?”
“Or, more precisely, his title. Well, tell her not to worry.”
“Why don’t you tell her?”
“I've tried,” says Sonia. “No good.” She laughs, ruefully. “Everyone always thinks I’m on the make. Do I look that sort?”
Marker chooses his words carefully. “I think you have a… let’s say self-possessed look about you that maybe scares people.”
“The old bag thinks I’m a common little gold digger. Huh! You should hear me eat soup when she’s at the table. I sound like a cow pulling its foot out of the mud.” She makes the noise. “Why are you here, then?”
“Working.”
“What at?”
“Paintings. I’m a –”
“Rubbish. You’re here to remove me, aren’t you?”
Marker looks at her and thinks. “Sort of,” he admits.
“All the way from London to save Timmy from little me! A fate far more inviting than death.”
“You can do better,” says Marker. “Girl like you. Much better.”
Sonia gets angry. “Charming! First the persuasion. Next, I suppose, it’ll be threats.”
“I meant what I said.”
“Any method as long as you get your horrible little fee.” The phone rings. “It’s internal,” explains Sonia. “Probably herself.”
Marker answers it. Sonia was right – it’s the Countess, on a phone in the terrace room. “I hear you’ve met the gel,” she says.
“Yes,” replies Marker. “I’ve been talking to her and, well, frankly, I think she’s a very lovely girl. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll give your blessing to the match and be glad you’ve got such a gorgeous –”
A loud exclamation is heard from the phone. “Mr Marker,” says the Countess, “I’m paying you to get rid of her.”
“Honestly, I don’t see how I’m going to.”
“Cowardy, cowardy, custard,” taunts Sonia, quietly. Marker puts his hand over the mouthpiece so the Countess doesn’t hear her.
“Buy her off,” says the Countess. “That’s how.”
Sonia hears that, and is furious. “Buy me!”
“You can offer her up to £200 to clear out,” the Countess continues.
“Up to two hundred!” gasps Sonia. “She thinks I’m cheap as well as… All right. If she wants to trade, I’ll go into business.”
Marker briefly uncovers the phone to tell the Countess, “I might try an offer.”
“How much?” she asks.
Marker covers the phone again as he addresses Sonia. “Well?”
“Two thousand,” she says.
Marker speaks into the phone. “A fair bit more than –”
“How much?” the Countess demands.
Marker pauses awkwardly before answering. “More like… two thousand, I should think.” There’s a strangled gasp and then silence from the other end. “Hello?” says Marker. “Hello?” He hangs up and turns to Sonia. “I think she’s gone into a coma.”
“I’ll bet that’s the highest price a girl’s ever asked for not selling herself,” remarks Sonia. They look at each other. Sonia smiles.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. Marker opens his eyes but doesn’t move. The knock is repeated, louder this time. In the gap under the door, Marker sees the shadow of someone standing behind it. The shadow moves towards the lock, which has the key in it. Marker swears silently to himself, then rolls back his blanket, grabs something heavy from his desk and creeps across the room. In spite of the tension, he feels a bit foolish stalking across his office in his underpants.
A newspaper is pushed under the door directly below the key. Marker crouches down beside it. The key moves in the lock as it’s pushed from the other side. Suddenly, the telephone rings, startling Marker. The key stops moving for a moment, then continues. Marker draws his shirt tails around his cold knees as he crouches and waits. The key drops out of the lock and bounces off the newspaper. Marker grins, picks it up, and puts it on the newspaper as it disappears under the door. The phone stops ringing.
Marker hears the key being inserted in the lock. He moves quietly to the other side of the door so he’s behind it when it opens. It does so slowly… revealing a young man, who peers nervously into the room. As the man edges forward, Marker slams the door in his face, making the man cry out in pain and surprise. Then Marker flings the door open again and leaps out into the corridor, where the man has staggered back against the wall, clutching his nose. Marker is just about to clobber the man, when he recognises him. “Oh, it’s you,” says Marker. “Why didn’t you say?” In the office, the phone starts ringing again.
“You’ve busted by dose,” complains the man, whose name is Tony Naylor.
“Give me the key and shut up,” says Marker. He hauls Tony into the office and locks the door. “You should be more careful,” he advises, pocketing the key and moving to the phone. “If a door is locked and the key is on the inside, there must be someone at home.” He picks up the phone and answers it. “Yes?”
“Marker?” asks the voice of a middle-aged man.
“Who?” says Marker, acting dumb.
“Is that Marker?” reiterates the voice.
“What section is he in?” asks the Marker, confusing the caller. “What extension do you want?”
“Is that MACaulay 2810?” asks the voice, losing patience.
“This is Lavender Hill police station,” lies Marker. “Who is it you want?” The voice swears unintelligibly and quickly hangs up. Marker puts the phone down and starts dressing.
“Is that Holliday?” asks Tony – referring to ‘Happy’ Holliday, the head of a gang that’s been trying to fix horse races.
“Yes,” replies Marker, zipping up his trousers. “He got hold of one of the stable lads last night. The boy was scared and told him who’d put water in the syringe. As far as I can gather, their horse is still running and I’m going to be chomped about a bit by Holliday’s two playmates – Beauty and the Beast.”
“My old man’s dead chuffed,” says Tony. “You saved him about eight thousand quid. Him and the other on-course bookies.” He feels in his pocket for something.
Meanwhile, the phone rings again. Marker answers it, briskly. “Lavender Hill police station – emergency. Would you please state your name, address and telephone number before passing your message?”
The voice on the phone is beginning to sound angry. “What the hell’s the matter with this –?” The phone is slammed down again.
“He’ll catch on soon,” says Marker, moving around the office as he puts on his tie. “I’m leaving town for a while. Going to give my skin a chance to stay in one piece. Somewhere hot. I’ll phone up London Airport and ask ’em where their next plane’s going to.” He notices the cheque that Tony is holding out. “What’s this?” asks Marker.
“Your fee,” replies Tony. “£250. My old man slung in an extra fifty for good measure.”
Marker looks upset. “I said cash.” Tony assures him it won’t bounce, but that’s not the point. “It’s Saturday,” explains Marker. He points to the cheque. “Look. Bookmakers’ Association cheque and a Newmarket branch. While I’m trotting about all weekend trying to get this lot cashed, I’ll be carved like tomorrow’s joint.”
Tony looks apologetic. “Nobody told me.” He rummages in his pockets and finds £18 in cash, which he offers to Marker. “Pay me when you like.”
The phone rings yet again. Marker picks it up. “Lavender Hill police station – emergency. Would you –?”
“All right, Marker,” says the voice of the phone. “Cut the funny stuff. Holliday here.”
Marker pretends to be delighted to hear from him. “Happy! How are you?”
“We haven’t met yet, but we’re going to.”
“I look forward to it,” lies Marker.
“And you haven’t met the co-directors of my company, have you?”
“You mean, your out-of-work wrestling friends? No.”
“You will soon,” promises Holliday. “And then you’ll stay out of my business in future.”
Marker tries to deter him. “If I should happen to walk under a ladder and anything happened to me, there’s a long tape recording and a lot of evidence will leave a safe deposit box and find its way to Scotland Yard, Happy.” He hangs up.
“Is that true?” asks Tony. Marker admits that it isn’t. Immediately, the phone starts ringing again. “Persistent, isn’t he?” says Tony.
Marker frowns at the instrument. “He wouldn’t have had time to dial.” Tony asks if there’s any way he can help, such as by cashing the cheque for him. Marker looks up, eagerly. “Could you?”
“Monday,” promises Tony.
Marker shakes his head, declining the offer. “I’ll get some money somehow.” He bids Tony goodbye. The young man smiles briefly and goes, while Marker answers the phone.
The caller is Donald Halston, the solicitor who previously hired Marker to investigate the Robert Spanier blackmail case. This time it’s another of his firm’s clients who has a problem. “We thought it might be in your province.” Marker listens as he stares at his useless cheque. The client in question is the Countess of Llandwyr and Gwylraith. “Her son has acquired a girlfriend who seems to be on the make. Lord Trepolwyn.” Marker has heard of him, having seen him in the gossip columns. “He will inherit the earldom of Llandwyr and Gwylraith, with a fair amount of land and some money,” explains Halston. “Our client thinks this girl has her eye on the title. Wants her removed. Can you go to our client’s home and discuss the matter?”
Marker isn’t keen. “Sorry, Mr Halston. I can’t take on anything in London just now.”
“Well, this isn’t in London,” Halston points out. “It’s in the country.”
“But I’m rather keen to go abroad, you see, so –”
“This is almost abroad,” chuckles Halston. “The Welsh Borders. Shropshire. Right off the beaten track.”
Marker becomes interested. At that moment, however, the door is flung open and Tony darts back in. “Holliday’s boys,” he announces, breathlessly. “Coming up the stairs.”
Marker takes this in while continuing his conversation with Halston. “Expenses?” he asks.
“Well,” says the solicitor, cautiously, “nothing ridiculous –”
“I’ll take it,” says Marker. “Address?”
“Llandwyr Castle, Shropshire. Take a train from –”
Marker doesn’t have time to listen to directions. “I’ll find it,” he says. “Tell her I’ll be there tonight. Bye.” He rings off, then hands Tony the cheque and grabs his coat. “Cash this on Monday and bring the money to Llandwyr Castle, Shropshire,” he instructs. “Can you do that?”
Tony looks confused. “Llan – what?”
“Llandwyr,” repeats Marker. “Look it up.” His tone becomes more urgent. “Can you do it? Quick!”
“Yeah, but what about –?” Tony indicates downstairs.
“I’ll get rid of ’em,” Marker assures him. He tells Tony to go up the stairs, through the fire exit and on to the roof. “Stay there till they’ve gone. They won’t follow you.”
“Right,” says Tony, who then runs off.
Marker dons his coat, hurries out into the corridor, closes the door and locks it. Then he leans in an attitude of impatient boredom against the door jamb and hammers slowly and methodically on the door. “All right, Marker,” he shouts. “It’s no good lying doggo. I know you’re in there. I want my money now. So you might as well open the door. I can wait as long as you.” As he’s saying this, Holliday’s two thugs come around the corridor and stand watching him. Marker sees them and stops knocking. “Do you know this bloke?” he asks.
“Yeah,” says the Beast, the uglier of the two heavies.
“Friend of yours?” asks Marker.
“No.” Again, it’s the Beast who does the talking. Beauty, the better-looking bruiser, remains silent.
“Join the club,” says Marker. He resumes his hammering. “Come on, Marker. Open up. You’ll have to pay sooner or later. Why make things hard?”
“He owe you money?” asks the Beast.
“Not me,” replies Marker. “My boss.” He takes an envelope from his pocket and waves it under their noses. “Look at that,” he says. “250-quid cheque. Bounced like a golf ball.” He stops knocking. “Oh, I’ve had enough.” He turns to the two thugs. “You going to be here for a bit, are you?”
“Yeah,” replies the Beast.
Marker rubs the fingers of his knocking hand. “I feel like a cuppa. Rest my knuckles.”
“We’ll look after him for you,” grins the Beast. He indicates to his colleague to get hammering.
“Ta. I’ll be right back.” Marker vanishes from view as Beauty begins knocking on the door.
* * *
Late that afternoon, the doorbell of Llandwyr Castle jangles. The butler goes to the front door and opens it, admitting Marker into the vast hallway. The butler observes that he has no luggage with him. “No,” replies Marker. “I left in a bit of a rush. I thought I might beg, borrow or steal some gear.”
The butler takes this in his stride. “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” he says, calmly, as he leads Marker through the hallway to the lounge, where Her Ladyship is waiting for him. “By the way, sir,” the butler adds. “Her Grace has asked me to tell you that your name is Smith while you’re here.”
Marker frowns. “Smith?”
“Yes, sir,” confirms the butler. “The idea is to keep you a sort of secret. Since I answer the door, she had to let me in on it. And you’ve come about the pictures.” Again, Marker is confused, so the butler elaborates. “The paintings, sir.” He gestures to an old portrait as they pass by it. Others can be seen lining the staircase of the stately home. “You’re here to see about cleaning and restoring them.”
Marker protests. “But I don’t know –”
“In here, sir.” The butler pushes open the door to the lounge, announcing, “Mr Smith, m’lady.”
The lounge opens out on to a terrace. Marker enters the room to meet the Countess. He falters as he isn’t sure how to address her. “How do you do, your – um –”
“Ma’am will do,” says the Countess. “In London at lunchtime and here already. You’re very prompt.”
“I was anxious to get out of town,” replies Marker, vaguely.
The Countess looks a little concerned. “You’re not ill, I hope?”
“Not now.” Marker touches a nearby piece of wooden furniture.
“I changed your name because it really wouldn’t do to let everyone know that I have a detective watching one of my guests,” explains the Countess.
“I understand,” says Marker. The Countess says nothing, scrutinising him. Finally, she makes a noise, halfway between a “hmm” and a clearing of the throat. “Something wrong?” asks Marker.
“You’re not what I expected,” admits the Countess. “My solicitor gave you excellent recommendations.”
“That’s nice of him.”
The Countess continues to examine Marker, critically. “I wonder if you’re suitable to deal with this matter.”
“If you’d like to tell me what the matter is, I’ll tell you if I wish to deal with it.”
Marker’s attitude disarms the Countess. “Hm. Very well.” She begins to describe the problem. “The present earl, my husband, can’t go on forever – even if he seems to sometimes – and my son, Lord Trepolwyn, is the heir. Now that he has reached manhood – if that is the word in this case – he must marry, and produce an heir. Anyone who drives as fast, skis as badly and is as cretinous as he, is, in my opinion, in constant danger. I had a healthy, fertile-looking gel of suitable family picked out, but she seems to hold no place in his affections. She’s staying here now. A bit broody sometimes, but better now the hunting season’s started. But Timothy has arrived home with this gel.” The Countess makes a disapproving noise. “She has him eating from her grubby little hand, and must be removed. I don’t care if you bribe, beg or kidnap her away – as long as she goes. Well?”
“I’ll see the girl and let you know what I think, ma’am.”
“You’ll –!”
The Countess’s indignant response is interrupted by the arrival of her son, Timothy, a tall and rather gormless toff, who is presently annoyed. “Mother,” he protests, through an alarming set of protruding teeth, “what’s all this – arranging for Penelope to come with Sonia and me tomorrow? Three’s a crowd and we don’t –”
The Countess interrupts by introducing their guest. “Timothy, this is Mr Smith, who’s come about the paintings. He’ll be staying for a while.”
This cheers Timothy up a little. “Ah, good. He can make up four for this binge, and take Penelope off our hands!”
“No, he can’t,” insists the Countess. “He’ll be busy.”
“Nonsense.” Timothy turns to Marker. “You’d like to come out, wouldn’t you? Very fair hunt. A few sewers come along, but… Anyway, they probably won’t bother you much. And the foxes are strong as elephants after last summer. Always give us a decent run. And you can keep your eye on Penny. Pretty girl. Well, pretty in its loosest sense. Haw!”
“Penelope’s a charming gel,” states the Countess.
“Yes, charming,” says Timothy, sarcastically. “That’s what they say in Country Life when the poor cow is too horrible to be called anything else!”
The Countess is furious. “You will not call a guest of ours a poor cow behind her back!”
Timothy grins. “I’ll say it to her face if it’ll make you happier!”
At that moment, the Honourable Miss Penelope Hunter-Bruton, a brunette in houndstooth riding gear, comes in from the terrace. Subdued, close to tears, she greets Timothy and the Countess. “Hello, Timmy. Good evening, ma’am. There’s a fabulous sunset.” There’s an ugly pause. Penelope forces a smile. “I’ve just been for a ride. Super. Took the grey. Over towards Llan-thingummy. You know.” She gestures feebly to indicate the direction. “Simply divine.”
“Splendid,” declares the Countess. Keen to change the subject, she introduces ‘Mr Smith’. “He’s come about the paintings.”
“Oh, fab,” says Penelope.
“You’ll have to excuse the atmosphere, Penelope. Timothy and I were just having a quarrel.”
“Yes, I heard.”
The Countess looks worried. “How much?”
“Enough,” replies Penelope, barely holding back the tears.
The Countess tries to make light of the situation. “Ah, ha. Timothy was joking, weren’t you?”
“No,” says Timothy, bluntly.
The Countess fixes him with a fierce stare. “Nonsense. Of course you were.”
“It’s not the remarks I mind so much, Timmy,” says Penelope, bravely keeping her end up. “It’s saying them in front of people like –” She glances briefly at Marker. “It’s so disloyal.” She runs through the room and out into the hallway.
The Countess looks at her son, accusingly. “Now look what you’ve done. Lacerated the poor gel.”
Timothy is unconcerned. “She’s loving it! It’s the first time she’s been the centre of attention since she was christened.”
“You’re a rude, selfish, stupid brute,” says the Countess.
Timothy smiles. “Flatterer.”
“And you have piggy little eyes.”
Timothy’s smile drops. “Eh?”
“And ridiculous teeth.”
Timothy gets upset. “There’s no point in just being unpleasant.”
“What Penny sees in you I don’t know.”
“I’m your son!”
“Or that other gel. What’s her name?”
“Sonia.”
The Countess shudders. “Sonia. Sounds like a grocer’s daughter.”
“She is,” says Timothy, taking considerable delight in disappointing his mother.
Marker, having heard enough, creeps from the room, closing the door on them. He looks around the hallway and staircase. He sees the butler and approaches him. “Have I a room or something I can go to?”
“Yes, sir,” replies the butler. “I’ll take you.”
Before he can do so, however, a female voice asks, “Is that the one next to mine – that they were airing this morning?” A young woman has appeared from a doorway. She’s blonde, very attractive and well dressed, but clearly not a member of the aristocracy.
“Yes, miss,” replies the butler.
“Then I’ll take him,” says the woman. “I’m going up.”
The butler isn’t happy about that idea. “I think perhaps I ought to –”
“I’ll take him,” repeats the woman, authoritatively. “Don’t worry.” Reluctantly, the butler goes about his business. The woman turns to Marker. “You’re Mr Smith, the paintings man, aren’t you?” Marker doesn’t deny it. “Good,” says the woman. “I’m Sonia. Come on.” She leads him up the stairs. Now that they’re closer to the paintings on the staircase, it’s apparent that they’re all portraits of Trepolwyn ancestors – they all look unnervingly like Timothy. “I love the stuff they’ve got here,” says Sonia. “I’m dying to have a yak with you about it. I was an art student, you know.”
Marker tries to sound pleased about that. “Oh, really.”
* * *
Upstairs, a maid emerges from a room. She puts some dusters in a box on the floor, picks it up and walks away. Sonia and Marker walk along the corridor, inspecting more paintings. “Look at that Turner,” says Sonia. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
Marker is uncertain. “Very nice.”
Sonia points to another painting. “And that one from the Dutch School.” Then another. “Oh, and that one, by Gainsborough. Hasn’t that face got marvellous character?”
Even Marker can tell that the portrait she’s pointing to is Elizabethan. “Gainsborough wasn’t born when that was painted, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, no,” says Sonia, pretending to have only just realised. “What year was he born? I just forget.”
“Join the club.”
“Here we are,” says Sonia. They’ve arrived at Marker’s room. She opens the door for him.
Marker looks at her and goes inside, where he finds pyjamas, underclothes, razor, towel, etc, all laid out for him. There’s even a telephone next to the four-poster bed. “That’s quick service,” he remarks.
“Nice, isn’t it?” agrees Sonia, following him in. Then her tone changes. “All right, what’s the game?” she says, accusingly. “You’re here because of me, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” replies Marker, innocently.
“She thinks I want Timothy, doesn’t she?”
“Does she?”
“Or, more precisely, his title. Well, tell her not to worry.”
“Why don’t you tell her?”
“I've tried,” says Sonia. “No good.” She laughs, ruefully. “Everyone always thinks I’m on the make. Do I look that sort?”
Marker chooses his words carefully. “I think you have a… let’s say self-possessed look about you that maybe scares people.”
“The old bag thinks I’m a common little gold digger. Huh! You should hear me eat soup when she’s at the table. I sound like a cow pulling its foot out of the mud.” She makes the noise. “Why are you here, then?”
“Working.”
“What at?”
“Paintings. I’m a –”
“Rubbish. You’re here to remove me, aren’t you?”
Marker looks at her and thinks. “Sort of,” he admits.
“All the way from London to save Timmy from little me! A fate far more inviting than death.”
“You can do better,” says Marker. “Girl like you. Much better.”
Sonia gets angry. “Charming! First the persuasion. Next, I suppose, it’ll be threats.”
“I meant what I said.”
“Any method as long as you get your horrible little fee.” The phone rings. “It’s internal,” explains Sonia. “Probably herself.”
Marker answers it. Sonia was right – it’s the Countess, on a phone in the terrace room. “I hear you’ve met the gel,” she says.
“Yes,” replies Marker. “I’ve been talking to her and, well, frankly, I think she’s a very lovely girl. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll give your blessing to the match and be glad you’ve got such a gorgeous –”
A loud exclamation is heard from the phone. “Mr Marker,” says the Countess, “I’m paying you to get rid of her.”
“Honestly, I don’t see how I’m going to.”
“Cowardy, cowardy, custard,” taunts Sonia, quietly. Marker puts his hand over the mouthpiece so the Countess doesn’t hear her.
“Buy her off,” says the Countess. “That’s how.”
Sonia hears that, and is furious. “Buy me!”
“You can offer her up to £200 to clear out,” the Countess continues.
“Up to two hundred!” gasps Sonia. “She thinks I’m cheap as well as… All right. If she wants to trade, I’ll go into business.”
Marker briefly uncovers the phone to tell the Countess, “I might try an offer.”
“How much?” she asks.
Marker covers the phone again as he addresses Sonia. “Well?”
“Two thousand,” she says.
Marker speaks into the phone. “A fair bit more than –”
“How much?” the Countess demands.
Marker pauses awkwardly before answering. “More like… two thousand, I should think.” There’s a strangled gasp and then silence from the other end. “Hello?” says Marker. “Hello?” He hangs up and turns to Sonia. “I think she’s gone into a coma.”
“I’ll bet that’s the highest price a girl’s ever asked for not selling herself,” remarks Sonia. They look at each other. Sonia smiles.