Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 106, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 648 & 649, October 1995

A Public Service by David Williams

© 1995 by David Williams

With seventeen whodunits already to his credit, Londoner David Williams introduced a new series character last year, a Welsh policeman, Chief Inspector Merlin Perry. In his review of Last Seen Breathing, in which Perry debuted, crime novelist James Melville said, “The author is deliciously adept at portraying the proper facades of the respectable classes.” It is to the “respectable classes” that Mr. Williams turns again here.

The four men had played bridge on the first Monday of every month for several years. They met in the basement cardroom of the Renaissance Club of London’s Pall Mall at six and played until ten, breaking for drinks and sandwiches at around eight. If one of them was away, a stand-in was sometimes recruited to make a fourth for the game, but more often the meeting would be cancelled. The four were close friends who in truth valued each other’s company more than they did the bridge.

All of the four lived in London, and each was distinguished in his own field. Sir Rodger Godber was a Crown Court judge. Felix Rice, recently created Lord Rice, had once been a cabinet minister, but was now chairman of one large public company and a director of several others. Richard Steen was a senior Harley Street cardiologist. Clive Wallace was a prominent architect, and a widower, which made him the only unmarried member of the group.

“But Clive’s hypothesis is quite simple. It assumes one of us is told he’s going to die in three months. That he can use the chance to rid the world of someone or something vile. In short, to perform a... a public service. Isn’t that right, Clive?” questioned Rice, the ex-politician, in his deep, resonant voice. He took a tentative sip of the claret which had just been poured, raised the glass a foot in front of his eyes, twisted the stem, admired the colour of the wine against the light, then treated himself to a more serious draught. Rice was a heavy man, with a well-fed face, prominent ears, domineering eyebrows, and an avuncular expression that had mesmerised a majority of the voters in a Surrey constituency over two decades.

“That’s more or less the idea, yes,” Clive Wallace answered, but hesitantly. “Assuming that if the action is illegal, that even if he’s found out, it won’t matter because there’ll be no time for trial and punishment. Naturally, he’d have to leave a confession to be read after his death. To stop anyone else being blamed for what he’d done.”

“Naturally,” Rice echoed vigorously in the practised politician’s reflex manner of agreeing to anything virtuous on principle.

It was the first Monday in a freezing February. The friends had played two rubbers and had stopped for refreshments, which had appeared on the cleared card table without summons. Perkins, the wiry, attentive cardroom night steward, was normally stationed in the small dispense bar and buttery between the cardroom and the library. He had brought the laden silver tray through after checking the progress of the bridge game by partly opening a sliding wooden panel behind the seat in his aerie.

It was common for stimulating discussion to break out between the four friends at this point. If the present topic was on the surface more serious than some in the past, it appeared also to be fairly academic — and no less so to His Honour Judge Godber than to the others.

Godber was a small, neat man. His voice was high and penetrating, and he clipped his consonants. Now he sniffed and made a steeple with sensitive, well-manicured fingers. “But if one of us had really been told he’d contracted some wasting or anyway terminal condition, and that death was so imminent, why should it follow he should contemplate murder?” he demanded. He jerked his head back as if it were controlled by cogs, then his quizzical gaze swept the others as he continued. “In such circumstances, for my part, I’d be inclined to divide the time left to me between riotous living and earnest communing with my Maker. Mark you, I’m not sure in what proportion the time would be allocated between the two.” He gave the self-indulgent smile of a judge overly amused by his own double drollery, and who expected others to be equally entertained.

“The idea of assassination as a public service followed what Felix was saying earlier about ridding the world of despots,” said Wallace. “I can think of...”

“It would still mean taking the law into one’s own hands, of course,” Godber interrupted, leaning forward for his glass, his words more considered than before. “No one can do that with impunity, particularly if it involves taking another’s life. Dangerous thinking altogether.”

“And very likely impossible in a deeply ill man.” This was Steen, the physician, speaking for the first time, since he had thus far been too involved in eating and drinking to do anything else. Tall, dark, slim, and polished in appearance as well as manner, he had the urbane, chiselled features of a well-preserved, if matured, matinee idol. “Setting off to shoot some dictator in a far-off land would hardly be within the scope of a seriously weakened patient.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “These spiced-chicken sandwiches are very Moorish. I’m going to order an extra round,” he completed, hand moving forward energetically to help himself to the last of the delicacies.

“Don’t know how you keep so slim,” grumbled Rice. “You’re right, though, Richard. I couldn’t begin to match the energy and fire power of an SAS man, even without being seriously weakened by illness.” He gave a despairing glance at his bulging waistcoat with its gold watchchain and fob adornments.

Clive Wallace shook his head, which had a frieze of unruly hair standing up straight above it. This helped make his long thin face with its rough skin and sharply pointed chin vaguely reminiscent of a dried-up carrot. He was altogether less well turned out than the others. This was partly because he no longer had a wife to care for him, but more because he was unkempt by nature. “I didn’t suppose assassination would be the only choice. I did say the elimination of someone or something vile.”

“Murder of some dictator was the natural first choice though,” said Rice.

“Might be in your case, Felix,” remarked Steen with his mouth full. “But remember, I’ve taken the Hippocratic oath.”

“Not to kill people, you mean? Not on purpose anyway,” Rice responded with a chuckle.

“Well, if a dying member of this club couldn’t think of a more worthy last act than shooting a political gangster, I wish I’d never joined it. I mean, the Renaissance is supposed to be dedicated to defending aesthetic values,” said Wallace crossly, and reddening alarmingly. It was apparent he had been unusually irritated at the others’ levity. “I mean, a dictator would probably only last another five to ten years anyway,” he went on. “For God’s sake, there are perfectly monstrous buildings all over the place that’ll stand for hundreds of years, insulting the aesthetic sensibilities and degrading the tastes of whole generations, unless someone blows them up. Why not make your last act the destruction of one of those? Or even several?” He took a large gulp of wine.

Covert, baffled glances were being exchanged between Godber and Steen as Rice observed soothingly, “Yes, there’s a good deal of sense in that, Clive.”

“I agree,” Godber volunteered, like the others disturbed by the architect’s unusual fury. “The buildings would need to be empty of people, of course.”

“Oh, and of fine works of art,” agreed Wallace, now calmer and lighting a cigarette. “That still leaves dozens of monstrosities to choose from.”

“The choice would remain a matter of artistic opinion, I suppose?” Rice debated, but choosing his words carefully so as not to upset Wallace again.

“Yes, but of an elementary kind. Would you like my first twenty eyesores to be going along with?” Wallace asked promptly.

“Well, let’s say your first four, old chap,” put in Steen. “I don’t think I’d contemplate blowing up more than four buildings. Not if I was seriously under par. And that’s apart from not knowing where you get the dynamite, though I suppose you would, Clive, wouldn’t you? Oh, well done, Perkins.” He nodded warmly at the steward who had brought in his extra chicken sandwich.

“First choice has to be the council offices in Broncaster. Completed in nineteen sixty-one. A colossal concrete abortion,” announced Wallace with decision, puffing out smoke, then self-consciously waving it away from the others.

“Don’t know the building. Hardly know Broncaster. Never in the Northeast,” Godber commented, pouring himself more claret.

“Well, I have to be up there every week at the moment,” Wallace countered. “You can take my word for it, that building takes the biscuit for unredeemed ghastliness.”

“Right, off with its head,” cried Steen, waving a hand with his sandwich knife in it.

“Late at night, when there’s nobody there,” Rice added.

“Of course,” Wallace agreed. “Then there’s St. Mary’s Church, Seldon. That’s in Strathclyde.”

“Oh, steady on. Can’t blow up a church,” protested Rice, as always on the side of the angels, publicly at least.

“I could blow up this one,” offered Judge Godber unexpectedly. “Funny, I was shown pictures of it only the other day by someone who took the same view of it as Clive. Another sixties blot on the landscape all right. A quite brutal structure that certainly does nothing to glorify God, inside or out. Parishioners hate it, apparently, but they can’t afford to knock it down and build a new church.”

“It’ll be insured though,” said Wallace quietly.

“Hm,” Rice uttered to excuse real commitment.

“Right. Down with St. Mary’s,” announced Steen, the self-appointed arbiter.

“Then there’s the Gwent Shipping Insurance Company’s headquarters in Cardiff.”

“But that’s been there since my grandmother’s time,” Rice demurred, adding gratuitously, “She was Welsh, you know.”

“And it’s likely to be there beyond your great-grandchildren’s time, Felix,” said Wallace. “They put a preservation order on it last year. Its only alleged virtues are that it’s red brick and Victorian.”

“I know the building. It’s hideous,” said Godber. “Even Betjeman thought as much.”

“So that’s another one for the chop,” Steen pronounced promptly. “And your last candidate, Clive? Remember, you’ve had one in England, one in Scotland, and one in Wales. Will you go for Ireland now?”

Wallace shook his head. “Not if I’m restricted to four. The last will be a lot nearer home. It’s the old Waterwood Tyre factory on the Great West Road. Empty now, but it’s a protected building, and the innards are being converted to a different use. We were offered the job, but refused it on principle.”

“I remember reading the Ministry had added it to the protected list,” put in Rice. “God knows why. All those white tiles, and that gimcrack tower. Looks like a giant public convenience. I agree, thoroughly bad taste. Always was.”

“Good. That’s the lot then. Can we get back to the bridge? My deal, I think,” said Steen, who’d had his fill of wine and sandwiches — and what he considered to have been a somewhat vacuous discussion.

“Meant to say, extraordinary coincidence that church being blown up yesterday. In Seldon. I mean, only four days after the Broncaster council offices were burnt to the ground,” remarked Lord Rice, before returning to his fish soup.

It was two weeks later. Rice and Steen were lunching together at the Renaissance Club.

“Extraordinary, yes. Suggests Clive Wallace was pretty perceptive in his choice of awful buildings.”

Rice looked up, his laden soup spoon poised unsteadily between plate and mouth. “You don’t mean you think there’s a gang of sort of... aesthetic saboteurs at work?”

The heart specialist grinned. “No, that’d be too much of a coincidence. Though I think the church may have been destroyed on purpose.”

“So do the police and the insurance company. The Times says they’re mounting a joint investigation.”

“Hmm. More likely it was vandals than parishioners wanting a new church, at no expense to themselves.” Steen whisked up the last small sliver of smoked salmon from his plate with regret.

“Probably,” Rice agreed. “And I expect the Broncaster fire was an accident. Still, two out of four’s a pretty good score.” He cleared his throat. “I, er... I suppose old Clive’s all right, is he?” he added, watching the other man’s face.

“Let’s hope so,” Steen responded enigmatically, even though he knew better than that.

It had been on the Thursday after the last Monday bridge evening that Clive Wallace had consulted Richard Steen professionally, at the urgent request of Wallace’s own general practitioner. What the GP and the specialist had both provisionally diagnosed as angina had proved to be just that following an immediate stress test, and an angiogram the next day.

Steen had advised his sixty-two-year-old friend and patient that heart bypass surgery was indicated without delay, followed by three months of recuperation. Wallace had pleaded that he had too many important projects on the go that couldn’t be abandoned straightaway. The physician, even at his most adamant, had failed to shift the other’s obstinate attitude over this, but eventually it had been agreed that Wallace would have the operation in six weeks. Meantime he promised to give up smoking, to take pills as prescribed, to carry an alleviating inhalant against emergencies, and to avoid being provoked — Steen’s first inkling of Wallace’s likely problem had been the way the architect’s face had so suddenly suffused with anger that evening when the others had upset him.

It was ten days after Steen and Rice had lunch together that Wallace’s third nominated building was destroyed by fire. The Cardiff offices of Gwent Shipping Insurance had been set alight by four incendiary bombs timed to detonate in the middle of the Friday night. As with the two buildings already demolished, there had been no loss of life, and no damage to other property — nor any likelihood of either hazard. The insurance company’s headquarters had been empty — and, again just like the others, it had stood alone on an island site.

These assuaging facts were not nearly assuaging enough for the agitated Lord Rice when he telephoned Sir Rodger Godber first thing on the Saturday morning.

“You’ve heard the news of the Cardiff fire, Rodger?”

“Yes, Felix, on the wireless when I was shaving.” The judge nearly added that he would have preferred to have finished his breakfast before coming to the phone to discuss the matter, but he didn’t.

“You realise this is the third of Clive Wallace’s buildings to be burnt down?”

“The church was blown up, wasn’t it?” Godber corrected with a lawyer’s exactitude. He was speaking into the wall telephone in the kitchen, and making signs to his wife to bring him his coffee cup from the table, except she was too engrossed in the newspaper crossword puzzle to notice.

“Burned or bombed, it’s all the same. They’ve been irresponsibly destroyed, and we know exactly who’s done it,” thundered Rice.

“I thought you were quite approving of Clive’s list?”

“Nonsense. That was just during a... a frivolous discussion. Nobody took it seriously.”

“Except Clive, you think?”

“Well, don’t you?”

“What I may think and what I know of the matter are quite separate considerations,” Godber pronounced in a measured way, beaming at his wife, who had at last seen his signal.

“Oh, stop being so bloody pedantic, Felix. You’re as bad as Richard Steen.”

“Richard’s being pedantic about Clive?”

“No, evasive. He’s pretending he knows nothing about Clive’s state of health, but I found out Clive’s been to see him recently.”

“Clive told you that?”

There was a loud clearing of the throat from the other end. “Not exactly. I, er... I rang him to make a lunch date shortly after the second fire — I mean the bombing of the Seldon church,” Rice corrected quickly. “He wasn’t in London. His secretary said he was in Glasgow for two days. You realise Seldon’s only twelve miles from there? And guess where he’d been the week before?”

“In Broncaster, probably. He told us he went there every week, don’t you remember?”

“No.” There was a brief pause. “Well, perhaps I do. Anyway, he was there the night of the fire. And if he was in Cardiff yesterday, that would clinch it, wouldn’t it?”

“Was he in Cardiff yesterday?” the judge asked cautiously.

“I don’t know,” was the strained reply. “But I mean to find out.”

“Good. You can ask him on Monday. It’s our bridge night.”

“He may not come. Anyway, it may be too late by then. And remember, Clive’s seen Richard. That was just after the February bridge night.”

“He saw him professionally, you mean?”

There was some more throat clearing from Rice. “He saw him, that’s all I can say. It came up in my conversation with his secretary.”

“So he could have been seeing him for lunch, or golf?”

“Look, Felix, you’re a High Court judge and if...”

“Crown Court, actually,” Godber corrected automatically and with feeling. He had expected to be promoted to the higher court the previous June, but had been disappointed.

“Well, you’re a judge anyway. It’ll be a pretty state of affairs if it comes out you knew Clive’s been dynamiting buildings...”

“I have no such knowledge, Felix,” Godber retaliated hotly. “I was merely present when we lightheartedly discussed what one might do in one’s last days, if one succumbed to a terminal illness. Clive said that he’d demolish some ugly buildings. I’m not aware that he has since become terminally ill. If he has, I’m deeply sorry, but I very much doubt he’d actually carry through such a frivolous resolve.”

“Well, I’m absolutely certain he would. Don’t you remember how serious he sounded? Anyway, it’d look awful in the papers if it came out. You, a judge, tacitly condoning...”

“I’ve condoned nothing, tacitly or otherwise, and in any case you’d be just as culpable as I am.”

“Culpable. That’s the word all right. But I’m not a judge.”

“But you’re an ex-cabinet minister, and on the boards of I don’t know how many companies.”

“That’s different. Readers of the gutter press assume all politicians and company directors are liars who withhold the truth for private gain. They expect judges to have higher standards. Altogether, I think you should do something without delay.”

“Like what?” Godber was beginning to admit to himself that there was something in what Rice had been saying, though he was equally certain the man was more concerned for his own reputation than anyone else’s.

“You could go and see Clive. He’s only round the corner from you.” Godber and Wallace both lived in South Kensington, while Rice’s house was in Hampstead. “You could face him with the evidence.”

“Coincidence isn’t evidence.”

“Three buildings destroyed is more than coincidence. Well, if you don’t feel like tackling Clive, at least you could call Richard Steen.”

“So could you.”

“He wouldn’t tell me if he knew Clive was dying. Doctors treat patient information as if they’d heard it in the confessional.”

“I should hope so, too. So why should Richard confide in me?”

“Because judges are bound by the same sort of code, aren’t they?”

“First I’ve heard of it.” Godber paused, frowning into his now empty coffee cup. “All right, I’ll do what I can. No promises.”

“Good man. Let me know...”

“I said no promises, Felix. Cheerio, and... and love to Madge.”

An hour later, Godber and Steen met by telephoned arrangement in the broad walk in Kensington Gardens. They had come from opposite directions. Steen lived in Bays water, just north of the park. Although both men were well wrapped up against the east wind — Godber in a British-warm overcoat, Steen in a too pristine, waxed shooting jacket — the sky was clear and blue, the sun shining, and the early-morning frost had almost evaporated.

“You haven’t spoken to Felix again?” Steen enquired after the two had removed gloves briefly to shake hands, and then turned to stride eastwards toward the Round Pond.

“Certainly not. Not since I called in on Clive at nine. I must say, he looked fitter than I’ve seen him for some time.”

“Hmm, I’m glad to hear it.”

“He’s given up smoking, as you ordered. Said it was a lot easier than he’d expected.”

“In his case easier than the possible dire consequences of not giving it up. Surprising how the risk of death concentrates the resolve. Anyway, I’m glad he told you about his heart problem, and the operation. You understood, I couldn’t have told you myself?”

“Naturally. Is his condition very dangerous?”

Steen sniffed. “It’s not immediately life-threatening.”

“But might he think it was?”

“Possibly. I had to put the fear of God in him to get him to agree to the operation. I see what you’re getting at. D’you really believe it’s he who’s destroying these buildings? As he said, a final act in the public service, and all that?”

“He denies it vehemently.”

“I suppose he’d have to. Apart from anything else, to protect the rest of us. Could we in any way be considered, er... accessories to his crimes?”

“Hardly. Just bloody fools, if it came out. Which, in a way, is worse. That’s assuming he’s committed any crimes.”

“But with three out of the four buildings on his list gone already — I mean, it does seem rather more than coincidence.”

“That’s what Felix said, of course. But you could both be wrong.” The judge rearranged the red muffler he was wearing as he went on. “If Clive has frequent occasion currently to be visiting Glasgow, Broncaster, and... and perhaps Cardiff, it’s not surprising his most unfavourite buildings in those places would be the first ones he’d have nominated for destruction in a... in a...” The speaker hesitated, making an airy circle with one hand. “In a fanciful kind of way.”

“Because he’d have them in the front of his mind, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

“Is he coming to the club on Monday night?”

“I imagine so.” If one of the group had to miss a bridge evening, it was usual for the individual concerned to phone Godber.

“Well, I’m sure it’ll help us all if he tells us he’s not responsible for the mayhem.” Steen paused, then added, “You mentioned Cardiff. He hasn’t actually been there too?”

Godber’s shoulders moved from side to side uneasily. “I don’t propose we tell Felix Rice,” he said, “but, yes, I’m afraid Clive was near there yesterday. He drove back late last night. He told me as much, though I confess he did so a touch reluctantly.”

Steen stopped in his tracks, hands thrust deeply into the patch pockets of his jacket. “But was he actually in Cardiff? Where the fire was last night?”

“No, further west, in Swansea. He’s supervising some rebuilding there.”

“But he must have driven back through Cardiff?”

“Round it certainly. On the M4 motorway.” They fell into step again, taking a path that leads across to Lancaster Walk as Godber continued. “Clive swears he had nothing to do with the fire there. But if Felix knew Clive had been anywhere near South Wales, I shudder to think what action he might take. He was threatening this morning to tell the owners of the Waterwood building to have it guarded at night.” The speaker made a face, squeezing his eyes tightly together. “It’s unsettling to accept that it might be the prudent thing to do, of course.”

“On the contrary, it could be disastrous for Clive. If the police had reason to question him. To accuse him of anything,” the cardiologist pronounced with great firmness. “His heart’s just not up to that kind of trauma.”

“But there’s no reason why he should be questioned. The police don’t know anything about our discussion at the club.”

“Not yet, they don’t.” Steen shook his head. “Felix is so unpredictable. If he was asked to explain how he knew the Waterwood place was in danger, he could easily give the whole thing away.”

“I see.” The judge straightened his small frame even more as the two turned right onto the main concrete walk. There was calculation in his gaze too, which was fixed on the boarded-up Albert Memorial lying a few hundred yards in front of them. “Very well,” he resolved. “I’ll tell Felix that I’ll warn the Waterwood people myself about possible danger to the building. That’s what he really wants in any case.”

“But how will you explain you know?”

“I shan’t.”

“But if the police are told, they’ll press you for an explanation, surely?”

Godber’s eyebrows moved up and down. “In that event, I shall tell them what policemen have been telling me in my court with impunity for many years past. I’ll say an informer told me. A snout.” The judge nodded, looking extremely pleased with himself.

It was late on the evening of the following day, Sunday, that the old Waterwood factory on the Great West Road was burnt to a cinder, and early on the Monday morning that firemen searching through the debris discovered the charred remains of a human body.

“There’s still no reply from his flat,” said Felix Rice, rejoining the others in the otherwise empty cardroom of the Renaissance Club. It was just after six-thirty on Monday evening. Rice, Steen, and Godber had all arrived before the hour. It was unusual for any of the bridge players to be seriously late, and when there had been no sign of Wallace at six twenty-five, it was Rice who had gone to telephone his flat from one of the payphones in the main hall.

“His office...” Godber began.

“Have been saying since this morning they didn’t expect him in today,” Rice interrupted. “I rang them three times.”

“And they’d no idea where he could be reached?” enquired Steen.

“I told you, none,” answered Rice, picking up the whisky he had abandoned earlier. “His secretary’s away, but the woman I kept speaking to said there were no appointments in his diary either. Surely even an architect wouldn’t go a whole weekday without checking at least once with his office?” continued a man who prided himself on the orderliness of his life. “Well, it’s clear to me he’s destroyed that building like the others, except this time he’s stayed in it on purpose. Didn’t want to face the operation, I expect, nor life as some kind of invalid. I’m positive it’s his body they’ve found,” he completed.

“Well, no one else is. The police aren’t, for a start,” Steen insisted. “The report on the radio said there was no quick way of identifying the body from what was left.”

“It couldn’t have been a caretaker because there wasn’t one. They said that too. There was only a mobile security patrol that called by once a night,” said Godber in a morose tone. He had intended to telephone the owners of the building with his warning immediately after the weekend, but immediately after the weekend had proved to be too late.

“Teeth survive fires, don’t they?” asked Rice suddenly. “Did Clive still have his own teeth?”

“Yes, and if the dead body’s his, his dental records will no doubt prove it,” Steen answered.

“So we should put the police on to his dentist right away,” said Rice. “D’you know who that is, Richard?”

“I do, yes. Chap in Upper Wimpole Street. I’d thought of that already, but it’s too early. Once we alert the police, if the body isn’t Clive, he’s still implicated. Better to wait a day or two, in case the authorities come up with other takers. And if it is Clive’s body, there’ll be a letter from him to someone, explaining things. One of us, possibly. I’m sure of it.”

“I agree,” offered Godber swiftly, temporarily forestalling Rice who, judging from the expression on his face, was strongly against delay.

“Well, I see no purpose in prevarication. We should accept our bounden duty in the matter,” Rice insisted, with righteous fervour. “One of us must inform the authorities now that he’s reason to believe it’s Clive Wallace’s body they’ve found, and that it was Clive Wallace who set fire to the building. I think it should be you, Rodger. No need to tell them how you know, of course.” He cleared his throat, folded his arms across his chest, and glanced around defiantly at the others in the manner of a man who had dutifully passed a heavy responsibility on to someone else.

It was at that moment that Clive Wallace himself appeared in the doorway of the cardroom. He looked more dishevelled than usual, seriously out of breath, but far from dead. “I’m dreadfully sorry to be so late,” he uttered, closing the door and slumping into the empty chair at the card table with a deep sigh. “There’s the mother and father of all traffic jams in Holborn. Would you believe, my taxi’s taken fifty minutes to get here from Euston station? I’d no chance to ring you, of course.”

It was Godber who broke the following uncomfortable silence. “Been North, have you, Clive?” he enquired, with an earnestness indicating that Wallace’s response would be of more than passing interest.

The architect grinned sheepishly. “Manchester, actually. It’s where my secretary’s parents live. You see, er... she and I, er... well, we got married this morning.”

There was a further silence, this time more stunned than uncomfortable, as each of the other three debated the reasons why a putative arsonist on the brink of death should decide to embark on matrimony.

“Congratulations,” offered Rice eventually, forcing a smile while speculating about which of Manchester’s less attractive buildings Wallace might have singled out for firing while he happened to be in the area. The others made supportive noises.

“You’re probably wondering what came over me,” said Wallace with searing accuracy. “Fact is, Eve and I, that’s her name, Eve, we’ve been talking of marriage for some time. She’s no bimbo, you understand? In her early fifties, actually. Divorced some years back.” He gave a weak, embarrassed cough. “Well, when Richard here gave me the bad news you all know about, we decided to speed things up. I mean, if I fall off the perch as a result of this heart thing, or because of the operation, at least Eve will inherit my estate, such as it is. There’s no one else, you see? I’ve no family at all. We made the final decision a fortnight ago. Got a special license. Today was the earliest time it could be used.” He paused to take a deep breath. “We did the deed at the Dewsbury Register Office. It was just the two of us, with her parents and her brother and his wife as witnesses. Didn’t want any fuss. It’s why we didn’t tell our friends. Not anyone.” He looked around guiltily at the other three. “I’m sorry. And for being late tonight.”

“We all understand, of course,” said Godber, swallowing awkwardly. “But, er... is your wife with you?” He looked about him, as though the lady might have entered the room unobserved, although if she had she would have been trespassing in a members only section of the club.

“No,” Wallace replied. “Seems daft, I know, but it’s only the actual ceremony we covered today. I’ve got a load of work on for the rest of the week, most of it out of the office. Then there’s the operation. We’ve decided to delay the honeymoon till I’m far enough into recuperation for us to go on a long cruise. Eve’s staying with her parents till midweek.”

“Good. Sound thinking,” said Steen with genuine and professionally underwritten enthusiasm. He got up and pressed the service bell at the side of the fireplace. “Meantime, a glass of celebratory champagne will do you no harm. We can’t holler for things tonight, unfortunately. Perkins isn’t here for some reason. We’re having to order everything through the main bar.”

“There’s just one thing, Clive,” said Rice carefully. “Er, you must have heard that the Waterwood building was destroyed by fire last night. Since that’s another of your...”

“Ah, Mr. Wallace, got a letter for you, sir. Didn’t know you were here,” said Merit, the club’s senior night steward, who had just entered in response to the bell. Garrulous by nature, he was old, increasingly hard of hearing, and was unaware that he had interrupted anyone. He searched in the side pocket of his white jacket, produced an envelope, and handed it to Wallace. “It’s from Ernest Perkins, sir. You know he’s retired through ill health? Well, perhaps you didn’t, not any of you, not if you haven’t been in of an evening since this time last month. Very sudden it was, three weeks ago. It’s cancer, I’m afraid, with not much time left to him, according to his doctor. Bachelor, he is, with no dependants. There was talk of him getting into one of those hospice places, but he isn’t keen.” The old man shook his head. “Been with us twenty years. Nearly as long as me. That’s since he left the regular army, of course. Sergeant, he was there. Thinks the world of you four gentlemen, he does, especially you, Mr. Wallace. Dead keen on fine buildings, see? Goes to look at all your buildings, he does, and not just the ones in London either.”

His face drawn, Wallace looked up from reading the letter, which he passed to Godber. It was handwritten, short, and to the point — a combined confession and suicide note. It left no doubt about who had destroyed the four eyesores and whose body would be found in the Waterwood building.

“I never knew Perkins was an ex-regular soldier,” said Wallace slowly. “What outfit was he in, do you know?”

“Royal Engineers, sir,” Merit replied. “Specialist, he was. In demolition and bomb disposal. Nothing he doesn’t know about that kind of thing.”

“I’m sure there... wasn’t,” Godber agreed with a sigh, partly in sorrow, but also in some relief.