The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 70: A Developing Crisis

Terence Moongrove was only very vaguely known to Rufus and Frances Jarvis, as he moved in different circles from them. He had his sacred dance association, peopled by sundry adherents of the Bulgarian mystic, Peter Deunov; Rufus and Frances had their golf club. Between the sacred dance association and the golf club there was very little, indeed no shared ground, even if the members might recognise one another in the street, as happened when Rufus and Frances had seen Terence Moongrove in the supermarket car park, bundling his shopping into the rear seat of his Porsche.

“What an extraordinary sight,” Rufus had said. “That Moonshine character seems to have acquired the tart cart that used to belong to Alfie Bismarck’s boy. Look at that!”

“Moonwater,” corrected Frances. “Is it really his? Mind you, he’s getting into the driving seat, so it must be. My goodness. Whatever next!”

“I’ll be keeping well out of Moonwater’s way,” said Rufus. “He’ll be lethal in that machine. Why is it that middle-aged men buy themselves these totally unsuitable cars?”

“Precisely because they’re middle-aged men,” said Frances. “A car like that compensates for a lot, you know.”

“Poor Moonwater,” said Rufus.

“Indeed.”

This slight acquaintanceship – if one could call it that – meant that it was very unlikely that Terence would be one of the guests at the Jarvises’ drinks party. And indeed while the Jarvises were shopping that day for their evening entertainment, Terence was sitting in his conservatory, meditating, while his sister, Berthea, rifled through his papers in his chaotically untidy study. Berthea had a very specific objective – to find the telephone number of Lennie Marchbanks, the garagiste who had sold Terence the Porsche. She had looked for the number in the telephone directory and failed to find it because unbeknown to her Lennie Marchbanks traded not under his name but that of Stellar Motors. At last, however, she found a receipt bearing the garage name and his signature – a crumpled, slightly greasy document – and was able to dial his number.

“Mr Marchbanks?”

“Yes. Lennie speaking.” There was a curious clicking sound as he spoke, and she remembered that he had an ill-fitting pair of false teeth that often protruded awkwardly.

She gave him her name and asked whether she could possibly see him on a matter of great urgency. It was, she explained, in connection with Terence, who was in the gravest danger.

“Lordie!” exclaimed Lennie Marchbanks. “Has he had an accident or something? The Porsche? I’ve told him a hundred times not to drive fast.” Click. “I told him, so I did.”

Berthea assured him that it was nothing to do with the Porsche. “Financial danger,” she said.

Click. Click.

“Yes. But it’s difficult to explain over the phone. Can you please meet me in the lane outside the house in half an hour? I can tell you all about it then.”

Lennie agreed. He was fond of Terence, and had always recognised his vulnerability. He would be there, he said, and he would do whatever he could to help. And he was as good as his word, arriving exactly thirty minutes later in the appointed spot, where he found Berthea waiting for him.

The two had met before and Berthea did not bother with preliminaries. She told Lennie about Roger and Claire, and explained their plan to divest Terence of his house and, she suspected, his money too. Lennie Marchbanks listened, wide-eyed. “He’s not the most worldly of men,” he said in a concerned tone. “In fact, I must say I’ve always regarded your brother as an accident waiting to happen. Sorry to have to say it, but that’s what I think.”

Berthea shook her head. “You don’t have to apologise for thinking that,” she said. “I’ve thought as much for years. Ever since he was a little boy. But he’s a good man, at heart, even if he is a little bit ...”

“Weak in the head,” supplied Lennie Marchbanks helpfully.

“Yes. Perhaps.”

“But, as you say, he’s a kind man and we need to protect him.” Lennie Marchbanks paused. “Do you want me to say something to these people? Do you want me to tell them to clear off?”

This would not work, said Berthea. She explained that Terence had a tendency to become very determined when told not to do something, and that the only way of dealing with the situation, in her view, was to get him to come to the realisation himself that Roger and Claire were a threat.

“And how do we do that?” asked Lennie Marchbanks. Click.

Berthea found her eyes drawn inexorably to the mechanic’s false teeth, the top row of which had slipped forward over the bottom of the set. He sucked them back into place as she answered his question.

“Terence believes in all sorts of things,” she said. “And at the moment he seems to be interested in the Green Man. Have you heard of—”

“There’s a pub down the way called that,” said Lennie Marchbanks. “The Green Man. Does a nice pint of mild.”

Berthea nodded. “I’m sure it does. There are an awful lot of pubs of that name, of course. The Green Man is a mythical figure who still occurs in the collective imagination. He pops up in all sorts of places … In fact, if he were to pop up in the rhododendron bushes in Terence’s garden and issue some sort of warning to my brother …”

Lennie Marchbanks was not a slow man, and it took him very little time to guess what Berthea was about to ask of him. “I see,” he said. “Now that’s an interesting idea.”

“Yes,” said Berthea. “You dress up as the Green Man. We can stick leaves all over your face – you’ll have seen drawings and carvings of him. Then I get Terence to go for a walk in the garden – the rest is over to you.”

“I jump out of the bushes and say, ‘Beware Roger and Claire,’ or something like that? Then I vanish?”

“More or less. But I think you should say something like, ‘There are people in the house who are planning to harm you.’ Something like that. He’s quite capable of putting two and two together – sometimes.”

Lennie Marchbanks rubbed his hands together. “That’ll sort them.”

“But then there’s part two of the plan,” said Berthea. “Let me tell you about that …”