The Benefits of Death Read online

  Leithan had never found himself very much in sympathy with Georgina Yerby; her personality was cold; but just for the moment he was feeling very sorry for her.

  “Ah, well, very nice do your missus has given us all, Charlie.”

  “Could you possibly make it Charles?”

  Marsh helped himself to a king-sized gin and tonic. “You don’t like Charlie, do you? So sorry, but me and the missus always talks of you as Charlie. Sounds warmer, somehow.”

  Georgina Yerby walked into the clear space between the two groups and said loudly, in her high, toneless voice: “May I have your attention, please?” She was thin, almost to the point of emaciation and it was obvious that life had not treated her with too much generosity. She dressed with care, if without taste, and the clothes bore the obvious marks of heavy wear.

  The sound of human voices ceased — only the canine grunts, groans, yelps, yowls, and hysterical shrieks remained.

  “As some of you know, the annual general meeting of the club will be held at two o’clock sharp on the 20th of November at the Bambridge Rooms. One of the subjects on the agenda will be the admission or rejection of tri-colours in the breed standards.”

  Tri-colours were the 64,000 dollar question, and if the battle was bloodless it was none the less bitter. The ordinary members of the club had never before been so aware of their importance: the president of the club tried to woo them and the vice-president tried to bribe them.

  “To make certain you all understand the problem, I should like just to repeat the salient points. In the past, this breed has not advised the Kennel Club on the question of tri-colours within the breed standards and tri-colours have been allowed to be exhibited. Recently, because of the wish of certain members of this club, the question has been referred to the Kennel Club for a definitive ruling and they have held that the matter must be raised at our next annual general meeting where it is to be voted upon. The Kennel Club will accept whatever decision is reached. It is up to all members, therefore, as to whether or not tri-colour Cuencas are allowed to be entered in future shows.”

  “There should never have been any need for all this,” said Evadne Leithan loudly.

  Some of those who were present looked excited. They had hoped there would be trouble and this could well be the beginning of it.

  Georgina Yerby’s voice became higher. “If the records had been carefully consulted, perhaps it would not have occurred.”

  Evadne Leithan moved forward until she was directly facing the other woman. By comparison, she was a gross figure, but there was an air about her that said she didn’t give a damn if she was fat, because the pearls round her neck and the two diamonds on her fingers were genuine. “The proper records were the ones that were destroyed in the Civil War. The trouble is that since then there’ve been a number of people over there in the breed who don’t know what they’re talking about when they say tri-colours aren’t allowed. If only they’d take the trouble to read Murrell’s Journal Of Spanish Journeys they’d discover that in the nineteenth century he saw tri-coloured Cuencas which were then held to be the most valuable and most esteemed of all dogs.”

  “Murrell also reported he saw a witch who rode her broomstick across the roof-tops of Valencia,” said Georgina Yerby scornfully.

  Leithan poured himself out another whisky. He prided himself that he still maintained an equable neutrality in the matter and therefore he found the affair petty and degrading. So much energy, so much hate, so much deceit, was being channelled into a project that wasn’t worth a tenth of the emotional effort. Georgina Yerby had, together with her great friend who had died two years before, started the Cuenca Club, fought its early battles, and worked until the breed was recognised by the Kennel Club who had granted one set of C.C.s a year. Her bitch had won the first two challenge certificates — the dogs failed to be awarded theirs — so that if it gained the third one it would become a champion, the one great goal in her life to which she was dedicated on behalf of herself and her great friend.

  At that time, Evadne had seen her first Cuenca and had learned that a champion had yet to be made up. She had determined to be the owner of that champion. Stymphalian had cost two hundred guineas in Spain and the transport and quarantine bills had come to another hundred. Stymie won the next two challenge certificates and the canine competitors were running neck and neck. On the one hand a black and white that was the second best Cuenca in England, on the other a tri-colour that was the best. It was then that some of the older members of the club, who knew what Georgina Yerby had done for the club in the past and were bitter about the use to which Evadne was putting her money, had brought to the notice of the Kennel Club the fact that tri-colours were barred in Spain and that they should, therefore, surely also be barred in England. If their request was accepted, not only would Evadne be prevented from owning the first champion, she would also be publicly labelled a fool for having paid two hundred guineas for a Cuenca that was incorrectly marked.

  Leithan finished his drink. Evadne had taken up dog-showing and dog-breeding with a fervour that sometimes suggested she was trying to compensate for something. Was he in any way connected with that something?

  He poured out another whisky as he listened to Evadne and Georgina Yerby continue their argument. The doctor had said on no account was Evadne to allow herself to become excited: the doctor had not known his patient.

  *

  Charles Leithan began work at ten in the morning and he continued at least until lunch. When all was going well, or he imagined it was, he did not finish until seven or eight at night. Evadne invariably jeered at him on such occasions, for wasting so much of his time.

  As he sat down and pulled the movable table over the arms of the chair and removed the cover of the typewriter, he wondered if perhaps Evadne wasn’t right. Sometimes the critics appreciated his latest book and reviewed it in reasonable terms, sometimes they disliked it and said so without too much spleen. In either case, the public remained distant. Not one of his books had ever sold more than three thousand copies on the home market, nor, even with subsidiary rights, had one ever made more than four hundred pounds. And that sum became rather ridiculous when compared with the income he and Evadne shared from the trust fund whose capital now stood at somewhere around a quarter of a million. Most people seemed to think his work was an apology for the fact that he did not have to earn a living, but that was one thing for which he would never apologise. He saw no evil in being wealthy and he wrote because he wanted to, perhaps even had to. The fact that the public received him in near silence upset him, but did not stop him: the fact that his wife thought him a fool to continue to scribble was of no account whatsoever.

  He placed the two sheets of paper and the carbon in the typewriter and turned the roller until he could print 231 at the head of the page. Another thirty or forty pages and he would be finished. This time, he was certain he was writing a really good book, just as he was always certain. That certainty was in no way shaken by the knowledge that the future would prove he was wrong. If that seemed paradoxical, it was only a practical example of the way his mind worked.

  He wrote stylised and somewhat sardonically flavoured novels which relied on characters and not action. Thirty years ago they might have been popular, but since then there had been too many changes in the world. He knew this.

  He began to type.

  *

  The dining-room was in the more recently built part of the house, which was at right angles to the original. It was sufficiently large so that when there were only two of them eating there he often thought they must look slightly ridiculous. But Evadne would never agree to their eating any meal in the breakfast-room but breakfast.

  “You’re late,” she said, as he entered.

  He went to the chair at the far end of the refectory table and sat down. “I wanted to finish the chapter. Quite suddenly, I realised a way out of the trouble I’d got myself into.”

  She muttered impatiently and then helped
herself to four of the eight slices of smoked salmon. “I’m going up on the two-eighteen, Charles.”

  “Up where?”

  She held a slice of lemon over the salmon. “I told you yesterday morning that I was going up to London.”

  “Oh, yes.” He took the remaining smoked salmon and ground some pepper over the slices.

  “Why don’t you ever listen, Charles?”

  “I usually do.”

  “You usually don’t, so you’ll kindly make the effort now. The new kennel-maid is coming this afternoon. I want you to explain her job to her and make quite certain she knows that Nemean is to have nothing but paunch until he’s lost those extra pounds. She’s to worm Ceryneian. I saw a segment in her big duties this morning.” She began to eat. Evadne maintained her dogs on a rigid diet, but ignored the fact that she, also, was supposed to be on one.

  Leithan filled his glass with water. “What time to-night are you coming back?”

  “My dear Charles, I’m returning to-morrow, precisely as I’ve told you so many times already.”

  He tried to recollect what train she had mentioned, but failed.

  “On the twelve o’clock,” she snapped, clearly appreciating his difficulties. “I’ve told Mrs. Andrews that lunch will not be until one-thirty, but since her memory is nearly as bad as yours, you’d better remind her of that. I shall take the Rover and garage it at Crouch’s for the night and tell them to have it waiting for the train.” About to eat another mouthful of salmon, she looked across the table. “Have you written to the railway company complaining about that bridge?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  “They’ve no right to make their passengers go up and down so many steps.”

  “With a line between the platform and the car park, it would be difficult to have the thing level.”

  “That remark is just about up to standard.”

  Morosely, he watched her liberally butter a piece of brown bread.

  “Marsh says that wretched woman from Hampstead won’t agree to…” She stopped. “You’re not listening. What are you thinking about?”

  He was not prepared to explain he had been thinking of Pamela.

  Chapter III

  Leithan watched his wife alter the setting of the safety belt until it would fit her ample measurements. She clipped the buckle into the holding catch and started the engine. “Look after yourself,” he said automatically. “Have you got your pills?”

  “Do stop fussing,” she snapped. She confused illness with weakness and hated to be reminded that she suffered from angina pectoris.

  “I’ll take the new kennel-maid round and show her the routine,” said Leithan.

  “And tell her to worm Ceryneian.” She pushed the selection lever to reverse. “Are you going out to-night, Charles?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I may go to Lympne for a drink at the club if I feel like it.”

  She stared at him for a few seconds, then accelerated and reversed out of the garage. Leithan watched her round the U-shaped bend until she could turn right and drive down to the road. He wondered why she had bothered to ask him about his movements that evening? Until a few weeks ago, he would have said that their marriage had reached a reasonable state of co-existence, but recently he had twice discovered her looking through his desk — on each occasion she had claimed to be searching for something she must have known was not there — and whenever she went away for the night she asked him what he intended doing. When she came back, she was equally interested in what he had done.

  One of the Ashford taxis came up the drive. Leithan walked round and met it in front of the house. The driver smiled and half saluted, then opened the back door. A woman climbed out and stared at Leithan. “I’m Sarah Pochard,” she said, in a harsh voice.

  He acknowledged her greeting. “If you’d take the bags…” he began to say to the driver.

  “Very good, sir. I’ll drop them in the front room — door’s open, I suppose?”

  Leithan nodded. Kennel-maids came and kennel-maids went — although the duties were light and the pay good Evadne could never be called the easiest of employers — and this driver knew the routine. Leithan gave him a ten-shilling tip and received in return a quick smile of thanks. The car drove off to cover the quarter of a mile between Lower Brakebourne Farm and the semidetached house where the kennel-maid would live.

  “Nice place you’ve got,” said Sarah Pochard, almost resentfully. She scratched the back of her neck. “A thing I want to know is, what about hops?”

  “There are always dances in Ashford and usually at least one a week in the local village hut.”

  “I’m telling you, I’ve had a basinful of village do’s, I have. Too many clodding squares who want to show me what the other side of the hay-stack looks like.”

  Studying her heavy make-up, her prominently defined figure, and the sensuous set of her thick mouth, Leithan decided that in her twenty-four years she had seen the other sides of many hay-stacks.

  “Your wife said as I’d have the use of a car?”

  “We’ve a small van which you’ll be using to collect the dog food from the slaughterhouse. When it’s not wanted elsewhere, you’re at liberty to use that. Within reason, of course.”

  She looked as if about to complain at the imposed restriction.

  “Shall we have a quick look round the kennels so that I can explain what we’d like you to do?”

  “If you say.” She did not try to suggest that she was eager to begin work.

  They walked past the garage and along the outside cinder path to the kennels. The Cuencas, all of whom had come into the outside pens, began to yowl.

  Leithan stopped by the first pen. “We feed them twice a day…”

  “I know. She told me all that when I came for me interview. Ugly, ain’t they?”

  He thought it politic to veil his thoughts on the subject. “We keep these six out here and most of the time the seventh is in the house with us. Did Mrs. Leithan tell you their names?”

  “No.” She looked across the field to the south and saw the valley and the woods beyond. Her expression became still more sullen.

  “Starting up there is Nemean: he’s the only dog and he’s at stud to approved bitches.” Evadne charged a fifty guinea stud-fee to prevent the “erks and narks” from bettering their stock. “The others are all bitches. Going in order, Lernaean, Ceryneian, Erymanthian, Hippolyte, and Cerberus. Stymphalian is the bitch we have in the house.”

  “Gawd!” she said.

  “Will you worm Ceryneian for a tape this afternoon. You’ll find the pills in the tack room which is at the far end of the kennels. Make certain you only give one. Cuencas have very delicate stomachs.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I believe Mrs. Leithan discussed with you the hours of work and all that sort of thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know where you’ll be living?”

  “That place up the road.”

  “Good. Let me know if there’s anything you want.”

  She watched him walk away. Bloody snooty as they come, she thought, inaccurately. She went up to the nearest run and Nemean began a bubbling yowl and his eyes seemed to bulge more than ever. She stared at him with dislike. “You ugly bastard,” she muttered.

  *

  Leithan drove in the Rapier to the Ashford/Ham Street road and then, just before Shap Cross, turned off and made his way through the narrow country lanes to Pamela’s house. He wondered if all men of forty-two could slough twenty years just by taking a car ride. Perhaps not. They hadn’t all a Pam waiting for them.

  Her converted oast-house, with newly painted cowl on top of the roundel, had as a setting the wood that lay immediately behind it: it was difficult to believe there could ever have been one without the other.

  Pamela opened the front door. She was wearing tartan trousers and a green shirt; there was a large smudge on her right cheek and her hair was in casual disorder. She smiled at him, and th
e happiness that smile gave him seemed momentarily to tie a knot in his stomach. She stood on one side so that he could enter, then she closed the door and immediately reached up and pulled his head down until she could kiss him.

  She finally drew away. “So the headmistress is away for the day?”

  “And the night.”

  “Well?”

  He grinned. “So I thought you and me could have a little fun together.”

  They went through to the living-room which was circular, being the lower floor of the roundel. He noticed, with amusement, that as usual the room appeared to be in chaos with books, magazines, newspapers, a typewriter, and several box files, all in haphazard confusion. It was a far, and to him welcome, cry from the clinical neatness that always existed in his own house.

  She picked up two books from the seat of the nearer arm-chair and dropped them on to the floor. As soon as he sat down, she curled up on his lap. “It’s been absolutely months, Charles.”

  “Ten days since I was last here.”

  “Haven’t you a spark of romance in you, you bastard?” she said affectionately. “I was suggesting it had seemed like months, but you…you know it’s only been ten days and in any case they’ve only seemed like two to you. I’m damned if I know why I have anything to do with you.”

  “It’s my atal fattraction.”

  “Spare me such modesty. Don’t forget something. Before I took you in hand, you were the most painfully pedantic and didactic man I’d ever met.”

  “Before you took me in hand, you hadn’t met me.”

  “I can’t think how any woman puts up with you.” The moment she had said that, she knew it had been a mistake. She kissed him and soon the unfortunate reference was not even a memory.

  Later, she went through to the kitchen to make some coffee and he followed her. “How’s the work going?” he said.

  “I wondered if you’d ever ask. Guess what?”

  “With you, it could be anything.”

  “I’ve sold my latest book in America and the advance comes to two hundred and seventy-eight pounds, four shillings and twopence, less agent’s fees.” She passed the coffee-grinder to him. “And if it sells at all, they’ve promised to take the previous three. Ever since I got the letter I’ve been trying to decide whether mink will suit me better than sable.”