But now as he washed his neck – it was Friday night and Mrs Wynn was expecting him – he was conscious that he no longer felt the same way about her. Not that he had ever felt very much, but that little had been swept aside by his sudden surge of feeling for Maud. He was sensible enough not to entertain any expectations of being able to do anything about it. It just didn’t seem right to go off to Mrs Wynn any more. In any case it was all most peculiar. He had always had a soft spot for Lady Maud but this was different and it occurred to him that he might be sickening for something. He stuck out his tongue and studied it in the bathroom mirror but it looked all right. It might be the weather. He had once heard someone say something about spring and young men’s fancies but Blott wasn’t a young man. He was fifty. Fifty and in love. Daft.
He went downstairs and got on his bicycle and cycled off across the bridge towards Guildstead Carbonell. He had just reached the crossroads when he heard a car coming up fast behind him. He got off the bike to let it go by. It was Sir Giles in the Bentley. “Going to the Golf Club to see Hoskins,” he thought, and looked after the car suspiciously. “He’s up to something.” He got back on to his bike and freewheeled reluctantly down the hill towards the Royal George and Mrs Wynn. Perhaps he ought to tell Maud what he had heard. It didn’t seem a good idea and in any case he wasn’t going to let her know that Dundridge fancied her. “He can sow his own row,” he said to himself and was pleased at his command of the idiom.
In the Worford Golf Club, Sir Giles and Hoskins discussed tactics.
“He’s got to have a weakness,” said Sir Giles. “Every man has his price.”
“Maud?” said Hoskins.
“Be your age,” said Sir Giles. “She isn’t going to fartarse around with some tinpot civil servant with that reversionary clause in the contract at stake. Besides, I don’t believe it.”
“I distinctly heard him say he found her charming. And comely.”
“All right, so he likes fat women. What else does he like? Money?”
Hoskins shrugged. “Hard to tell. You need time to find that out.”
“Time is what we haven’t got. He’s only got to start blabbing about that bleeding tunnel and the fat’s in the fire. No, we’ve got to act fast.”
Hoskins looked at him suspiciously. “What’s all this ‘We’ business?” he asked. “It’s your problem, not mine.”
Sir Giles gnawed a fingernail thoughtfully. “How much?”
“Five thousand.”
“For what?”
“Whatever you decide.”
“Make it five per cent of the compensation. When it’s paid.”
Hoskins did a quick calculation and made it twelve and a half thousand. “Cash on the nail,” he said.
“You’re a hard man, Hoskins, a hard man,” Sir Giles said sorrowfully.
“Anyway what do you want me to do? Sound him out?”
Sir Giles shook his head. His little eyes glittered. “Kinky,” he said. “Kinky. What made you say that?”
“I don’t know. Just wondered,” said Hoskins.
“Boys, do you think?”
“Difficult to know,” said Hoskins. “These things take time to find out.”
“Drink, drugs, boys, women, money. There’s got to be some damned thing he’s itching for.”
“Of course, we could frame him,” said Hoskins. “It’s been done before.”
Sir Giles nodded. “The unsolicited gift. The anonymous donor. It’s been done before all right. But it’s too risky. What if he goes to the police?”
“Nothing ventured nothing gained,” said Hoskins. “In any case there would be no indication where it came from. My bet is he’d take the bait.”
“If he didn’t we would have lost him. No, it’s got to be something foolproof.”
They sat in silence and considered a suitably compromising future for Dundridge.
“Ambitious would you say?” Sir Giles asked finally. Hoskins nodded.
“Very.”
“Know any queers?”
“In Worford? You’ve got to be joking,” said Hoskins.
“Anywhere.”
Hoskins shook his head. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking…”
“I am.”
“Photos?”
“Photos,” Sir Giles agreed. “Nice compromising photos.”
Hoskins gave the matter some thought. “There’s Bessie Williams,” he said. “Used to be a model, if you know what I mean. Married a photographer in Bridgeminster. She’d do it if the money was right.” He smiled reminiscently. “I can have a word with her.”
“You do that,” said Sir Giles. “I’ll pay up to five hundred for a decent set of photos.”
“Leave it to me,” Hoskins told him. “Now then, about the cash.”
By the time Sir Giles left the Golf Club the matter was fixed. He drove home in a haze of whisky. “The stick first and then the carrot,” he muttered. Tomorrow he would go to London and visit Mrs Forthby. It was just as well to be out of the way when things happened.
Chapter 11
Dundridge spent the following morning at the Regional Planning Board with Hoskins poring over maps and discussing the tunnel. He was rather surprised to find that Hoskins had undergone a change of heart about the project and seemed to favour it. “It’s a brilliant idea. Pity we didn’t think of it before. Would have saved no end of trouble,” he said, and while Dundridge was flattered he wasn’t so sure. He had begun to have doubts about the feasibility of a tunnel. The Ministry wouldn’t exactly like the cost, the delay would be considerable and there was still Lord Leakham to be persuaded. “You don’t think we could find an alternative route,” he asked but Hoskins shook his head.
“It’s either the Cleene Gorge or Ottertown or your tunnel.” Dundridge, studying the maps, had to concede that there wasn’t any other route. The Cleene Hills stretched unbroken save for the Gorge from Worford to Ottertown.
“Ridiculous fuss people make about a bit of forest,” Dundridge complained. “Just trees. What’s so special about trees?”
They had lunch at a restaurant in River Street. At the next table a couple in their thirties seemed to find Dundridge quite fascinating and more than once Dundridge looked up to find the woman looking at him with a quiet smile. She was rather attractive, with almond eyes.
In the afternoon Hoskins took him on a tour of the proposed route through Ottertown. They drove over and inspected the council houses and returned through Guildstead Carbonell, Hoskins stopping the car every now and again and insisting that they climb to the top of some hill to get a better view of the proposed route. By the time they got back to Worford Dundridge was exhausted. He was also rather drunk. They had stopped at several pubs along the way and, thanks to Hoskins’ insistence that pints were for men and that only boys drank halves – he put rather a nasty inflection on boys – Dundridge had consumed rather more Handyman Triple XXX than he was used to.
“We’re having a little celebration party at the Golf Club tonight,” Hoskins said as they drove through the town gate. “If you’d care to come over…”
“I think I’ll get an early night,” said Dundridge.
“Pity,” Hoskins said. “You’d meet a number of influential local people. Doesn’t do to give the locals the idea you’re hoity-toity.”
“Oh all right,” said Dundridge grudgingly. “I’ll have a bath and something to eat and see how I feel.”
“See you later, old boy,” said Hoskins as Dundridge got out of the car and went up to his room in the Handyman Arms. A bath and a meal and he’d probably feel all right. He fetched a towel and went down the passage to the bathroom. When he returned having immersed himself briefly in a lukewarm bath – the geyser still refused to operate at all efficiently – he was feeling better. He had dinner and decided that Hoskins was probably right. It might be useful to meet some of the more influential local people. Dundridge went out to his car and drove over to the Golf Club.