Disguise for a Dead Gentleman

by Guy Compton, D.G. Compton

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

A school reunion goes horribly wrong...

A superb classic crime novel from a master of the genre.

'Compton has been one of Britain's most original and consistent novelists since the late Sixties, but he has never received the attention he deserves...Compton's prose is fine-tuned, his human insights sharp, and his narrative pace filled with the weird synchronicities and dissonances of how violent things usually happen' INDEPENDENT

Hating his brother and bitter not having attended a private school, Boyce is planning to impersonate his brother at the school's centenary celebration.

Unfortunately, Boyce did not know his brother's best friend, Ben Anderson, and mystery writer and would-be detective, is also going to the event. And after Anderson arrives for the celebration, two deaths occur at the school...

Release date: May 12, 2022

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 208

Sample

Graham Boyce was a tall man, and physically upstanding. If he wanted to see to brush his hair in the spotty, rented-room mirror he had to stoop a long way and lean one hand on the yellow chest of drawers. The mirror was only hung on a nail, and it would have been easy to hammer another nail in further up the wall. But Graham was used to rooms with mirrors he couldn’t see to brush his hair in, and he never stayed in any one of them for long enough to make hammering extra nails into their walls seem worthwhile. So he stooped now, and brushed his hair.

Then he straightened, took the old school tie that was his own even if he had no right to it, threaded it under his collar, and tied it. Then he moved back to prop himself down against the bedstead, and examined his reflection. He had brushed his hair exactly in the way he had always done. He had tied his tie in exactly the way he had always done. He wore no false nose, neither did he affect a squint. His suit was his usual suit, and there was nothing remarkable about his shirt either. But the reflection he saw in the mirror was that of his brother Brian. Or at least he hoped it was.

He raised his eyebrows and addressed his reflection. ‘But, Brian,’ he said, ‘how very young you’re looking.’ He held out his hand as if to shake the hand of his reflection. ‘Graham,’ he said, and it was really his reflection speaking, ‘Graham—how nice to see you.’

It wasn’t quite right. Back in their schooldays Brian’s stammer had been very noticeable. Of course, he had ironed most of it out since then, and to overdo it would be both inartistic and stupid. All the same Graham decided that at a meeting such as this his brother’s nervousness would almost certainly have betrayed him.

He tried again.

‘G-Graham,’ he said, ‘how n-nice to s-see you.’

He repeated the sentence yet again, listening carefully. It was perfect. Or at any rate it was good enough for a crowd of people who wouldn’t have seen his brother for at least the last fifteen years.

This, of course, was one of the most attractive aspects of the whole project. It was dead simple. The usual machinery of disguise and impersonation disgusted him. Moustaches stuck on with gum arabic, clear-glassed spectacles, dyed hair, false trouser legs to show beneath a hastily unrolled macintosh—he had resorted to all of them at one time or another, but never without a feeling of distaste and a sense of outrage at the violence he was doing to his own unique identity.

But for him to impersonate his own brother felt quite different. For one thing, it kept it in the family. And also it was so extremely easy. They were both tall. They both had mousy hair and ordinary sorts of faces. Father’s nose, Mother’s chin, Uncle William’s high forehead—they shared rather more than the usual number of family resemblances, and none of them particularly outstanding. If Graham was thirty and his brother two years older, if Brian was prosperous and respectable while his brother was neither, these were differences that would mean nothing to the fuddy-duddy staff of Felton Hadfield. The old school would welcome him to its bosom. His identity wouldn’t be questioned. It would have no reason to be.

‘G-Graham,’ he said again, ‘how n-nice to s-see you.’ Still watching himself, he hunted for his tobacco pouch and began filling his pipe.

This pipe had been the one really inconvenient part of the whole affair. He had lived for so long with the help of cigarettes that the change to a pipe had been very painful. But a pipe stamped a man. As did chartered accountancy. Characteristics like this were not merely superficial, they were the man. As was a mad faithfulness to prewar Riley motor cars. They gave Graham pegs on which to hang his new personality.

He finished filling his pipe, and lit it. He had improved immensely, and the foul thing drew almost at once. He returned to his shapeless rented-room bed and began putting things into his suitcase. On top of his shirts he laid out carefully the three beautifully bound copies of his company’s prospectus. Also several bundles of share certificates, a cutting that purported to come from the Financial Times, and a file containing salient points from the previous year’s imaginary audit. Being his sole capital assets, he treated these forged and worthless bundles of paper with great respect.

Next he packed his silk pyjamas for impressing expensive hotel chambermaids and his other pair of trousers. Then a bundle of dirty socks and another of underwear. Also a ready-reckoner, a copy of Who’s Who, and a railway timetable. His faith in prewar Riley motor cars was not as absolute as that of his brother. Lastly, for cases of dire emergency he included a very professional false moustache of a light sandy colour, a pair of spectacles with plain lenses, and a bottle of hair bleach. To be fair to him, he did hope most devoutly that he would have no need to use them.

Since he had no sponge bag, his washing and shaving things were wrapped in a wet flannel and put on one side to travel loose in the car. His packing was then complete.

If he had needed an excuse for the whole shady enterprise he could have said with some justice that it had more or less been forced upon him. If it was the fault of anything, it was the fault of the old-boy network—and people who believed in that deserved all that was coming to them. It was, after all, General Mark Fraser, M.C., himself who had started it.

‘Hey—you there. That’s an O.F. tie you’re wearing.’

‘Mmmmm?’

The concourse at Harrods had been crowded. Graham had been there half-heartedly looking for a ‘mark’, but he hadn’t expected one to come and give itself up, so to speak.

‘O.F.—Old Feltonian. Felton School—that’s their tie you’re wearing.’

Graham pulled himself together. He assessed the old buffer who had accosted him.

‘That’s right, sir,’ he said. ‘Boyce, sir. ’42 to ’49. Moderns.’

‘Pity. I was a Classics man myself. Fraser. Year dot.’

They shook hands. Of course the old fool had been a Classics man—otherwise Graham would never have claimed Moderns. Fraser had Classics embossed all over him.

‘You said ’42? Was old Fuller still there? And that great oaf Massingham?’

‘Fuller had retired, sir. Massingham hung on till ’47. I didn’t have much to do with him.’

‘You wouldn’t—doing Moderns. God, I remember old Massingham …’

From early childhood Graham had made a special study of Felton School. He had hoarded each of his brother’s quarterly Roll Call and Calendars, at first as a contact with the glory, dignity, and importance that would one day be his. Later he had kept the impressive dark green volumes merely as a cripple clutches at the hem of a holy man’s cloak. There was grace to be gained there somewhere—especially since the progress of his father’s affairs made it certain that instead of Felton School young Graham would have to make do with the Odessa Road High and be damned grateful. He had kept the books, and read and re-read them. They looked very grand on the table beside his bed, and there was always the hope that the state of his father’s affairs might one day improve before it was quite too late. … So he had kept the twenty Roll Call and Calendars in which his brother’s name had appeared, and they were to him at all times a mine of useful information.

‘Yes, sir, Mr. Massingham left in ’47. He was replaced by a Mr. Hughes.’

‘Hughes? Hughes? Never heard of the fellow. What was he like?’

Graham had no idea. But, then, neither had his companion.

‘A very sound man by all accounts, sir. Of course, I was never taught by him myself, but …’

The old man looked rich. And wasn’t there a Fraser in Who’s Who with a fairly high military rank of some kind? General, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it General Fraser? Graham tried the rank tentatively and the General was delighted. The acquaintance burgeoned.

Later they moved out of the store and round to an excellent pub Graham knew. There they stayed talking till politely asked to leave, whereupon they went to an excellent club the General knew. With the old buffer twenty years his senior and a Classics man as well, Graham felt perfectly safe. He had been on top of his form, and when they finally parted it was only because he invented a prior engagement for himself. They made no plans to meet again, for Graham was always careful not to appear over-eager.

But when they met quite by chance outside the War Office the following week he had hardly been surprised. And when they bumped into each other on the way up to the dress circle in Drury Lane he took it almost as a matter of course. And when it turned out that they were both going down to Felton School’s centenary speech day the following week he knew it was only to be expected. And up to then there had been naturally no mention whatever of business. None at all. Or at least, hardly any.

‘Your shot, General.’

‘… Damn the thing. Cue like a corkscrew. … I say, Boyce, what line are you in? What’s the current racket?’

‘Manufacturing. Small company at the moment, but we manage quite well.’

‘Manufacturing?’

‘Synthetic diamonds. Industry needs them. We’re hoping to bring out a new process.’

‘Good for you. … In off red and cannon. Your shot—I’ll score it.’

And that had been that. Seed planted—fruit expected some time during the Felton School centenary celebrations.

Graham finished packing his case and put it on the rented floor by the rented door. He sat on one of the folk-weave rented chairs and ticked off the points of his plan one by one on his fingers. His room at the Felton Royal Hotel was booked. His Riley—right model, year, and colour—was in the road outside. The nicotine was more or less pumiced off his fingers. His clip of business cards was in his inside pocket. His capital assets were packed and ready. And the fact that Brian was definitely not attending his old school’s speech day himself was firmly established. The ashes of Brian’s letter to this effect were in fact curling in the hearth at that very moment.

He got up and went across to crumble them with his foot. Brian was much too busy to go haring off down to Felton Hadfield. Schooldays were a long time ago—and, besides, he’d never been particularly grateful for the education it had given him. He’d got on in spite of it, rather than because of it.

This Graham could well believe. It wasn’t the education that counted, it was the old school tie that came in the same packet. Free on payment of five hundred pounds a year for five years.

The sixth of Graham’s fingers reminded him that he had to go and ring up Lucy. He went down to the telephone in the hall.

‘Lucy?’

‘Gray?’

‘The very same. How are you, love?’

‘Can’t talk much. He’s in the other room.’

Over in Highgate Lucy and her companion had only just got in. He’d bought her a record and he was in the sitting room busily fiddling with the gramophone. She reached out with her foot and closed the door.

‘No hitches?’ Graham said.

‘None at all. He’s taking me down tomorrow. I’ve got him to book at the Royal.’

‘Separate rooms, I hope?’

‘What do you think?’

She stared speculatively at the closed door. Graham changed the subject.

‘It’s funny I’ve never heard of him. When did you say he was at Felton?’

‘He’s a bit cagey about his age. Still tries to be a bit of a beatnik. Still, he must be over thirty.’

‘What’s his name again?’

‘Bennet Anders.’

‘I’ve looked him up, and he’s not in the Roll. He must have been there before Brian.’

‘He’s worn very well if he’s really five years older than brother B.’

‘Writers have an easy time of it. And they’ve really got him giving away the prizes?’

‘Just making a speech, I think. He’s going to be a representative of the post-war sons of Felton. Or some such crap.’

‘Funny I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Not really. His books aren’t your type.’

‘What does he write, then?’

‘Crime. Dashing hero … startling deductions … you know the sort of thing.’

‘Lucky you. And you say you’ve really got him hooked?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then. In Felton Hadfield. Wish me luck.’

‘Wish us both luck.’

Lucy rang off. Music was coming through the closed door—a Beethoven string quartet. Bennet Anders took a lot of living up to. She sighed, arranged her face in what she hoped was a suitable expression, and went in to him.

Back in Kennington her cousin replaced the telephone receiver more slowly. He was wondering, and not for the first time, if he shouldn’t marry her before someone else did. At least it would cement the business side of their relationship. He felt that Lucy had pretensions to respectability that might be dangerous. Not that the choice was with him anyway—the only time he’d got anywhere near to proposing to her they’d been in a night club and she had fended him off by classically getting something in her eye. He’d lent her a handkerchief and the crisis had passed off. She’d put the handkerchief away in her silver lamé bag and promised to wash it for him.

He reflected that she must still have that handkerchief—it had been one of his best initialled ones. Perhaps she kept it next to her heart, but somehow he doubted it. …

Nevertheless, Lucy was undoubtedly a treasure. She was endlessly resourceful, and having her around gave him confidence. Also in the area of Felton Hadfield to be related to her would be an immediate badge of respectability, since she showed every sign of being the fiancée of one of the actual speechmakers. With her to back him up he knew he’d have no difficulty at all with the General.

He left the phone and went along the hall to settle with his landlady. Although rented accommodation was horrible he knew it to be less horrible than the rent-free living provided by Her Majesty. So he paid with a good grace and his landlady was sorry to see him go. He had in fact been a model lodger. An obvious gentleman, to see him come in and go out. . .