The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [166]
But Travers never did.
It was about a month later that I learned why he would never return. I was lunching at the large center table at my club, as in most all-male establishments the table reserved for members who drift in on their own. Percy Fellows was the next to enter the dining room, and he took a seat opposite me. I hadn’t seen him to talk to since the private view of the Vuillard exhibition, and we hadn’t really had much of a conversation then. Percy was one of the most respected antique dealers in England, and I had once even done a successful barter with him, a Charles II writing desk in exchange for a Dutch landscape by Utrillo.
I repeated how sorry I was to learn about Diana.
“It was always going to end in divorce,” he explained. “She was in and out of every bedroom in London. I was beginning to look a complete cuckold, and that bloody man Travers was the last straw.”
“Travers?” I said, not understanding.
“Patrick Travers, the man named in my divorce petition. Ever come across him?”
“I know the name,” I said hesitantly, wanting to hear more before I admitted to our slight acquaintance.
“Funny,” he said. “Could have sworn I saw him at the private view.”
“But what do you mean, he was the last straw?” I asked, trying to take his mind off the opening.
“Met the bloody fellow at Ascot, didn’t we? Joined us for lunch, happily drank my champagne, ate my strawberries and cream, and then before the week was out had bedded my wife. But that’s not the half of it.”
“The half of it?”
“The man had the nerve to come round to my shop and put down a large deposit on a Georgian table. Then he invites the two of us round to dinner to see how it looks. After he’s had enough time to make love to Diana, he returns them both slightly soiled. You don’t look too well, old fellow,” said Percy suddenly. “Something wrong with the food? Never been the same since Harry left for the Carlton. I’ve written to the wine committee about it several times, but—”
“No, I’m fine,” I said. “I just need a little fresh air. Please excuse me, Percy.”
It was on the walk back from my club that I decided I would have to do something about Mr. Travers.
The next morning I waited for the mail to arrive and checked any envelopes addressed to Caroline. Nothing seemed untoward, but then I decided that Travers wouldn’t have been foolish enough to commit anything to paper. I also began to eavesdrop on her telephone conversations, but he was not among the callers, at least not while I was at home. I even checked the mileometer on her Mini to see if she had driven any long distances, but then Eaton Square isn’t all that far. It’s often what you don’t do that gives the game away, I decided: We didn’t make love for a fortnight, and she didn’t comment.
I continued to watch Caroline more carefully over the next few weeks, but it became obvious to me that Travers must have tired of her about the same time as he had returned the Vuillard. This only made me more angry.
I then formed a plan of revenge that seemed quite extraordinary to me at the time, and I assumed that in a matter of days I would get over it, even forget it. But I didn’t. If anything, the idea grew into an obsession. I began to convince myself that it was my bounden duty to do away with Travers before he besmirched any more of my friends.
I have never in my life knowingly broken the law. Parking fines annoy me, dropped litter offends me, and I pay my VAT on the same day the frightful buff envelope drops through the mail slot.
Nevertheless, once I’d decided what had to be done I set about my task meticulously. At first I considered shooting Travers, until I discovered how hard it is to get a gun license, and that if I did the job properly he would end up feeling very little pain, which wasn’t what I had planned for him. Then poisoning crossed my mind—but that requires a witnessed