Free Somewhere Beyond Reproach by Tim Jeal Page B

the bathroom, quite probably. Did Simpson now sleep in a separate room?
    Andrew had undone his parcel. He stared in complete silence. I watched him without as much attentiveness as I had thought I would. I was more absorbed by my surroundings . I longed to be able to go into Simpson’s study. To read a diary, letters, anything that might tell me more about him. I regretted having caught a cold the morning I had followed him. I could smell nothing, not even catch the slightest tang of one of Dinah’s well-remembered scents. Where might she keep her letters? Where did she normally sit? How much time did she spend in this room? Did she eversew? Andrew had just loaded the tank. I walked over to the balcony. In spite of my cold I opened the glass balcony doors and looked over at the roofs of the houses opposite, at the doorway where I had waited for Simpson. I leant against the green-painted metal railings. I heard Andrew say:
    ‘I think it’s one of the nicest presents I’ve ever had.’
    He came out on to the balcony and stood next to me.
    ‘Thank you very very much.’
    ‘I enjoyed choosing it,’ I replied truthfully. ‘I had a go with it myself.’
    Suddenly there was the noise of the released spring.
    ‘Damn, I caught the catch with my sleeve.’ Andrew looked down into the street miserably. ‘It went down there. I think it’s in the gutter on the opposite side.’
    ‘But you’ve still got some more shells.’
    ‘I don’t want to lose any.’ He rushed back into the room. ‘You wait up here. I’m going down to find it.’
    I could hardly believe my good fortune. As soon as I heard his feet in the corridor outside the flat, I quickly left the room and headed for Simpson’s study.
    The study was dark. A single window faced on to the well in the centre of the block of flats. In this room there was a new fitted carpet, probably put in after his illness. The writing desk had a number of drawers. On top were several letters and a large office-type diary. I flicked through the pages. There was hardly anything there. The odd address, a name here and there: a purely utilitarian document. One of the letters was from his father, another I found too time-consuming to read. The top drawer was locked; so was the one immediately below it; the bottom drawer had a key in it. Inside were a number of typewritten pages. They didn’t seem to be in any kind of order. At the top of one I saw the words ‘Mapham Hospital’ and a date ‘November 1958’. I picked some of them out, preparing to read. I had not taken off my overcoat, which was fortunate. I heard footsteps in the corridor. He had been quicker than I expected. I picked a sheaf of papers out of the drawer and stuffed them into one of the deep pockets of my coat. I snatched up several more.Hastily I shut the drawer and walked out into the hall. When Andrew entered the flat I was admiring a print in the hall; London Bridge in 1740. The sky was haphazardly patterned with damp spots.
    ‘A man in the street saw it land,’ said Andrew with relief.
    I looked at my watch.
    ‘When does your mother get back?’
    ‘Crikey,’ he gasped. ‘Any minute now.’
    The fire-escape led out from the bathroom. I was sorry not to have seen another room, but I had done extremely well. As I started to go down the black metal staircase, he called out:
    ‘Thanks.’ Then, aware that this was inadequate, ‘Thanks awfully.’
    I waved. I had been instructed to use the back entrance, which led through the basement and the boiler rooms. In a dark pipe-lined corridor I bumped into a porter. ‘You can’t get out this way, sir.’
    ‘I was told this led out to the back.’
    ‘There’s builders there now, sir.’
    I turned round and started to retrace my steps uncertainly.
    ‘I’ll show you the front way.’
    ‘I’m sure I can find my own …’
    ‘I’m going that way anyway.’
    I looked at the carefully polished brass buttons on his green uniform. From his manner I guessed that he