Paul Temple and the Kelby Affair

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Hodder & Stoughton 1970

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1970

All rights reserved

Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008125684

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125691

Version: 2015-06-23

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

SCOTT REED had intended to come at eleven o’clock: he arrived at ten. His Rover 2000 turned into the gravel drive as the clock above the stables was striking. The telephone call announcing his visit had sounded urgent, but then Scott Reed always left decisions until they became urgent. His office had telephoned at nine o’clock.

‘Is that Mr Alfred Kelby?’ the girl had asked.

‘Yes,’ said Alfred Kelby.

‘I have a message from Mr Scott Reed. He is driving straight over to see you, and he expects to be there at eleven.’

Scott was one of the older school of publishers. He was slightly ashamed if a book sold well and he pretended that all their best sellers were the mistakes of his partner. Scott was a gentleman. He leaned over the back seat of his car and tenderly gathered up a packet. Then he came up to the house.

‘Scott! Come in. I was just having breakfast.’

Kelby waved him into the library. One alcove in the book-littered room was clear and set for breakfast. Kelby removed a pile of manuscripts from an armchair and told Scott Reed to sit down. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.

‘No thanks.’ Scott sat on the edge of the seat. ‘Or perhaps I will. Yes thanks.’ He was unwrapping the packet as he changed his mind. ‘I want you to read this, Kelby. It’s a bombshell.’

It was a diary, bound in calf and written in green ink. The tiny, precisely rounded hand of a woman.

‘Something you’re going to publish?’

‘Yes.’ Scott Reed stared into his coffee. ‘Well, we might. I was waiting for your opinion. And it depends on whether we can get an indemnity from all the living people who are mentioned in it. To make sure they don’t sue us for libel.’ He fidgeted slightly. ‘What do you think?’

As an historian Kelby considered that very few diaries should be published. ‘Serialisation in the Sunday papers,’ he complained. ‘It starts all the amateurs dabbling in history, writing letters. Clutters up scholarship.’ His voice died away as he browsed through the yellowing pages. ‘Good gracious me! Who was this woman? I take it the writer was a woman?’

‘Yes. Lord Delamore’s mistress.’

‘Lord Delamore?’ Kelby looked pleased. ‘I knew him.’ He read through a few more pages with intense fascination. But gradually he was frowning and clucking his tongue. ‘This isn’t history, it’s downright scandal. Does she have much to say about the way he died? That was the great mystery of 1947.’

‘She says a lot about that.’ Scott Reed rose to leave. ‘Perhaps you could read it through and have supper with me on Thursday?’ He smiled distractedly. ‘You can sign the release then.’

‘Release?’ Kelby was obviously delighted. ‘Am I mentioned in this?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Scott was edging his way to the door.

‘I say, are you off already? I wanted you to meet my son, Ronnie. I don’t think you’ve—’

‘I’m sorry, Kelby, I haven’t been to the office yet. I’m late. When does Ronnie go back to the States?’

‘Well,’ Kelby began hesitantly, ‘he may be staying in England—’

‘Good. Bring him with you on Thursday evening. My wife will be pleased to see him.’ Scott Reed patted the diary. ‘And don’t lose that, for God’s sake. We haven’t been allowed to make a copy until the contract is signed.’

Kelby was protesting that copies were an historical imperative, but Scott Reed was scuttling across the lawn like a white rabbit, looking anxiously at his watch and eventually scrambling into the driving seat of the Rover. He hooted twice on the horn and vanished towards Melford Cross.