Dead to the World Read online

  FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

  Dead to the World

  PLUS

  The Ventriloquist’s Doll

  WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY MELVYN BARNES

  Copyright

  COLLINS CRIME CLUB

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton 1965

  ‘The Ventriloquist’s Doll’ first published by Associated Newspapers

  in the Daily Mail Annual for Boys and Girls 1952

  Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1965

  Introduction © Melvyn Barnes 2018

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Francis Durbridge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  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.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008276355

  Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008276362

  Version: 2018-06-01

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Ventriloquist’s Doll

  Footnotes

  By the same author

  About the Author

  Also in This Series

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  Wealthy American Robert Scranton asks Philip Holt to investigate the murder of his son at an English university, with the only leads being a postcard signed ‘Christopher’ and a missing signet ring …

  When Dead to the World was published in March 1967, regular listeners to Francis Durbridge’s radio serials featuring Paul Temple could hardly have failed to be reminded of the plot of Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery, particularly as a new production had been broadcast less than four years earlier. Dead to the World was indeed the novelisation of that radio serial, but with Paul and Steve Temple replaced by photographer Philip Holt, his secretary Ruth Sanders and Detective Inspector Hyde. It was Durbridge’s second novel to feature these characters, their having debuted in his previous book The Desperate People, the novelisation of his 1963 television serial of the same name.

  At that time, Francis Durbridge (1912–1998) was a long-standing, popular and distinctive writer of mystery thrillers for BBC radio and television who was soon to dominate the professional and amateur theatrical stage. Today he remains best known as the creator of the novelist-detective Paul Temple, whose first appearance in the 1938 BBC radio serial Send for Paul Temple led to Paul and his wife Steve becoming cult figures of the airwaves, with further serials running on radio throughout the 1940s, ’50s and ’60s. There were also books, four black-and-white feature films and two spin-off BBC television series. But while the radio serials have enjoyed a twenty-first century renaissance on CD thanks to the efforts of the BBC’s audio publishers, and the films and TV episodes have appeared on DVD, some of the books, including Dead to the World, have until now been sadly neglected.

  The radio serial Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery was first broadcast in eight episodes from 10 May to 28 June 1951, with Kim Peacock as Paul Temple. By the time of the new production (14 October to 2 December 1963) Peacock had long been succeeded by Peter Coke, who made the role his own with eleven appearances from 1954 to 1968. But the actress Marjorie Westbury warranted the label ‘definitive’ even more than Coke, given her twenty-three outings as Steve Temple from 1945 to 1968 opposite four different actors: Barry Morse, Howard Marion-Crawford, Kim Peacock and Peter Coke.

  Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery begins when the Temples meet an American couple, Robert and Helen Ferguson, on a flight from New York. Soon afterwards they learn that the Fergusons’ son Richard has been murdered at his Oxford college, and that the only clues are a postcard from Harrogate signed ‘Jonathan’ and the disappearance of Richard’s signet ring. The ensuing plot was typical Durbridge fare and resulted in yet another international success, with European broadcasters using their own actors in translations that included the Dutch Paul Vlaanderen en het Jonathan mysterie (25 January to 29 March 1953), the German Paul Temple und der Fall Jonathan (17 September to 5 November 1954) and the Italian Chi è Jonathan? almost twenty years later (12 to 23 April 1971).

  So what inclined Durbridge, relatively soon after the second UK radio production of Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery, to recycle this serial as the novel Dead to the World and in the process change the character names and replace his popular duo the Temples? It was by no means the first time he had done this, leaving his fans to ponder a question that has never been authoritatively answered. Although his radio serials firmly maintained his reputation over a period of thirty years, he probably wanted to be acknowledged as something more than the creator of Paul and Steve Temple and therefore deliberately set out to broaden his appeal to the reading public by providing a little variety. The first five Temple novels had faithfully followed his radio scripts, but he broke the mould by substituting different protagonists in Beware of Johnny Washington and Design for Murder (both 1951), even though both had begun life as the radio serials Send for Paul Temple (1938) and Paul Temple and the Gregory Affair (1946) respectively.

  However, having then returned to writing Paul Temple into short stories, newspaper serials, novelisations and even an original novel, it was not until 1965 that Durbridge again took one of his own radio plots, Paul Temple and the Gilbert Case (1954), as the basis for a new standalone book, Another Woman’s Shoes, which was followed two years later by Dead to the World as the only other example of him recycling his own material in this way.

  Looking back, one wonders if Durbridge’s occasional penchant for replacing the Temples, while retaining the typical elements of his radio plots, was considered an affront to his loyal audience? I doubt it, as the books still delivered a generous helping of what they had always expected of him – complications, twists and cliff-hangers galore, and the obligatory sting in the tail. Dead to the World again proved to be as popular as ever throughout Europe, in such translations as Der Siegelring in Germany, Sous le signe du dollar in France, Morto per il mondo in Italy, De zegelring in the Netherlands and Umarly dla s´wiata in Poland.

  Following Dead to the World, Durbridge produced fifteen more books. Apart from his non-series title The Pig-Tail Murder (1969), they were either novelisations of his iconic television serials or Paul Temple mysteries: eight of his TV serials were novelised b
etween 1967 and 1982, and there were six more Paul Temple titles up to 1988, of which two were original novels and four were based on radio serials. (Although some bibliographies list an additional novelisation, Paul Temple and the Conrad Case (1989), this appears to be a mistaken reference to the first BBC Radio Collection release on cassette tape of the 1959 radio episodes and not a book after all.)

  Whereas Durbridge’s books featuring the Temples have been reprinted over the years, Beware of Johnny Washington, Design for Murder, Another Woman’s Shoes and Dead to the World have all been out of print for more than fifty years. Perhaps a less ignominious fate would have befallen them had they been published as bona fide Paul Temple novelisations rather than with new characters! Their republication by Collins Crime Club, along with Durbridge’s first standalone novel Back Room Girl (1950), finally allows new fans to enjoy these thrilling stories in book form. Of similar vintage is the bonus Paul Temple short story ‘The Ventriloquist’s Doll’, which originally appeared in 1952 in the Daily Mail Annual for Boys and Girls and shows Durbridge’s more playful side when using his central character to appeal to a younger audience.

  MELVYN BARNES

  September 2017

  Chapter One

  The wind that came up from the sea that night was ideal for a murderer’s purpose.

  It crept over the Downs towards Deanfriston College on talons of ice, probing through chinks in ill-fitting doors and windows, taking possession of the night. On its heels came swirling shards of mist, in places thin as gossamer, in others thick as swansdown, enough to swallow the outline of a murderer and dull the soft tread of footsteps on springy turf up the hill to the College.

  The murderer’s sole risk – that of being seen – had been eliminated. Deanfriston’s single street was swept of all life, its inhabitants imprisoned by the bitter cold, glad of a warm fireside and a television screen. Fog and cold were the murderer’s handmaidens: there was little risk.

  The killer’s plan was simple …

  The young victim looked up with a pleasant, expectant smile as the heavy wooden door of the study opened; trust and welcome were on his face as he took out a bottle of ‘students’ port and two glasses and turned for the last three seconds of his life to stare briefly and uncomprehendingly down the muzzle of a heavy-bore gun.

  Despite the silencer with which the gun was fitted, the muffled explosion in the small room was considerable, and the damage done to the victim at such short range was appalling. For a few seconds the assailant’s nerves tottered on the edge of panic.

  Then the echoes died, and nothing stirred down the long, cell-like corridor called Scholars’ Row, built of huge blocks of stone cut in a slower, more opulent age.

  The killer quickly set to work arranging the body. The details had been mentally rehearsed a hundred times and the sequence of action now had a remorseless, computer-like quality, as though some disembodied agent were executing the complicated moves. There was no room for mistakes, and none would be made. Twenty minutes later the mutilated corpse was in position. Every detail was perfect; nothing had been forgotten.

  Turning to leave, the assassin’s eye was caught by a bikini-clad pin-up who smiled from the top of a page-a-day calendar on the wall. Yes, that would be rather a nice touch! Swiftly the current date was ripped from the calendar, and the date for the morrow lay revealed. It was ringed with red ink and had been jubilantly inscribed, many months before, with the words: ‘My twenty-first birthday – everyone please note!’ On the mantelpiece stood two birthday greetings cards. They had arrived early and had already been opened. One was from Julie, the other from Antoinette. How very ironical.

  The newspapers would love it, the murderer reflected, picturing the headlines. No editor would be able to resist such a perfect tearjerker. ‘STUDENT MURDERED ON EVE OF 21st.’ No, they would surely add the word ‘brilliant’ – only ‘brilliant’ or ‘gifted’ students were ever killed. ‘LIFE ENDS FOR GIFTED STUDENT ON EVE OF MANHOOD.’ That was better. It was too late for the morning papers, but the evening editions would carry it. They would make interesting reading.

  With an inner chuckle the murderer buttoned the high collar of a thick coat and strode out on to the mist-shrouded Downs.

  ‘What I like about modern air travel,’ growled Philip Holt, ‘is the speed, comfort, and convenience with which one is whisked from continent to continent! – Like now, for example!’

  The crowded perimeter-bus in which they had been standing for nearly ten minutes gave a lurch, jolted forward a few yards, and jerked to an abrupt standstill on the tarmac again.

  ‘I expect we’re having to wait whilst another plane lands,’ said his secretary, Ruth Sanders, in a soothing voice. Ruth possessed an irrepressible enthusiasm for everything, which seemed to keep her strikingly bright and pretty throughout the most exacting day.

  The young photographer ignored her attempt to placate him. ‘We’ve been hurled across the Atlantic at twice the speed of sound,’ he complained, ‘and since we touched down on British soil twenty minutes ago we’ve moved precisely four yards!’ He sighed, dragging his palm impatiently over the back of his head and ruffling his chestnut hair. ‘When we do eventually get to the main terminal we’ll probably have to wait half an hour while they find our luggage, and then—’

  The bus gave a sudden jerk, preparatory to moving off, which sent Holt bumping into the man strap-hanging next to him.

  ‘Oh! My apologies, Mr Scranton. I really wasn’t expecting this thing to move!’

  Scranton laughed. ‘It’s the same the world over, Mr Holt,’ he said in the pleasant drawl of Mid-Western America. ‘Like it was in the Army – hurry up and wait, men – hurry up and wait!’

  ‘You’re not being at all helpful,’ Ruth put in with a mischievous grin. ‘You mustn’t stop the boss here enjoying a good old British grumble.’

  The American chuckled and turned attentively to his wife, a little woman in a mauve hat who had managed to gain a seat.

  A little later the bus slid to a standstill and, in the mild confusion of getting out, Holt and Ruth became separated from the American couple.

  ‘Who’s your new buddy?’ Ruth asked as they trailed in the wake of a stewardess down endless corridors towards the arrival lounge.

  ‘The American? Oh, he’s from Minnesota. His name’s Robert Scranton. We got talking over a drink when you were sleeping on the flight. He manufactures washing machines. Nice chap – only he will refer to his wife as “Mother”.’

  ‘A lot of Americans do.’

  ‘I know; it’s an appalling habit. If I were a wife I’d rebel! It must make a woman feel so ancient.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Scranton is a mother,’ Ruth suggested.

  ‘As a matter of fact she is – he mentioned two daughters and a son. But that’s not the point! She’s Scranton’s wife, not his mother, and she probably likes to think of herself as still a young girl with—’

  He was cut short by the announcement that passengers on the flight from New York should proceed at once to the Customs Hall.

  They stood alongside the mechanical moving band and waited for their luggage to appear. For a long time nothing came up and it was obvious they had been called prematurely, before unloading had been completed.

  Holt looked around irritably, anxious to be on the move again. ‘There’ll be a stack of work for us to catch up on when we get back to the Studio,’ he said dismally. ‘Another time I’ll think twice before going off to New York to give an exhibition of my work.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Ruth cheerfully. ‘Your photographs are absolutely super and the trip was a huge success! The publicity will do you no end of good.’

  ‘Then at least I’ll take care to leave my secretary in London to get on with the work while I’m away.’

  ‘Not on your life!’ she declared emphatically. ‘You know you couldn’t manage without me.’

  ‘Now what on earth makes you think that?’ he asked mildly, looking down at her and knowing it
was true. There was no doubt about it, Ruth was an excellent secretary and a very capable photographic assistant, even if her efficiency was sometimes a little overpowering.

  She began to enlighten him. ‘… Because you’d have been sure to lose your plane tickets – and been late for all your press shows – and you’d have been eaten alive by all those fabulous women who were prowling round the studios waiting to pounce on helpless males!’

  Holt grinned suddenly, his ill-humour beginning to disperse. He turned, and caught the eye of Robert Scranton standing with his wife not far away. ‘As you said,’ he called pleasantly, ‘hurry up and wait!’

  Scranton smiled patiently. ‘That’s how it goes!’ He looked at his wife. ‘Say, why don’t you step aside, Mother, and take it easy while I stay here and watch out for our bags? See if you can sit down someplace.’

  Mrs Scranton nodded gratefully and moved away. She looked tired and none too strong, Holt thought.

  ‘Are you staying in London, Mr Scranton?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. Booked in at the Savoy.’

  ‘I’ve got my car here; can I offer you a lift up to Town? The Savoy isn’t very far from my Studio in Westminster.’

  ‘That’s real nice of you, Mr Holt!… I’ll have to ask Mother, though – there’s just a chance we may be met. I’ll go see what she thinks.’

  Holt turned as the luggage from their flight began to tumble from the well below, on to the moving band, and climb slowly up towards them. He was concentrating on his search for their suitcases when Ruth gave a little squeal of excitement and grabbed his arm. She was staring beyond him towards the exit.

  ‘Look – isn’t that Inspector Hyde out there?’

  ‘Inspector Hyde?’ Holt peered in the same direction. ‘Yes, you’re right, it is.’ He waved his hand but the police officer did not respond. ‘I don’t think he’s seen us.’