The Roar of the Butterflies

Or maybe this guy Postgate himself had orchestrated the whole thing. That would make life a lot simpler.

A few minutes later Joe was scrubbing this particular theory.

Porphyry now led him to Penley Farm, entering the long rear garden by a wicket gate. A man was dozing on a cane chair by a small swimming pool. He had a mop of vigorous white hair and a sun-browned complexion. As they got near, Porphyry called out, ‘Hello, Jimmy,’ and the man opened his eyes, looking rather disorientated and extremely ancient. But when he saw who it was, a smile lit up his face, reducing him to a healthy eighty-year-old, and he rose to greet them.

‘Chris, good to see you,’ he said, shaking the YFG’s hand vigorously.

‘You too, you’re looking well, Jimmy. This is Joe Sixsmith. He’s a private detective. Joe, meet Jimmy Postgate, last of his kind – more’s the pity.’

Joe, who’d been expecting his role as prospective member to be maintained everywhere in the club, was a bit taken aback by Porphyry’s sudden attack of directness, but Postgate seemed to take it in his stride.

‘Private detective, eh?’ he said. ‘Never met one of them before. You look a bit overheated to me, Joe. Fancy a glass of lemonade? Or do you chaps only drink straight bourbon?’

‘Lemonade would be great,’ said Joe.

They sat by the pool and drank their lemonade which was home-made and delicious, but it soon became apparent to Joe that it was going to be the only profitable part of the visit, unless you could count Postgate’s uncompromising assertion of his undentable belief in Porphyry’s innocence. Coming from a man who had inadvertently provided the cornerstone of the case against him, this struck Joe as a bit of a paradox, which he defined as something that didn’t make sense or made more sense than at first appeared, but whether it helped or hindered him he couldn’t say so he sent it to the Recycle Bin.

Invited to offer an alternative explanation of events, Postgate just shook his head and repeated, ‘No, it beats me. Beats me. All I know is that young Chris here doesn’t have a dishonest bone in him. Now, what can I do to help?’

Change your story, thought Joe. Though it was probably too late for even that to help.

He said, ‘Could you explain exactly what happened?’

‘I was sitting in my chair here, reading my evening paper, when there was a splash, and when I looked into the pool I saw a ball. Fished it out and recognized it as one of Chris’s. No surprise there.’

‘You weren’t surprised?’ said Joe, puzzled.

‘No! Takes a big hitter and Chris is one of the longest hitters in the club. It’s a carry of at least three hundred yards. Even though it was well off line, I thought Chris would be quite chuffed to hear he’d got that distance when I tossed the ball back to him in the clubhouse. If I’d known the bother it was going to cause, I’d have kept my mouth shut!’