A Fête Worse Than Death (20 page)

Isabelle, who had achieved exactly the effect she wanted in her green georgette, rid herself of Mark Stuckley, shook her head at two other hopefuls and came to stand beside her. ‘Are you all right?' she asked.

Her mother turned to her and smiled. ‘I'm afraid I was allowing myself a moment of sheer envy about how lavish everything is. Silly of me really.'

Isabelle looked round. ‘It's like a stage set,' she said eventually. ‘It's beautiful but I'm not sure if I like it. I mean, look at the flowers.'

‘But we have flowers at home.'

‘Of course we do, but not like this. All those cascades of red and white roses must have cost an absolute fortune. Have you seen the supper room?'

‘No.'

‘The champagne's in specially carved buckets, all made out of ice. It's red and white ice, to go with the roses and the decorations, and they're all in different shapes such as cars and aeroplanes. It's stunning.'

‘Yes,' agreed her mother in a doubtful voice.

Isabelle put her hand on her mother's arm. ‘It really is stunning, but I prefer the way we do things, you know. When we have a ball, it's lovely and it looks super, but it isn't intimidating. This is, in a way. Gorgeous but intimidating. Rather like Mrs Verrity herself.'

Lady Rivers exchanged a guilty smile. ‘I suppose I should tell you not to criticize your host, but really, Isabelle, I do know what you mean.' She cast another doubtful glance round the room. ‘I should simply appreciate all the trouble which has been taken, I suppose. After all, it's all for the Red Cross and it's absolutely splendid. It's just that I remember coming to balls here when Michael Verrity was still alive, before the war. They were grand enough but grand in a different way. In a funny way it was easier to feel at home.'

‘Let's go to the supper room and have an ice,' said Isabelle. She was used to the idea that nothing after the war could match up to anything which had gone before. ‘Archie Clows-Hunt's bearing down on me and he's got two left feet. I must say,' she added, as they threaded their way round the dance floor, ‘that Jack doesn't seem to be intimidated. In fact,' she said, glancing to where the crowd allowed her a glimpse of where her cousin and Mrs Verrity were dancing, ‘completely the reverse.'

Haldean wasn't aware of Isabelle's scrutiny. The only thing he was actually conscious of was Anne-Marie Verrity. She had large, very deep blue eyes which were fixed on his from a distance of eight inches away. The body in his arms was slim without being angular and the skin on her bare shoulders sheened with a delicate glow from the Chinese lanterns decorating the ballroom. Her auburn hair was coiled round and held with a ruby clasp and another necklet of rubies decorated her perfect throat. Her steps matched his exactly in the rhythm of the dance and Haldean felt the unmerited if natural satisfaction which came from holding the most outstanding woman in the room. To say she was beautiful was not to say enough; and all other adjectives – grace, elegance, style – seemed like clichés. Which meant, of course, like most clichés, that they were true. He had been prepared for beauty but what had taken him by surprise was her wit and charm. She had the gift of listening intently as if his conversation was the most important event of the evening, then taking a light-hearted remark and capping it.

The dance came to an end and they applauded. The band leader glanced round, tapped his baton, and started on ‘The Sheik of Araby'. Mrs Verrity slipped an arm through his and looked up with a brilliant smile. ‘A foxtrot. This is a little quick for me. Shall we sit it out?' They walked to the side of the room. Mrs Verrity looked at the dancers and gave a slight shake of her head. ‘It's fun but I prefer more elegance. I've been spoiled, of course. I remember Vienna before the war.' She half-laughed. ‘I must be careful or you'll think I'm very, very old and I don't feel old at all.'

‘I can't imagine you ever being old.'

‘Why, thank you, Major. And yet, think of it. Before the war. It seems a lifetime away. I'm sure that child who Colonel Whitfield is dancing with would think I belong in a museum.' She giggled. ‘They would have me in a glass case with a label,
Rara Avis: Pre-war Woman
, and everyone would stare and say things such as “Look, my dear, they had women before the war. Fancy that! She looks quite different from how we do nowadays.”'

‘Which is the loss of nowadays and a perfect example of change unaccompanied by progress.'

She laughed unaffectedly. ‘What a lovely thing to say. Do you want to dance again, Major? You dance very well but – excuse me – are you slightly lame?' She spoke with a concerned hesitancy that robbed the question of any possible offence.

‘Oh dear, was it as bad as that? I thought I avoided your feet most of the time.'

‘All of the time, but with my hospital experience I notice such things. Shall we sit in the conservatory for a while? Perhaps you would be kind enough to bring me a glass of champagne?' He watched her walk across the room, seeing her pause as Colonel Whitfield, who was dancing with Marguerite, detached himself and stood in her way. She shook her head quickly and walked on. Whitfield, annoyance clear on his face, turned back to Marguerite.

Haldean collected two glasses of champagne and went to join her. The conservatory doors were standing open and a welcome whisper of night air mingled with the heavy scent of flowers. He sat down beside her in a cane chair and raised his glass. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Verrity. Your ball is a great success.'

She acknowledged the compliment with a quick and wickedly attractive smile. The music was softer out here, quiet enough to talk in an ordinary voice. ‘I'm glad you think so. This is only a small affair, of course, but enjoyable, I hope. Parties – balls – I love them, you know. It's fashionable to pretend to be bored, but why bother to pretend something you don't feel?' She stretched out her hand and picked up the glass from the table beside her. ‘And you, Major Haldean, I think you dislike being bored, yes? And so you have a hobby.' She pronounced the word with a twist of an accent that made ‘a hobby' seem an enchanting occupation. ‘You are looking for the killer of that poor man, Mr Boscombe, yes? And that other man who was killed in the pub. You have decided to become a hunter of men.'

‘Well, I don't know if I'd put it quite like that myself,' said Haldean, squirming slightly. I mean, she was a lovely woman, but this was a bit much, wasn't it? ‘Er . . . How did you know?'

Her eyes opened wide. ‘But everyone knows! Marguerite Vayle, she tells Richard and Richard, he tells me, and everybody is talking about what you are doing.'

Haldean said nothing but the mention of Marguerite made him wince. Mrs Verrity mistook his expression.

‘You do not like that people should talk about you? Why not? We are interested, you understand? An author who is now a detective. You are famous, yes?'

‘Hardly,' said Haldean.

‘But you are, Major. Please do not be English and embarrassed and say “Oh, it's nothing. Really, it's nothing to shout about. Anyone could do it. It's just luck, don't you know.” You were going to say that, weren't you?'

Haldean grinned. ‘Something like that.'

‘But why?' She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. ‘The English have many virtues but they're so silly about their accomplishments. And to find you being gruff and modest is ridiculous. You look as if you could be a level-headed Latin. Are you really nothing more than a bluff Anglo-Saxon or am I talking to a member of one of the really sensible races? Please tell me I'm right.'

‘My secret is out. My mother was Spanish.'

She sat back and clapped her hands together in delight. ‘I knew it! But now you have even less excuse for this pretence. In France we are so much more clear-headed about what we do. You should say with pride that you are a great detective and that no one can escape you for long. For what is detection, after all? Logic and intelligence. You have both those qualities and you must succeed. And privately you know that is the truth, don't you? That no criminal could match himself against you and hope to win.' Haldean made an embarrassed and totally British noise in the back of his throat. ‘This murder at my fête and the poor man in the inn – what chance does the murderer have? None. And why? Because you are on their track.'

Haldean, who at first thought he was having his leg well and truly pulled, gave her a steady look and realized she was absolutely serious. ‘It's not to say I'll get anywhere though, is it?'

She raised her eyes to heaven. ‘
Mon Dieu!
What a man is this? Of course you will succeed. One day, not so long from now, you will say to me, “Mrs Verrity, you were right.” You will feel compelled to add a great deal of nonsense about luck, none of which you will believe for one second but which is expected of you. By the way,' she added, with a sudden change of tone, ‘I don't believe I ever thanked you for understanding me so quickly when Mr Boscombe was found. It was quite dreadful, seeing him there and realizing what that little hole in his temple meant. I looked up and there was the fortune teller, so kindly and so slow, and the other man, puzzled and waiting, and my heart sank at the thought of so many explanations.' She shook her head. ‘And then you understood. It was such a relief not to have to spell out what had happened. Thank you. And for taking charge of the fortune teller and that little girl. I couldn't have calmed anyone down at that moment and the idea of facing a crying child and a hysterical woman was more than I could bear.'

‘That's all right,' said Haldean quickly, then stopped with an awkward grin. ‘You've taken away most of my vocabulary for saying “Don't mention it,” but honestly, it really was all right. It was, if you'll excuse the phrase, nothing.'

She rose to her feet. ‘It was certainly not nothing, and I am very grateful to you. I must get back to my other guests.' She held out her hand and Haldean, feeling it was expected of him, took it and kissed it lightly. She drew back, smiling. ‘And please don't be so English. Remember, I'm a Latin, too.'

He sat down again and picked up his champagne, swirling it round in the glass. So Marguerite had told Whitfield, had she? Well, he might have expected that. Blow Marguerite. He wanted to think about Mrs Verrity. She really was lovely. An extraordinary woman. How much depended on her looks and her voice and how much was character? He tried to imagine her as plain and perhaps slightly plump and failed utterly. He couldn't take away the vibrancy of those eyes and that flawless skin. It had a creamy glow where the light touched her. And that hair!

The music came clearly from the ballroom.
I've had my fun, I've had my fling, but baby, you're the real thing. I'm gonna tell them, you're my favourite doll
. . .

Doll! Haldean half-smiled. (‘Hello, everyone. This is Anne-Marie Verrity. She's my favourite doll.') Er . . . no. Apart from anything else, she was surely much, much more than a painted doll. It took real character to set up a hospital, real character to make a successful life in a foreign country, and that character had showed when she had taken command on Saturday. Simple, clear instructions and a plea for help. ‘Take Mrs Griffin out of here and get that child away from the entrance.' His mouth curved at the memory of her thanks. A lovely woman. A very desirable woman. And – watch your step, Jack, he warned himself – a woman who must be at least twenty years older than him. He smiled ruefully and, with a gesture of finality, put his glass down on the table.

A footstep sounded, causing him to look up. It was Whitfield. His face was flushed and he held a glass of whisky in his hand. His usual smile was missing and it was with a shock that Haldean realized that the man had been drinking heavily. What the devil had come over him, to get in such a state at a ball? His name would be mud if he were seen. He stood in front of Haldean, rocking almost imperceptibly on the balls of his feet. ‘Where's Anne-Marie?' Haldean stared at him as if stung. Whitfield's voice was aggressive. ‘I thought she was with you.'

‘Anne-Marie?' He couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. ‘Mrs Verrity, you mean? She was here until a few moments ago. She's gone back inside now.'

‘Damn!' Whitfield sat down carefully in the chair Mrs Verrity had vacated, ran his hands through his hair, then picked up his glass and finished it in a gulp. ‘What's the matter with me?' he demanded abruptly.

The obvious, if tactless, answer was ‘You're drunk,' so Haldean prevaricated. ‘Nothing, as far as I know. Is something wrong?'

‘Nothing. Everything. I want another drink.' He looked round and snapped his fingers at a waiter. ‘Hey! You! A large scotch and don't take all night about it.' He turned his attention back to Haldean. ‘I've got a bone to pick with you.'

‘What?'

‘A great, big, juicy bone,' said Whitfield, separating each word out carefully. Haldean reminded himself the man had been drinking and decided to be charitable. ‘Do you know – because you damn well should – that the Chief Constable's a friend of mine? And I understand that you've got a pal, too. That copper, what's-his-bloody-name.' what's-his-bloody-name.'

‘Now –' began Haldean indignantly.

Whitfield carried on without heeding him. ‘He's been annoying Marguerite. A whole lot of damned impertinent questions. Grilled her this afternoon. Positively grilled her. Rotten little counter-jumper.'

‘Now hold on, Whitfield –'

‘And I'm not having it, d'you hear? I'm going to marry Marguerite and I'm not having some nosy copper upsetting her. I've seen Flint – that's the Chief Constable – and told him exactly what I think of his bobbies annoying my fiancée.' He blinked at Haldean. ‘That's it. Nothing personal. Don't take offence. No quarrel with you.'