A Fête Worse Than Death (21 page)

Haldean swallowed hard. Whitfield could be forgiven, he supposed, for being upset on Marguerite's behalf, but he couldn't be allowed to carry on like this. ‘Why don't you go home?'

‘No. I want Anne-Marie. I know what she's like at these beanos. She'll be tied up with some damn grandee and I won't get a look-in. Women, eh! And I'd like to know where he gets off. I mean,' he continued moodily, ‘what the hell have I done to the man? I've never cast eyes on him before and yet he's taken against me and won't say why.' He leaned forward heavily in his chair and fumbled for a cigarette. ‘D'you know why?'

‘Er . . . who?' asked Haldean, cautiously feeling his way.

‘Lawrence, of course. I had it all set up. All set up. Me and Marguerite. Like that.' He twined his fingers together to indicate closeness. ‘And what happens? He does. He's breaking that poor girl's heart, you know. Breaking her heart. That's how much he cares. You know him, Haldean. What's he said about me? What reason has he given?'

Haldean shrugged. ‘None. It's not really my business, you know.'

‘I wish it wasn't his. Let me tell you what happened. You know you dropped off Marguerite this morning at the stables? Do you know what she had to tell me?'

‘I had a sort of idea.'

‘Well, it hit me like a bombshell. A bloody bombshell. I mean . . .' He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘That she should be Tyburn's daughter! Tyburn of all people! Can you imagine it? And she's all worked up about what that Boscombe feller said about him being alive. Well, I told her. I said, “Come on, old girl, your precious father's dead. Take it from me.” That friend of yours – you know, the copper –'

‘Mr Ashley.'

‘S'right. He wanted to know if I'd known Tyburn. Everybody's talking to me about Tyburn. I never knew the damned man. Why should I? I had nothing to do with him. None of my bloody business. Her father! Can you believe it! I told her it was all right. I couldn't let her go round brooding about it. And then she started crying.'

The waiter arrived with the whisky and Whitfield took an absent-minded gulp. ‘Never could bear to see a woman crying. So I said, “Come on, don't you know, I can't deny that it's a bit awkward, but I can't see it makes any difference to us.” And then she told me she didn't know if there was an us. Apparently she'd got all upset that I hadn't actually asked her, but damn it, Haldean, I'd sort of taken it for granted. I've never been one for hearts and flowers and all that gush and I didn't think she was either. She always seemed such a sensible girl. It's all very well at the pictures, but this is real life. So I set her straight on that score and thought that, as I had to take her back home, I might as well see the trustees and get everything sewn up properly and stop the silly girl worrying about it. What d'you think of that?'

‘Er . . . good idea.' Privately Haldean was appalled. Although he wrote detective stories he usually had a sub-plot of young love which his editor often warned him to keep in the background, but it had never occurred to him that romance could be quite so ruthlessly subjugated as Whitfield appeared to believe. In their attitude to the Divine Fire, his editor and Whitfield could have been twins. ‘How did Miss Vayle take it?'

‘Marguerite? Oh, all right. Pleased an' that. Only to be expected. Damn it, I'd just asked her to marry me. Of course she was pleased.' He slumped back and sucked deeply on his cigarette. ‘But you could have knocked me over with a feather. Lawrence refused the match. Sir Philip was all right about it. I'd have no trouble with him, or Lady Rivers either, I could see, but Lawrence? No. And he wouldn't give any reasons, that's what infuriated me. We can't go ahead without his permission. He simply said that Marguerite had to have the say-so of the trustees and he had a perfect right to refuse if he thought it was an unsuitable match. I wouldn't be surprised if he had an eye on her himself, the way he coos over her. Damned old goat. Why should I be unsuitable? What's wrong with me?' he asked, bringing the conversation full circle.

‘Look, Whitfield, I don't know what Mr Lawrence's objections are, but I really think you'd better be getting along home.'

‘Home? What for?' He looked at his empty glass. ‘Never a bloody waiter when you want one. Look,' he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, ‘You're in with the police. You and that Superintendent feller are as thick as thieves. Do you think there's any truth in this blackmail idea?'

Haldean shrugged. ‘You knew Boscombe. Do you?'

Whitfield ran his hand wearily across his forehead. ‘Just answer the question, will you? You can tell me. I'm a JP, after all, and Flint told me all about it this afternoon. All I'm asking for is your opinion. Is it blackmail that's behind it?'

‘That's the theory, yes. The idea is that Boscombe and Morton were blackmailing someone and their victim shot them both.'

‘Oh God.' Whitfield sat very still for a moment. He looked up and the sight of his face shocked Haldean. His skin seemed to have gone flabby, like putty, and the look in his eyes was an odd mixture of fear and defiance, like a dog waiting to be kicked. ‘Are there . . .' He swallowed. ‘Do you know who it is?'

Haldean shook his head slowly. ‘Not yet.'

Whitfield sagged back in the chair, groping for his glass. ‘I didn't see how you could. Said as much to Anne-Marie. And Marguerite. She keeps on telling me how brilliant you are. Are you brilliant? You don't
look
brilliant. She says you look clever. But I told her. I said mark my words, all he does is write stories. That's all. Just makes the stuff up. Anyone can do that. Real life's different. It must be easy, making it up. Where's that bloody waiter?'

‘It's not that easy,' said Haldean, aware that his sense of humour and his temper were struggling for control.

‘Oh, yes it is. I said to Flint, look, if you really want to find out what's what, then you'll get the Yard in, not some damned country copper. Feller ought to be sacked. If he gets on the wrong side of me, he'll be sorry. He'll be in a dole queue before he's much older, I'll see to that.'

Haldean's temper won. ‘Superintendent Ashley is a very capable man who won't take kindly to any sort of intimidation. As for me, I
have
done this sort of thing in real life, as you call it.'

Whitfield froze. ‘Have you?' He glanced at Haldean, looked away and swallowed uneasily. ‘I didn't know that.' He put a hand to his mouth. ‘That makes a difference. Yes, that makes a big difference. That's it, then. The case is as good as over. There's nothing more for you to do.'

Haldean's sense of humour started to ebb back. ‘Apart from the small matter of finding the actual murderer.'

‘What? Oh yes. You've got to do that. I suppose you're going to do that.' Whitfield stopped and rubbed his forehead. ‘Wish you luck.' He got to his feet. ‘I need another drink.'

‘Hold on a minute, Whitfield. What did Boscombe want with you at the fête?'

‘Want with me? It was all about his blasted book. Wanted me to write a preface or something. I turned him down. Pestered me all afternoon. You saw him.' He leaned against a pillar. ‘Don't you think there could be another reason than blackmail?'

‘No,' said Haldean shortly. ‘I don't.'

Whitfield half-laughed and straightened up. ‘Well, that's it then. Case closed. All the best, Haldean. Good hunting.' He walked off, very self-conscious and very upright.

Haldean looked after him and shook his head. Rattled? You could virtually hear the man. And yet what was he rattled
about
? Marguerite. Of course, it was Marguerite. She'd told him Boscombe had blackmailed her and he'd seen exactly how that could be interpreted, especially with the Chief Constable telling him they were after one of Boscombe's victims. Yes, that would make sense. Poor devil. He drew his breath in. What if Whitfield knew a sight more than he was letting on? What if he actually
knew
Marguerite was guilty? All that bluster and aggression could be rooted in real knowledge. It might not take that, even. All he'd have to do was guess. Oh, hell. He smoked his cigarette down to the stub and threw it away. Feeling thoroughly depressed he got up and drifted back to the ballroom.

‘You're looking awfully grim, Jack,' said Isabelle, affectionately slipping her arm through his. He squeezed her arm back, glad of the companionship. She looked to where Marguerite and Whitfield were dancing. ‘D'you know, I saw the Colonel earlier and I thought he was a fair way to being bottled. Considering how tanked up he must be, he's making quite a good job of it. Whoops! Missed his step that time.'

He could have hugged her. She was so ordinary and matter-of-fact and a world away from his gloomy imaginings. He looked down at her and grinned. ‘Shouldn't you be shocked? A really nice-minded young lady would be.'

She gave a crack of laughter. ‘Hardly. I'll tell you what I
was
shocked about though. Marguerite's actually got him to pop the question. She told me all about it and I've never heard of a more ham-fisted proposal in my life. As far as I can make out he sort of grunted at her and told her not to be so damn silly, that of course he wanted to marry her but she didn't expect a lot of sentimental gush, did she? And she was carrying on as if he was Rudolph Valentino. I tell you, Jack, she must be really crazy about him.'

‘I sort of gathered that. Hello, what's wrong?' As he watched them move round the dance floor, he saw Marguerite's face change and harden. Then Whitfield bent his head to hers and she smiled again. Haldean followed the direction she had looked in and saw Mr Lawrence standing by the side of the room with Gregory.

‘Oh dear,' said Isabelle. ‘She's seen Mr Lawrence. I'm being nice to him on purpose because Marguerite's cutting him dead. Shall we dance, Jack? I like this tune.'

‘I'll stagger round the floor with you.'

‘Charmed, darling. It's horribly uncomfortable. Mr Lawrence and Marguerite, I mean,' she said as they set off. ‘She's furious with him because he won't give his consent to her marrying Colonel Whitfield. She can't possibly keep it up at home and it's such a shame, Jack. He really cares about her, you know. I can't help wondering if he has fallen for her.'

‘Well, if that is his reason for refusing his consent it's pretty selfish, wouldn't you say?'

‘Yes, I suppose I would. It's not that then, because he isn't. Selfish, I mean. I don't think he is, anyway.' They paused while Marguerite, Whitfield in tow, slid past them. ‘I don't know what she sees in that stick,' said Isabelle, once they were out of earshot. ‘I know he's got the VC, but you can't look at a medal for ever. The only thing he's got going for him are his looks. Mind you, I wouldn't be surprised if he ran to seed in a few years. Those blond, fleshy types often do, and if he carries on putting it away at the rate he has been this evening, he's going to be as fat as a pet pony by Christmas. He's far and away one of the dullest men I've ever met, and I wouldn't be surprised if he and Mrs Verrity had something going.'

‘I say, steady on, old thing.' The dance came to an end and under the cover of applause Haldean gave her a warning frown. ‘We're in public, you know.'

‘No one's listening. Jack, look! Mrs Verrity and the Colonel. They're going outside. What did I tell you?'

‘Well, I was outside with her myself earlier in the evening.'

‘I know you were. What did you find out? I mean, you were detecting, weren't you?'

‘No, socializing. What should I have been detecting?'

‘How she did it, of course. You're being very dim about this, Jack,' she said darkly. ‘I bet she's a spy working for the Russians or something and Boscombe got on to it. Anyone as good-looking as that at her age has to have something up their sleeve. If she had
femme fatale
stamped on her forehead it couldn't be more obvious.'

He laughed. ‘That's absolute rubbish.'

‘Just you wait,' she said with a smile. She took his arm again and they strolled back across the room. Sir Philip and Lady Rivers had joined Gregory and Mr Lawrence.

‘Time to go, I'm afraid,' said Sir Philip. ‘The cars are at the door.' He looked round impatiently. ‘Where's Marguerite got to? She was here a moment ago. We'll have to find Mrs Verrity too, of course.'

‘I think they're both outside,' put in Gregory. Sir Philip tutted in impatience. ‘I'll go and see,' he offered. ‘Come with me, Jack?' He led the way out of the ballroom and on to the terrace. ‘I want a word with Marguerite,' he said when they were out of hearing.

‘What about, Greg?'

‘This rotten situation with her not speaking to Mr Lawrence. It'll be utterly wonderful at home with that going on and it's simply not fair. Mind you, I can't help feeling Mr Lawrence is to blame. He won't give any explanation, you know. He just says it's his duty as a trustee to watch over Marguerite's welfare and leaves it at that.' He sighed heavily. ‘I wish I didn't have go back to London tomorrow. I hate pushing off and leaving you and Isabelle in the middle of all this. I can't see where it's going to end, and that's a fact. Marguerite's a bit too intense for my liking, but I can't help feeling sorry for the girl and I really feel sorry for all of you, being stuck with it.'

‘Yes, Aunt Alice and Uncle Philip especially. They have to be fair to both sides, don't they? It can't be easy for them.'

They looked round the terrace. ‘I think Marguerite went this way,' said Gregory. ‘Is that her, Jack?'

The light from the ballroom flooded down the steps and across the lawn. In front of them Marguerite Vayle was walking towards a man and a woman who were standing slightly away from the house. The man, Colonel Whitfield, had his back to them, but Mrs Verrity was plain to see, intent on the man in front of her. Colonel Whitfield's voice suddenly cut through the darkness.