A Fête Worse Than Death (22 page)

‘You know why My God, you know why.'

Mrs Verrity started back and, glancing up, caught sight of Marguerite coming towards them. She caught at Whitfield's arm to silence him, but he carried on, oblivious.

‘I'm damn nearly broke. I need the money.' Marguerite stopped, poised and listening. ‘It's all right for you. It's not your problem, is it? You've never been short of money in your life but I've
got
to marry her. I'm desperate. I haven't any choice but to marry her. I can't keep on like this.' Mrs Verrity shook her head and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘What are you looking at me like that for? I'm not telling you anything you didn't know, am I?'

‘Oh, shut up, you fool,' Mrs Verrity said wearily.

They saw Marguerite's slim shoulders go back and she carefully walked the few extra steps to stand beside Whitfield. He spun round and as he saw her his face crumpled. He tried to speak, but couldn't, and stood there pulling at his collar.

‘Richard,' said Marguerite, her voice throbbing with anger. ‘I think the phrase is “You really have done it now.”' She turned and saw Haldean and Rivers on the steps and stretched out a hand to them. ‘Can you take me home, please? I have an apology for Mr Lawrence.'

Haldean walked across the park to the main gates of Hesperus. It was two days after the Red Cross ball. He had spent yesterday in London and was going to see Ashley later on. He couldn't get his thoughts into proper order and it irritated him.

On the one hand Marguerite was the obvious suspect and on the other he had an uncomfortable feeling that he'd got it hopelessly wrong. How much of that was due to what he sternly felt to be sentimental, woolly-minded and wishful thinking, he wasn't sure. At least there wasn't any chance of Marguerite being summarily arrested. He knew, because she had told him, she had stated in her interview with Ashley that at the time of Boscombe's murder she had gone for a walk in the woods around Thackenhurst to avoid meeting Boscombe again. No one had seen her go. Although it didn't let her out, at least it didn't incriminate her. Ashley, thank goodness, wanted something more solid than suspicion and he had said on the telephone that a further search of the Talbot Arms had turned up nothing.

Marguerite herself was being, he had to admit, a pain in the neck. She had spent most of yesterday out on a long, solitary bicycle ride, much to everyone's relief. When she had arrived home she refused to talk about Whitfield, and as she clearly couldn't think about anything else ordinary conversation was virtually impossible. Broken-hearted maidens were all very well in sad Victorian poems but were horribly taxing to live with.

The only person who could approach her with any cheerfulness was Mr Lawrence. As far as he was concerned, Whitfield was a back number and that was a happy ending. His view – which even he didn't express to Marguerite – was that she would soon ‘come round' and realize ‘she was well out of it'.

It was concern for Marguerite and the rest of the family that had prompted Haldean to walk into the village. His official aim was to buy some cigarettes and enjoy a stroll in the morning sunshine but his actual intention was to head off Marguerite from a meeting with Mrs Verrity. He didn't know if Marguerite would cause a scene, but he was anxious not to put it to the test.

Marguerite had cycled into Stanmore Parry directly after breakfast. Mrs Verrity had telephoned about half an hour afterwards to ask if she could come round, ostensibly to consult Lady Rivers as a member of the Red Cross committee. He suspected, and Isabelle said, that her real reason for coming was to pick up any crumbs of gossip concerning Marguerite's spectacular bust-up with Whitfield.

A car turned in at the gates and swept up the drive past him, scrunching on the gravel. Mrs Verrity. Haldean smiled. She hadn't seen him. Good. He walked through the gates, then stopped short, retreating fast behind the gatepost. Across the road, a few yards away from the gate, a magnificent black horse was noisily cropping the grass on the daisy-studded verge. Beside the horse, his hand loosely holding the bridle, stood Richard Whitfield. His attention was fixed on the road leading to the village where, in the distance, Marguerite Vayle was toiling up the slope on her bicycle.

Whitfield dropped the bridle and walked into the road in front of her. ‘Marguerite!'

Haldean stayed where he was. He could, he supposed, walk back across the park and leave Whitfield and Marguerite in decent solitude, but he wanted to be on hand should Marguerite look as if she needed help. Marguerite hesitated, then held her head high and came defiantly on. Whitfield stepped in front of her and Marguerite, stuck between running into him or stopping, skidded to a halt. She looked at him for a moment without speaking and, with a toss of her head, put her foot on the pedal once more.

Whitfield reached out and held the handlebars. ‘Marguerite! Stop!'

She looked at him stonily. ‘If you don't let me pass, Colonel Whitfield, I shall get the lodge-keeper to come and remove you.'

‘No. Marguerite, please, no. Wait a moment, will you?' He let go of the bicycle and reached out to her. She ignored the gesture. ‘I'm sorry,' he said rapidly. ‘I really am sorry. If only I could make you understand what was happening. I keep trying to see you and to speak to you but they won't let me.'

‘I gave instructions that I was not at home. And furthermore, Colonel Whitfield, I think it's a mean trick to catch me like this. After what happened at the party I can hardly be blamed for not wanting to see you.'

He shook his head in a bewildered way. ‘Stop calling me Colonel Whitfield as if we'd only just been introduced.' Marguerite put her foot on the pedal once more. ‘No. No, wait. Please. I shouldn't have said what I did the other night, I know that. I wish you hadn't heard it.'

‘I bet you do!'

Haldean relaxed. It seemed as if Marguerite was perfectly capable of handling Whitfield alone but he certainly wasn't leaving her just yet.

Whitfield reached out again. She ignored the gesture. ‘I didn't mean it, Marguerite. I was being pestered to death by that blasted woman and I had to tell her something. Look . . .' He paused, then rushed on. ‘You've got to understand about Mrs Verrity. She's . . . she's . . . well, she's always had a thing about me. It's been going on for years. When she was married, she used to have these parties – you know what she's like – and I was invited, of course, and it was obvious she liked me. I never took it seriously. Why should I? She was older than me and married and so on but I was flattered, I suppose. I never dreamt there was anything in it. Then, when her husband died, she made it very plain that she wanted me to marry her. She even followed me to France. I was horrified. It's . . . It's hard to cope with, you know? Perhaps she's so used to having men fall at her feet that she simply can't understand I'm not interested in her. Not in that way.'

‘Are you certain about that?'

Even to Haldean, Whitfield's voice carried conviction. ‘Absolutely certain. My God, yes. It's been awful recently. Ever since she realized that we . . . that I . . . well, cared for you, she's been unbearable. She won't leave me alone. Why did I want to marry you? How could I want to marry you? On and on, every time we met. I can't simply not see her because she comes to the stables, riding. Most of the time she never says anything I can catch hold of. It's all little hints and pointed remarks and if I do take her up on it, it's dismissed with a laugh as a joke. But I'm serious about you, Marguerite. I wasn't going to tell her that. I had to think of a reason she could understand. But surely you don't believe it, do you?'

Marguerite spun the pedal of her bicycle. ‘I did . . .'

Whitfield lifted his head at the hesitation in her voice. ‘But why? You must know how I feel about you. I know I don't go in for fancy speeches much but that's not my way. It's all been so horribly difficult.' He put a hand to his forehead. ‘The last couple of days have been ghastly I haven't been able to think of anything else. Brooding. I'm going to pieces without you. Marguerite.'

‘How?' There was the faint stirring of compassion in her voice.

‘How?' He took his cap off and pushed his hands through his hair. ‘I can't think . . . Damn it, I've just missed you. Can't sleep properly. Can't concentrate.'

‘Richard, you haven't been drinking, have you?'

Haldean felt acutely uncomfortable. There was concern dripping from Marguerite's voice. If she and Whitfield were going to be reconciled, he didn't want to be a witness.

‘No. Yes. Of course I've been drinking.'

Haldean began to plan his retreat when a remark from Whitfield brought him up sharp. ‘It would be bad enough without that tame dago of yours thinking I know more than I should. All this on top of it is awful.'

Tame dago!
Haldean drew his breath in. Talk about listeners never hearing any good of themselves . . .

Marguerite was puzzled. ‘Do you mean Jack? What does he think about you, Richard?'

‘He made it pretty plain the other night he thought I was being blackmailed by Boscombe. Pestering me about what Boscombe wanted with me at the fête and so on. Damned cheek. I didn't take it lying down, I can tell you. I don't think I'll have any more nonsense like that in a hurry, not after the reception I gave him.'

Haldean bit his lip. So that's why Whitfield had been so rattled the other night. It wasn't Marguerite he'd been worried about but himself. Stupid devil. Didn't he know he was in the clear? Surely the Chief Constable would have told him as much, even if Ashley hadn't. So what was he getting so worked up about? And what reception? Who was he trying to kid?
Tame dago
, indeed!

‘Marguerite,' Whitfield continued. ‘It's . . . It's taken me all my courage to come here. I tried to see you yesterday but it was no good. I keep trying to understand why any of this should have happened. I don't know why your trustee should have taken against me. I've done nothing to him and it's been damned embarrassing to have to tell you about Anne-Marie.'

Marguerite looked at him thoughtfully and came to a decision. ‘Marry me, Richard.'

‘What?'

Now that, thought Haldean with some satisfaction, had taken the wind out of his sails. ‘Let's go away together and get married,' said Marguerite firmly. ‘What are you waiting for?'

Whitfield swallowed. ‘But we can't do that. It's got to be approved by your trustees.'

Her mouth compressed into a thin line. ‘So much for your feelings. I'm not completely stupid, Richard. I know as well as you do that if I marry without their consent they'll simply withhold my money.'

Good for you, Haldean breathed in silent approval.

‘It's not that,' Whitfield bit back angrily. ‘It's not that at all. I want to marry you properly, openly, not in some wretched underhand way. If you'd speak up for me, Marguerite, I'm sure Lawrence would change his mind. Why the devil shouldn't he? It's been hell since the other night. What the devil can he have against me? Speak up for me, Marguerite.
Make
him change his mind.'

Keeping her eyes fixed on him she slowly remounted her bicycle. ‘I don't really see why I should.'

‘Because . . .' He strode forward and took her shoulders in his hands. ‘Because of this.'

As Whitfield grabbed hold of Marguerite, Haldean started forward. The bicycle half fell to the ground and there was a confused, struggling moment where she tried to wrestle free. Whitfield tried to kiss her but she wriggled furiously and his lips met empty air. There was a sharp crack and he started back, holding his hand to his cheek. Haldean retreated the few steps back to the gate. Marguerite didn't need his help.

Marguerite, nursing her throbbing hand, for she had smacked him very hard indeed, glared savagely. ‘Don't ever –
ever
– try that again.' And with that she picked up the fallen bicycle and set off down the drive, anger showing in every line of her body.

Whitfield stepped back, hand to his reddening face, watching the departing girl. ‘Oh, bloody hell,' he said to himself. ‘Oh, bloody
hell
.'

Haldean ran across the park back to the house. He wanted to intercept Marguerite before she stormed in. In her present mood and with Mrs Verrity there, there would be fireworks unless he could stop her. By cutting off the angle of the drive, he reached the side door as Marguerite arrived.

Half-blinded by angry tears she didn't see him. She flung her bicycle against the wall of the stables and, furiously wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, marched up the steps and into the hallway of the house.

‘Marguerite!' he called, catching hold of her arm.

She whirled on him. ‘You!'

‘Have a hanky,' he said practically, holding it out to her.

She dashed his hand away. ‘How dare you!' she began.

‘Marguerite?' asked Lady Rivers, appearing in the doorway of the drawing room. She was flanked by Hugh Lawrence, Isabelle and Mrs Verrity. Haldean felt his heart sink. ‘Marguerite, whatever's wrong?'

She shook herself free of Haldean's hand. ‘He is!' she shouted, jabbing her finger into Haldean's chest. ‘He said Richard was being blackmailed. It's a horrible thing to say. He can't have done anything wrong, I know he can't, and I don't know if he wants me or my money and I hate everyone involved with this and I hate myself because I don't know if he's telling the truth or not and if I really did care for him I
would
.' She raised her eyes and pointed to where Hugh Lawrence stood. ‘And I hate what
he's
done to Richard and I wish I were dead!'

‘Oh, come on, Marguerite,' said Haldean, rubbing his chest. ‘You don't mean that.'

‘Yes I do!' she snarled, whirling on him once more. Haldean prudently stepped back a pace. ‘Mr Lawrence, why are you so against Richard? He's explained everything to me –' Mrs Verrity gave a lift of her eyebrows – ‘but I don't know why you dislike him so. You've always refused to tell me. Tell me now.'