A Fête Worse Than Death (3 page)

Rivers lifted the tent flap and peered inside. ‘Dead to the world,' he announced briefly. ‘Hello, here's Isabelle.'

‘Have you got your trumpets and drums handy?' she asked. ‘Do give me a cigarette, Greg. I haven't had one all afternoon. Thanks. Mrs Griffin won the cake competition and she's making a sort of royal progress across the fair. Virtue rewarded and all of that.' She sucked in the smoke gratefully. ‘Thank goodness, that's better. I hoped to be able to slope off after the cake judging but Mother was there and although she wouldn't actually say anything, she'd look, you know. She's still got the idea that smoking is a thing that a lady does in private, so I went round the side of the cake tent and that was no better because Mrs Verrity and Colonel Whitfield were there and three was definitely a crowd.'

‘I say!' said her brother. ‘They weren't . . . were they?'

‘No, Greg, they weren't. Although I wouldn't be surprised if there was something going on. She's still awfully good-looking in that preserved kind of way, even if she's old enough to be his mother.'

‘No, she isn't,' countered her brother.

‘Well, she's getting on a bit at any rate. And I wouldn't put it past him,' she added darkly. ‘No, they seemed to be having an argument. They stopped when they saw me, of course, but Mrs Verrity wasn't happy. Unlike Mrs Griffin who's on cloud nine. Jack? What is it?' For her cousin had stopped listening to her and stepped forward. There was a small green blur and the little girl in the velveteen frock flung herself out of the crowd and into his arms, sobbing.

Kneeling down, he patted her back and looked helplessly at Isabelle.

‘What is it, sweetheart? Tell us,' she said.

The arms tightened round Haldean's neck. ‘It's Daisy,' she said between sobs. ‘My dolly She's broken. I put her cot down all safely to go and play and when I got back someone had thrown Daisy out of her cot and stood on her.'

‘Oh dear,' said Haldean soothingly.

‘And her cot's all dirty and her pillow's gone and it had roses on it. It did.'

‘Look,' said Haldean, attempting to disentangle himself, ‘what if I win you another one? Would that make it better?' The little girl stopped sobbing and nodded. ‘We'll go and do that now, shall we? And perhaps a glass of lemonade would help too.' He looked up as the flushed and happy Mrs Griffin came towards the tent with Mrs Verrity in approving attendance.

‘Master Jack? I won. I won the cakes. And Mrs Verrity here says I did it fair and square.'

‘You certainly did, Mrs Griffin,' said Mrs Verrity. ‘I thought your entry was outstanding and said as much.'

Haldean, still on his knees, glanced up in pleased surprise. Mrs Verrity was a remarkably good-looking woman with beautiful eyes, but it was her voice which captured his attention. It was low and clear with a zest of an accent. Italian? French? French, he decided, and lovely to hear.

Mrs Griffin was beaming. ‘Why, thank you, mum.' She looked at the little girl in Haldean's arms. ‘Sally Mills? Whatever's the matter with you?'

‘It's my dolly. She got broked but this nice gypsy man's going to get me another one.'

‘Don't you call Major Haldean a gypsy, Sally. It's not polite. I think that's very nice of the Major and you should say so.' Haldean rose gratefully to his feet as Sally haltingly thanked him. Mrs Griffin beamed once more. ‘That's better,' she continued. ‘Now wipe your face. Here's a hanky. You've got sweety-stuff all over it.' Mrs Griffin spat into a corner of her handkerchief and rubbed Sally's face vigorously. ‘There. No harm done. Is my gentleman still waiting for me inside the tent, Master Jack?'

‘He certainly is, but . . .'

‘Then I'd better see to him right away.' She disappeared inside, only to reappear seconds later, giggling. ‘I think you'd better come and have a look at this. Has he had a drink or two? Yes, I thought I could smell it. Talk about the Sleeping Beauty! We'll have to wake him up. I can't have him there if I'm going to do the fortunes.'

Mrs Verrity raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Is Mr Boscombe the gentleman in question? He'll have to move. Really, Mrs Griffin, this is too bad for you, after you were good enough to step in for us at the last moment.' She looked at Haldean and Rivers. ‘Perhaps you would come in with me?' She opened the tent and stepped inside, Rivers and Mrs Griffin close behind. Haldean was stopped by a small hot hand thrust into his.

‘I won't be a minute,' he said reassuringly, looking down at the tear-stained face. ‘You be a good girl, Sally, and wait with Miss Rivers. Belle, d'you think you could . . . Thanks, old thing.' He walked into the tent to find Mrs Verrity bending over Boscombe, hand on his shoulder.

‘Mr Boscombe. Mr Boscombe . . .' Mrs Verrity suddenly paused and stared, gazing down at the man sprawled out in the chair. She straightened up and looked at the little group by the door. Her eyes fixed on Haldean. ‘I think,' she said, in a very controlled voice, ‘you'd better take Mrs Griffin out of here. And get that child away from the entrance.'

Haldean started forward. ‘What . . .?' he began but was stopped by a gesture.

‘Please do as I say. And afterwards I think you'd better get some help. Please.' Her plea for understanding was compelling.

Haldean dropped his eyes to the body and slowly nodded. ‘I see. Mrs Griffin, would you mind coming outside? It's all for the best. That's the ticket. Come on.'

‘But why, Master Jack?' asked Mrs Griffin out in the open air once more. ‘What's wrong? Has the gentleman had an accident?'

Haldean steered her away from Sally Mills who was still clutching Isabelle's hand. ‘I think you'll find,' he said as gently as possible, ‘that he's dead.'

Superintendent Edward Ashley closed his notebook. ‘I think those are all the questions I have for you now, sir. I may have to get back to you, of course.'

Jack Haldean smiled. ‘Any time, Superintendent. Can we offer you a cup of coffee or do you have to make any further calls this evening?'

Ashley considered the matter. He'd had a busy afternoon which had turned into an even busier evening, and he supposed he should get back to the station to start putting the information he'd gathered into an official report, but he was tired and Hesperus was the last place he had to visit.

Through the open library window drifted the smells and sounds of a summer evening; the sleepy coo of wood pigeons, the rich perfume of stocks and roses and, from far away across the park, the faint lowing of a cow as it settled down for the night. It was peaceful here; a sight more peaceful than his last important case which had led him into the docks at Newhaven. There were two other considerations as well. The first was simple curiosity. He had heard of Hesperus, the ‘big house' of Stanmore Parry, of course. He had occasionally been a guest at the same public dinners as Sir Philip Rivers and he had met Lady Rivers, who took a keen interest in local affairs, at the police charity ball in Lewes over a year ago. However, that was very different from being a guest, however fleeting, in Hesperus itself, and he had a hankering to see how the other half really did live. The second consideration he hardly expressed to himself, but it was nothing more than a desire to get to know this Major Haldean better. He didn't know why, but he kept on feeling as if he should know something about him. Odd, that, and he was obviously friendly enough, so . . .

‘Thank you very much, sir. That'd be very welcome.'

Haldean smiled – a slightly shy smile – and led the way into the drawing room.

Lady Rivers was in the act of pouring coffee from an agreeably large pot.

‘I've asked Superintendent Ashley to join us, Aunt Alice,' announced Haldean, walking over to the mantelpiece and propping himself against it.

Ashley's spirits drooped. The last time he'd been in a room like this was on holiday when he and his wife, Elsie, had taken a charabanc trip to a Stately Home on Visitors' Day and paid half a crown to get in. It was one thing interviewing witnesses in the library; he was Superintendent Ashley with the authority to ask any questions he pleased. It was a familiar situation and the library, with its mellow oak, leather-spined books, well-used chairs and cigar-scented comfort was not an intimidating room. The drawing room was, and Ashley envied Major Haldean's complete ease. Why, the room must be nearly forty feet long and at least half as wide. His own neat semi-detached, the source of such pride to his wife, could fit between these four walls. The garden would make it a bit of a squash, he thought defiantly. No, you couldn't fit his garden in here. Mind you, talk about gardens! Hesperus didn't have a garden, it had
grounds.
Grounds that went with a house that had this sort of room, with its huge stone fireplace, ornamental pillars, rich Turkish rugs and a decoration – a frieze, was that the right word? – of Greek girls in floaty dresses waving tambourines and suchlike that ran right round the high ceiling.

With a feeling of prickly defiance, Ashley became aware that Lady Rivers was speaking to him. Wondering what he was doing here, no doubt . . . And then he saw her smile. It was a totally unselfconscious, welcoming smile. She wanted him to feel at home and, by George, he was going to feel at home. He'd been invited, hadn't he? Well then.

‘Would you like some coffee, Superintendent?' she said. ‘Milk, cream or black? I believe we've met before, haven't we?' She frowned slightly. ‘Now where was it?'

‘It was the police ball in Lewes, your Ladyship,' said Ashley. She remembered him. Lady Rivers, a real lady who owned this house and these grounds, not only was perfectly happy to have him sitting in her drawing room but actually remembered him. That'd be something to tell Elsie. ‘Milk, please.'

She handed him a cup. ‘That's right. It was an awful crush, but it was a good cause, wasn't it?'

The coffee was excellent and so was the cigar which Sir Philip offered him. Ashley sat back in the brocaded armchair taking stock of the people in the room. Sir Philip Rivers he knew, a short, stocky man with a military moustache and, as if to soften his appearance, laughter lines round his eyes. Lady Rivers, still a very handsome woman with a kindly expression and that lovely smile. Sharp, too, if he knew anything about it. Captain Rivers, their son Gregory, who was now leaning with one elbow on the mantelpiece talking to Major Haldean, he had, of course, interviewed earlier. He had his father's stockiness and sandy hair but was a taller man with a frank, open face. Trustworthy, said Ashley to himself. Then there was their daughter, Isabelle.

Ashley quietly drew his breath in. He had heard she was a beauty and, by jingo, she was. Chestnut hair with a gleam of red where it was touched by the evening sun and vivid green eyes. I bet she plays merry hell up in London, thought Ashley. It's not just her looks, or her dress, a modern, square-necked, flat-chested thing, which would have made some women look as if they'd dressed in a sack, but which Miss Rivers carried off perfectly. It wasn't any of those things, it was that air she had about her. Why, you'd hardly notice any other girl . . . With a shock he realized he
had
hardly noticed the other girl in the room.

Marguerite Vayle, she'd been introduced as. Goodness knows where she fitted in and by the look on her face she didn't want to fit in. A poor little dab of a thing with mousy hair who looked as if she'd dressed any old how. A schoolgirl? No, too old for that, but not by much. Sulky or worried? With a faint question mark in his mind, Ashley flicked his gaze to the man at the fireplace.

Major Haldean. Surrounded, as he was, by the unmistakably English faces around him, he stood out like an orange in a basket of apples. And yet his speech and his name were English enough, belied by his foreign darkness of hair and eyes. Those eyes suggested humour and friendliness but the chief impression he gave was of a nervous intelligence. And Ashley couldn't rid himself of the idea he should know something about him. What, for heaven's sake? Major Haldean; despite the title he was a young man – Ashley had long since ceased to be surprised by the youth of commissioned officers who had served in the war – and Ashley also knew from his statement that he'd been a pilot in the RFC. He walked with a slight limp. An air accident? An air ace? No, that wasn't right. And why did the feeling chime in with the tugging memory of the last cup of tea before bedtime, a good book and the pleasant drowsy feeling that sleep was on its way? Why . . .? Got it!

Ashley looked at Major Haldean with triumph.
Jack
Haldean, that's who it was. The author, of course, and damn clever stories they were, too. Interesting, as well, as if the murders and what-have-you were happening to real people and not just people in a detective story. And that wasn't all. Hadn't he heard that some detective story writer had been involved behind the scenes with a real case up in London? It wasn't generally known or the newspapers would have made a meal of it, but Ashley had heard as much at a police dinner. He was sure the name was Haldean.

‘Major Haldean,' he asked. ‘I don't suppose you write books, do you?'

Haldean gave a smile in which shyness was once again uppermost. ‘Books and short stories, yes. It's mainly short stories, but some of those have been collected into books. Er . . . Have you come across them?'

‘I have indeed,' said Ashley enthusiastically. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed them. I'll tell you something else, too, sir. You managed to get the police more or less right, which is a thing that most detective stories never seem to bother about.'

Haldean laughed. ‘That's my pal Rackham for you. Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. He tells me where I'm going wrong. The trouble is, you can't get it completely right, otherwise it doesn't work as a story.' He paused, and Ashley heard the unspoken question. ‘The thing about stories is that the police are happy to welcome an amateur. I don't know if they always would in real life.'