Cavalier Case (2 page)

"Her
doppelganger
, maybe?" References to Cy's own culture - he undoubtedly knew or had once known about the romantic theory of the doppelg - nger - could sometimes waylay him for hours. On this occasion it was not to be.

"Her
own
ghost! The ghost she had bought, acquired, acquired with the house, the ghost of Taynford Grange," explained Cy. "You see, my dear Jem, up till a short while ago, Jane Manfred, the most charming woman, I must really bring her into your life..."

Jemima thought it tactless to mention the innumerable times Cy had already brought Lady Manfred into her life.  

"Up till now poor Jane has not
seen
the Taynford ghost, despite the absolutely enormous price Max paid for that house, and a house in the country too." Cy shuddered metaphorically. He was not fond of the country, to put it mildly, considering even Saturday dinner and Sunday breakfast in a stone-built Cotswold palace like Taynford Grange an exaggerated demonstration of his friendship.

"At first there was some thought that perhaps change of ownership," Cy continued, "the original family, the - what were they called? The family had certainly been there since Charlemagne ..." He paused, wondering momentarily if he had the right country, right history, then proceeded, "Yet Jane felt, indeed had complete confidence, that the ghost would soon
settle down
."

"And it didn't?" prompted Jemima. (That word again: she felt some sympathy for the ghost.)

"It did not. Then there was some thought that perhaps the builders, or more to the point the decorators, or more to the point still, the decorator, might have upset him. As Jane said—she's so amusing, lern, you two share a sense of humour, as I hope you will soon discover—as Jane said, 'I know that Gawain is a brilliant decorator, there is John Steff, I suppose, if he wasn't so tied up at Oare, still Gawain is brilliant, incredibly creative, but I'm not sure I'd come back from the next world to see him.'" Jane Manfred, as quoted by Cy, was referring to a famous decorator, known fondly to his friends as the Green Knight, and by those not privileged to enjoy his friendship as the Green Nightmare.

"It seems that Gawain plans to build a conservatory on the north side of the house, which needs excavation. And that might have unsettled our ghost. Very daring, said Jane, but he's currently interested in the northern challenge. Gawain of course, not the ghost. What challenge would that be, Jem?" enquired Cy, without clearly having any interest in the answer. He was back to the ghost and Lady Manfred.

"And now at last she's seen it!" Cy concluded happily. "And she feels accepted at last. And that, my dear Jemima, is how our series has been born. A series of ghosts and their owners, Jem, beginning with Lady Manfred. Taynford, such a beautiful house, she's promised, she'll see to it that Max agrees. Ghosts—and what they tell us about our time and ourselves; ghosts, who sees them, who doesn't, a new form of who's in, who's out, if you like, don't let
Taffeta
get hold of that one, don't breathe a word; ghosts, how they have influenced history, ghosts, how does history influence them . . . ," Cy rattled away. "It could be seminal," he concluded. 

And this time Jemima knew she was finally lost. She had one last weapon on her side, or thought she had: that programme about social attitudes to birth control among the women of Afghanistan as influenced by the Russian occupation— which meant three months' research and filming away from everything, including Cy, Jane Manfred and sundry ghosts; but it also rneant three months away from Cass. It was easy, in certain moods, to underplay the sweetness of their reconciliation; and hadn't it been that selfsame kind of programme about child-brides in Sri Lanka, her prolonged incommunicado absence, which had caused him to engage in his precipitate marriage in the first place?

So: "What kind of ghost, Cy?" asked Jemima.

"A romantic ghost," Cy pronounced with great benevolence. For Cy, too, knew that Jemima was lost; vague as he might be about many things such as the challenge of north-facing conservatories, Cy had not built up Megalith Television to its present eminence without being at once feline and ruthless when necessary. What Jemima did not know, for example, was that he had only this morning lured her arch-rival Serenity Saville away from Titan TV, with the offer of just that programme about Afghanistan. And Serenity, a girl with the face of a Madonna, known for some reason as "the S.S. trooper" to her colleagues, had accepted.

"You'll enjoy it all, my Jem," Cy, secure in this knowledge, was promising. "A romantic ghost: a Cavalier, a handsome soldier from the Civil War, long hair, soulful expression, Jane Manfred said. A bit like a violinist, except of course he was in armour. But she will tell you the full history of it all."

For a moment Jemima's heart had given an uncomfortable lurch. Armour, long hair, soulful expression . . . could it be, no, impossible. Besides, if Decimus Lackland's ghost walked anywhere, it walked presumably at Lackland Court . . . Wait a moment,
wasn't
there a ghost? Wasn't there something rather odd in one of Rupert Durham's hooks about the ghost of Decimus Lackland? A historical reference? That must be it.

The ghost of Decimus Lackland . . . her mind pursued this train of thought while she continued to smile at Cy with an angelic expression worthy of the S.S. trooper herself. Now
that
was a ghost worth investigating. Wait a moment . . .

"I'm sure I shall enjoy it all, Cy," Jemima said in her sweetest voice; in fact so sweet was it that Cy shot a sudden look of suspicion. Docility in Jemima was rare, and in Cy's opinion, generally the prelude to some devious act. Even when their relationship had been a great deal more intimate than it was now - years back an episode never referred to but in fact the foundation of a warm relationship— docile was never a word which Cy would have applied to Jemima. Then the telephone rang on Cy's private line, and Miss Lewis buzzed him on the intercom at one and the same moment. They were both saved. At almost exactly the same time as Jemima was vowing herself enchanted at the prospect of a whole series on the subject of "Ghosts and Ourselves"—the working title—the new Lord Lackland, a.k.a. Handsome Dan Meredith, was professing himself rather less enchanted with a conversation he was having, perforce, at Lackland Court.

The conversation was being held with his late cousin's elderly butler and Dan Lackland was sufficiently put out by it to be gazing out of the stone windows of the house, rudely turning his back on the old man. Yet even his worst enemies would concede that Handsome Dan's manners were normally immaculate to one and all, including women of course and servants, naturally.

"What on earth do you mean, Haygarth, his late Lordship was frightened?" There was silence, silence with a quality of obstinacy about it, Dan felt.

"Come on man, out with it. Frightened of what?" The old butler was shortly to be retired under the will of the 17th Lord Lackland, and the 18th Lord had time to reflect that his retirement was perhaps not an unmitigated disaster.

"He was frightened, m'lord," repeated Haygarth stolidly.

"Frightened of death, d'you mean? Well, we're all frightened ofthat if we've any sense, death is a frightening business, and his late Lordship, being nearly eighty, had more time to he frightened of it than most."

"His late Lordship was not frightened of death, m'lord," said Haygarth; there was a distinct note of indignation in his voice, and Dan Meredith thought he detected extra flush in the butler's cheek. Ask any of us who were at Dunkirk with him. "

Quite so, Haygarth, quite so," answered the new Lord Lackland hurriedly. Give Haygarth his head about the war and they'd be here all day; what with Charlotte, children and nanny arriving at Taynford station any minute, Babs threatening to drop Nell herself at exactly the same moment with all the possibilities for trouble
that
implied, especially if he had to offer her a drink. As for Zena - when had his sister Zena's presence ever made for peace? "Now, there's a good fellow, tell me exactly what the trouble was. Keep it brisk, if you don't mind. Her Ladyship doesn't like to be kept waiting, and if she did, that nanny doesn't." He laughed companionably before remembering that even in a short space of time, Haygarth and the nanny had managed to get at daggers drawn.

"His Lordship was frightened of the ghost," said Haygarth carefully. "The ghost that steps out of the portrait. He thought that the ghost had decided to kill him."

Toast To Decimus

"He—Handsome Dan as he used to be called—Lord Lackland in other words, suggested meeting you at the Plantaganet," said Cherry importantly. From Cherry's tone Jemima could tell that her faithful P.A., one who was not easily impressed, was impressed upon this occasion. Since Jemima herself continued to look blank, Cherry added, "The Plantaganet. The tennis club. In Fulham, down by the river. You know, the one they always write about in the Press." She sounded just slightly reproachful, as though Jemima, her heroine, had on this occasion let her down.

"Of course I've heard of the Planty! Actually I've played there." Jemima hoped that her slightly base use of the Yuppie nickname for the celebrated club would regain Cherry's esteem. "That disastrous Megalith versus Titan tournament, wasn't that played at the Plantaganet?"

"Disastrous! But we won."

"We may have won but that was the fell occasion on which Cy first met Serenity Saville," replied Jemima grimly; she had just heard the news about the S.S. trooper and her Afghanistan programme. It was true that Jemima had recently had her own triumph: all the same these reverses must be remembered and if possible revenged, otherwise Cy Would get quite out of hand.

Her own triumph was quite considerable, for all that. For her devious and somewhat prolonged campaign had finally succeeded: the "Ghosts and Ourselves" series would now lead off with a programme about Decimus Lackland and his ghost, instead of one about Jane Manfred and her ghost, in other words the resident ghost of Taynford Grange. Various people had been of assistance in this campaign. Rupert Durham for example had proved a staunch ally when she had promised that the programme would put an end to the "ridiculous Lely red herring" once and for all. The habitual chaos of his private life by no means incapacitated him from a nice line in academic infighting, Jemima noticed, and his mild eyes beneath their large spectacles glinted at the thought of extinguishing once and for all the ludicrous theories of "that woman." What woman? Presumably some rival academic, not one of his rather numerous female acquaintances. (Rupert had addressed Jemima as Becky for most of lunch, with occasional excursions in the direction of Sylvia, Sue and Vicky.) For all his amatory vagueness, however, Rupert Durham was full of good practical advice as to how to lobby who on the whole subject.

What was more, he showed a marked disinclination to repossess his own portrait, when Jemima politely suggested it.

"Where London is concerned, I'm not exactly living in Ladbroke Grove at the moment. At least I don't think I am, am I?" Rupert ran his hand rather desperately through his curly hair, so that the springy brown halo divided itself into two horns. "And Cambridge is impossible." He did not say why. "So Becky darling—"

"Jemima," said Jemima politely but firmly. She had extremely fond memories of a hectic summer romance with Rupert during her second year at Cambridge; at least he concentrated his mind wonderfully when making love, which no doubt explained his continuing success with the opposite sex (punting on the Cam was another matter). But that was another place, another time; she had no wish to revive the memories. And she had observed that Rupert Durham's technique, conscious or unconscious, was to accompany the wrong (but more intimate) Christian name with the kind of intimate approach one name lusnned but the other didn't.

"
Jemima
! Then there's another thing. My own television series - did I tell you about it? No? Nothing in your class, just a modest little thing. But one way or another - look, you wouldn't mind holding onto it just a little longer? Till I sort everything out."

"I shall be delighted," answered Jemima with perfect sincerity. If Rupert's chaotic personal life combined with a "modest" television series - which of course he had not previously mentioned - meant that she kept the portrait, she welcomed both.

"I know what we'll do to celebrate," said Rupert, with evident relief - even a picture had the potential power to tie him down - "We'll go to the N.P.G. after lunch" (they were at Orso's) "and compare my version with theirs. You'll find the differences interesting. No, wait, I have to meet someone. You go, Sylvia. Now, back to this old buzzard we need for the programme and how we nail him."

It was in this manner that Jemima found herself ten minutes later on an upper floor of the gallery, threading her way past portraits of voluptuous reclining beauties with visible swelling bosoms and lambent pearls at the neck and ear. Jemima thought of Pope on Lely. How did it go? She would have to ask Rupert. Something about "the sleepy eye that spoke the soul." Here were sleepy eyes in abundance. Indolence must have helped to pass the time wonderfully for these apparently passive, certainly privileged women. Olivia Lackland on the other hand even if passive had not been indolent: for she had had a devotion to learning which according to Clarendon had marked her out from the rest of her sex.

But wait! Jemima had gone too far, gone as far in fact as the Restoration. And there was the Merry Monarch himself, gazing at her, bold, black-eyed and cynical, in frank sexual appraisal from the end of the room (Jemima was sure that he bent the same gaze on every female who entered). Jemima retraced her steps and in a kind of antechamber dedicated to the "Arts and Sciences," found at last the real thing. All the same, Lackland in his armour seemed oddly placed among men in the voluminous dark robes of peace, a man in an open white shirt holding an admonitory skull . . . the ambivalence of his career as artist and war hero struck her anew. There was no dog in this picture, although the pose was otherwise very similar. With his right hand - with its disproportionately long fingers - the poet held a baton. His other hand was hidden. Even the legend beneath the portrait seemed to emphasise the dichotomy. "Decimus Meredith 1st Viscount Lackland 1612 - 1645. Poet and Cavalier," she read. Then Jemima stepped back to study the portrait at leisure, hoping to hold her own version in her mind's eye - and found herself for one moment ensconced in the arms of the only other adult visitor in the room, who had in fact been standing directly behind her.

Hasty apologies on both sides followed. In her embarrassment Jemima hardly took in the appearance of the fair-haired man at whom she had thus apparently flung herself. She had the impression certainly of someone tall and thin, as well as fair, that he was wearing some kind of dark suit, and illogically, she knew, or thought she knew, that he was English - that was because, like Cass, who was also English, the stranger smelt of Eau Sauvage shaving lotion (which was actually French).

The tall fair-haired stranger on the other hand recognised Jemima Shore immediately and followed his own apologies with a quick discreet smile which acknowledged that fact without presuming upon it. It was moreover the smile of a man used, for well over twenty years, to please by his smile; a man used furthermore to pleasing generally, not only women but crowds. Lastly, it was the smile of a man not unused to recognition himself. As a matter of fact, if Handsome Dan Meredith had been wearing a white T-shirt, immaculate white shorts, white socks, white shoes and had been carrying a couple of tennis rackets, Jemima might indeed have recognised him in her turn. But the well-fitting and well-fitted dark blue suit gave her no clues. Besides, Jemima herself was soon utterly absorbed by the portrait before her, as she tried to figure out the differences between the real Van Dyck and "her" copy.

Jemima was oblivious therefore to the intense, level scrutiny which the stranger, confident of his anonymity, now proceeded to focus upon her as she studied the picture. Perhaps that was just as well. There was something just slightly calculating about Dan Lackland's expression. This was nor the purely sexual appraisal of the Merry Monarch, forever lustful, forever held back from consummation by the confines of his heavy gold frame. Lust was certainly not absent from the gaze of the new Lord Lackland: yet it did not seem to be his sole emotion as he inspected Jemima Shore.

Lord Lackland silently left the gallery. Outside, in St. Martin's Lane, he turned left and marched rapidly in the direction of Wilton's Restaurant in Jennyn Street. To an outsider, he would have looked not so much calculating as abstracted. At Wilton's, the friendly - but not obsequious - greeting at the restaurant, which was the true sign of its excellence, still did not remove the slight frown from his face.

"Her Ladyship is already at the table, m'lord," murmured the head waiter in what was obviously just one variant of a familiar pattern in which Lordships might already be at the table awaiting Ladyships, graces awaiting other graces (both ducal and physical) and so forth and so on.

It was not until Dan Lackland actually reached his destined table in an alcove that he relaxed. And then the imposing woman sitting there, striking in a red Chanel suit which set off her glowing red-black hair and smooth olive skin, had to command him to do so.

"Darling boy, you smile when you see me," said his vis-a-vis - surely a few years older than Dan Lackland himself? "Don't forget." There was something not entirely maternal about the admonition.

"An odd coincidence," he said. "That's all." And he did give the lady opposite the kind of boyish, apologetic smile which she presumably had in mind. "You know I'm working on the Lackland Court Problem. And I've had this approach . . ."He leant forward.

Back at the gallery, however, Jemima Shore was not smiling either, she too appeared abstracted. For some reason her thoughts had suddenly turned away from the portrait itself to the ghost of Decimus Lackland; the bizarre, even horrifying story she had recently been told.

Already her imagination was beginning to play upon the story. In spite of herself, she could not help fleshing it out in television terms, a drama, an investigation. In her mind's eye, Jemima saw Decimus in his lace-decked armour, bidding farewell to his wife. It was a farewell which had of course been anticipated in another celebrated poem: "I could not love thee dear so much"—no, that was Lovelace and Althea. "I could not love thy kiss"—And then, long before television, Victorian painters had loved to illustrate the scene: the handsome Cavalier bending from his tall black horse towards his fainting wife with her similarly downcast eyes and her neat little rosebud mouth.

Jemima had an idea that one painter—Frith perhaps? No, someone later, Millais?—had done two pictures of Decimus and Olivia entitled respectively
Their First Kiss
and
Their Last Kiss
. The first picture had shown a similarly modest, highly Victorian-looking maiden seated on a rustic bench under a vast sheltering tree. The handsome Cavalier had his lace matched on this occasion by plum-coloured civilian velvet instead of armour, as he launched himself towards the shrinking Olivia, plumed hat in hand.

But were females really so innocently abashed at a mere kiss in the seventeenth century? Jemima reflected on this with the stirrings of indignation. Surely here subsequent Victorian attitudes were being imposed upon a more robust society. Olivia Lackland herself would survive to bring up that dewy-eyed infant in the second picture; Antony Decimus, her only child. A widow but not altogether helpless. Furthermore she would survive through the rest of the Civil War period as a woman alone: it was she who, following
Their Last Kiss
, would conduct the famous defence of Lackland Court which marked—according to the legend—the first appearance of Decimus' ghost. And she would survive in the harsh times of the Commonwealth —harsh for Royalists that is—and plead successfully for her son's estate from Oliver Cromwell.

The Petitioner
, that was another Victorian picture, if not actually depicting Olivia Lackland, some other Royalist widow; more downcast eves, graceful black garments (hut lace-trimmed to reveal Cavalier status) and the grimly patriarchal figure of the Protector himself looming over her, bulbous nose, visible warts and all. According to Jemima's recollection, the gaze which the Protector was bending upon the lovely Petitioner before him, while not the frank appraisal of Charles II, was not quite without its hint of sexual element. As though even Oliver Cromwell was not averse to the spectacle of a beautiful - and vulnerable - female casting herself upon his mercy. A female who might be raised up, pardoned - or flung down at the whim of the dictator.

Was it in this sweetly self-abasing fashion that Olivia, widow of the "Malignant" Royalist Lord Lackland, had pleaded for her son's confiscated property: Everything that Jemima had read about her indicated on the contrary; pride, dignity, and that even included her heroic withdrawal from society following the Restoration. Not for her the louche high jinks of the Merry Monarch's Court. The same, alas, could not be said for her wastrel son, Antony Decimus, who had been the King's boon companion. But then heroes' sons were notoriously prone to dissipation. As the son of both a hero and a poet, what chance in life had the 2nd Viscount Lackland ever really had?

On the other hand, it was possible that Olivia Viscountess Lackland in her petitioning had simply used that secret weapon of apparent frailty always available to the woman in the man's world. Pride and dignity in a woman might be all very well in private but were hardly likely to sway the all-powerful Lord Protector to mercy in public. Nor could Jemima Shore herself, ostensibly living in a far more liberated world from the woman's point of view, really criticise such prudent self-abasement in Olivia Lackland. With her hand on her heart, could Jemima really swear that she had never exercised such "wiles" herself in the course of a highly successful professional career. What about that time she had dropped, well, a tear or two, in Cy's presence over that Sri Lankan child-brides budget' It had of course worked wonders. All in a good cause. The tears moreover had been quite genuine, even if they had been tears of rage, not weakness as Cy had imagined ....

Jemima put this uncomfortable moment of self-criticism firmly aside and turned her thoughts back to the death of Decimus and the origins of the ghost story which obsessed her. She saw again the big black horse returning to Lackland Court on the evening of that dreadful day when, in the words of Clarendon, the sun itself setting had not been more red than the blood which stained the King's field. Over the crupper of the horse lay the body of his master. Lifeless - no, not quite.