Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman (10 page)

Hollyoak announced that dinner was ready and they all went into the dining room. She was aware that conversation around her came in short, sharp artificial bursts, with long periods of hesitant silence. She knew there were few among them who genuinely approved of Teddy, if they thought of him at all when he was alive. He had always been a difficult boy, never quite ready to join in, always at odds with his surroundings.

Her greatest concern was for her husband. He had spent the hour before dinner at the dower house with his mother, and Clementine could only imagine how wearing her mother-in-law's frantic questions and continual need for reassurance had been for him. She remembered that the dowager Lady Montfort had been particularly susceptible to Teddy. She had enjoyed his short, infrequent visits, had been proud of his good looks, his superficial brand of charm, and his willingness to pay attention to her for tips and injections of cash into his bank account. The poor woman's emotional devastation would have been exhausting and Clementine could see that her husband was coping because he must, but she felt sorrow for the burden he was carrying.

Glancing around the table as she carried on a stilted conversation with Lord Booth on her right, she noticed Oscar Barclay staring rather queasily at the turtle soup on his plate. Ralph had told her that Oscar had spent a good deal of time before dinner closeted in the study with Colonel Valentine. When he had joined them in the red room before dinner she had noticed immediately that he was pale and withdrawn. How many whiskey and sodas had the silly boy had before dinner, she wondered, and how much involvement had Oscar had in Teddy's gambling club at Oxford?

Sir Wilfred Shackleton, sitting on her left, was gulping down his turtle soup and looking extremely pleased with himself. Why on earth was that? What an odd individual Wilfred was, so hard to fathom at the best of times. This evening he seemed the only one among them who was actually enjoying his dinner.

Her eyes wandered around the table and came to rest on Gertrude, calmly eating tiny spoonfuls of soup and listening passively to Jack Ambrose, who was looking irritable and cantankerous, evidently still suffering from the overindulgence of the night before. Certainly Gertrude was subdued, everyone was, but her lovely ivory skin had a slightly yellow cast to it and her large green eyes were red and tired. Too much champagne and not enough sleep, perhaps? No, there was something else going on there; things were not right with her friend and had not been since before dinner last night. Clementine decided to seek her out later this evening.

She thought of the search tomorrow and shuddered and then with renewed determination turned to Sir Wilfred and made him walk her through his plans for the hunting season and whether or not he planned to take on Lord Booth's mare. It was a game she played to distract herself and a prelude to turning back to Lord Booth on her right and finding out if he actually intended to sell the mare to Sir Wilfred in the first place, or whether he was simply enjoying the power of having a horse so talented in the field she was coveted by everyone.

At the end of dinner, when Clementine stood up from the table to invite her friends to join her for coffee in the music room, there was an audible sigh of relief all around as the women rose from the table to leave the men to their port.

To help alleviate the strain of searching for safe topics of conversation, and to cover stilted small talk and yawning silences, she asked Pansy Booth if she would play for them. Pansy was an accurate if not particularly expressive pianist and Clementine hoped Agatha did not insist on having Blanche sing. Pansy's performance alone would provide a pleasant distraction; Blanche's singing would be a punishment no one deserved. An evening of music would provide cover until they could escape to the privacy of their rooms and lay their weary heads down for the night.

As Pansy launched herself bravely into a complicated and, to Clementine's ear, only slightly muddled étude, she wandered over to Gertrude, who was sitting on a sofa as far away from the piano as she could get. She was again struck by how wan her friend looked despite the studied lack of concern on her pretty, slightly triangular catlike face.

“Clemmy darling,” Gertrude greeted her friend as she turned her head for the footman to light her cigarette. “How are things? Everyone's bearing up quite wonderfully, considering…” She laughed, as if Clementine's stage murder for drawing room entertainment had perhaps been a little excessive. Clementine was grateful for Gertrude's determined lightheartedness when all about her was gravity and gloom.

Fortified by her dinner, the brandy she was now enjoying instead of coffee, and her absolute acceptance that her house was in complete chaos had had a singularly strengthening effect on Clementine. Her mind was now working quite nicely. She took comfort from Gertrude's offhand remark, calculated to reassure her that all was not lost and that her friends were still gathered loyally around her. But she knew Gertrude well enough to understand that her friend was at her most elusive; Gertrude was signaling that she was off-limits. There were to be no revelations for Clementine—confided fears and trepidations were taboo.

Gertrude's greatest physical attraction lay in her lustrous pearly skin and her fine silver-gilt hair, giving her a rather opalescent quality, a lustrous sheen of sensual beauty. She gave the impression of complete immobility, and until one knew her well, it was easy to imagine her more at ease reclining in a drawing room, browsing through a book, or seated under a shady tree, contemplating the far horizon with detached indifference. But Clementine knew that Gertrude was a deceptively active woman, able to ride across country for hours and competently at ease on the most athletic horse. She had taken up tennis last summer, playing with powerful and wiry strength. Clementine did not forget that Gertrude was also adept at keeping her cards close; she rarely revealed her thoughts. Neither did she welcome other women's close confidences, as she never wished to be the subject of theirs. The recounting of light, amusing gossip, however, was a skill, the pastime of drawing rooms and gentle strolls in the garden with friends, and a pastime practiced by Gertrude with adroit ease. “What an exhausting day it's been.” Clementine matched her friend's manner, fully conscious that Gertrude had been distant since her arrival in her house and had avoided any opportunity for private talk with her.

“Mmm … can't wait to bolt for my room, darling—in common with all of us, except that bloody Agatha.” Gertrude laughed and flicked ash. “Look at us: scared to death of what old Val is going to dig up and who he is going to talk to. Talk about a blunderer. Is he up to the job do you think, bit of an old fogey really isn't he?”

“I suppose so.”

But Gertrude had made an important point. What would Valentine dig up? An image of the boathouse garden flew into Clementine's mind and a horrid understanding began to assemble itself. The garden abutted the orchard, which ended abruptly at a corner by the back drive in front of the old carriage house.

Any visiting chauffeur could have heard Harry's loud, angry voice and taken a curious peek through the light screen of trees at the edge of the drive, to be rewarded with the sight of a violent quarrel between the two cousins. What would the police make of her son's reason for his fight with Teddy?

It was all she could do to keep her seat. She was half out of it, as if there were something she could do physically to prevent the catastrophe of Harry's arrest for his cousin's murder. Her escalating panic made her clumsy and she knocked over the heavy crystal glass on the table. “Oh, blast and damn.” She never swore.

As John picked up pieces of broken glass and wiped spilled brandy, she made a decision.

She would not let an incompetent police inquiry land her son as their favorite suspect. It simply would not happen.

She looked up and saw Gertrude's cool green eyes watching her. With supreme self-control she adopted her earlier lighthearted tone and returned to their conversation.

“If you are to have a murder investigation going on in your house, Gertrude, better for it to be headed up by someone who understands the importance of good manners, rather than by some clod from Market Wingley who eats his peas with his knife.” They both laughed. “Anyway, Valentine is not really an old fogey, just trying not to step on too many toes.”

“I am sure he won't be cluttering your house up for long, Clemmy. You heard of course that there was some sort of stranger loitering about the village for the last couple of days?” Gertrude fixed a feline gaze on her friend's face.

Now this was more like it, Clementine thought. Here was something to hope for after this desperate day. She leaned toward her friend, and Gertrude laughed outright, acknowledging what a boon some wandering outsider would be for all of them.

“Well exactly, looks like it won't be such a big mystery after all.”

Despite Gertrude's laconic Belgravia drawl and her studied insouciance, a manner Clementine recognized of old and one always adopted by her friend when she was disconcerted, Clementine knew enough not to be fooled by her outward show of indifference. She looked for other signs that Gertrude was rattled: those pretty gooseberry-green eyes of hers were far too watchful, her lovely jawline far too tense.
Why,
she asked herself,
does it matter to Gertrude that suspicion be cast outside the house?

“Where did you get
this
information from?” Clementine asked, careful to keep her tone playful, as if she did not quite believe what she was hearing; there had been so much chitchat.

“Well, I always make sure I spend any time with my maid profitably. She overheard the handsome Sergeant Hawkins giving some instructions to his constable. Seems like your gamekeeper saw someone and so did your gardener—a stranger to the area wandering around the village, apparently. Considering what a little thug young Teddy was, there were probably no end to his grubby involvements … possibilities are endless where that boy was concerned. So there you are, darling, probably all sewn up by tomorrow.”

Clementine kept her reply noncommittal.

“Well, that would be nice. Anything about Lucinda on the servants' grapevine?” She knew it was expected of her to ask.

Gertrude carefully blew a thin stream of smoke into the air, turned her head, and gave Clementine a tiny wink. “Ah Lucinda, now there's a dark horse if ever I saw one. The Lambert-Lambert family are in for some suprises there, I think. Not the jolly nice little girls that we are, Clemmy, you can be sure of that.” Gertrude turned as John walked toward them with more coffee.

“Want to come for a ride tomorrow morning?” Clementine hoped that perhaps after a nice long gallop Gertrude might relax enough to confide her own concerns, but she was to be disappointed.

“Can't, darling, got a half past ten with old Val, but Constance will, won't you, darling?” she asked as Constance Ambrose plumped herself down on their sofa.

Clementine nodded absentmindedly, beckoned to John, and told him to ask Mrs. Jackson to come straight up to her sitting room when they were finished with their coffee after dinner. There was a lot to plan for.

 

Chapter Eleven

Mrs. Jackson had learned over the years that although Lady Montfort possessed many strong qualities, the art of remaining detached in the midst of calamity was not one of them. She played a pretty good game, did Lady Montfort, but the appearance of self-possession did not fool Mrs. Jackson. Her ladyship was not, by nature or inclination, blessed with an inner tranquility and she was a consummate doer, some might even say an interferer. Lady Montfort's response to the missing third housemaid had been evidence of that already. As she stood in Lady Montfort's sitting room she carefully took in all the little telltale signs that her ladyship's inner motor was positively racing. She was sitting bolt upright, for one thing, her back rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and she had that awfully bright, overattentive expression on her face.

“Jackson, what a terrible day. How is everyone coping?” To give her credit, Lady Montfort was certainly doing a good job of managing her inner turmoil. Her “everyone” of course referred to belowstairs.

“In spite of it all, very well, m'lady.” Her response was cautious. After the harrowing interview with Lady Montfort that afternoon, she would hold on to the lifeline of business as usual until she managed to gauge which way the wind was blowing this evening.

“Visiting servants not causing any problems? Gossip, that kind of thing?”

She assured Lady Montfort that the visiting servants were old friends, respectful of the situation and doing everything they could to help out. She held in her hand menus for the next couple of days: beef consommé, followed by veal cutlets, dauphinoise potatoes, and garden peas, and then apple tart for tomorrow's luncheon. She handed over a menu to Lady Montfort as she went on to explain that another storm was on the way, so Cook had planned something warming for dinner. She took a moment to go through the menu and when she had finished she looked inquiringly at Lady Montfort, who had barely glanced at the lists in her hand.

So food was not what this meeting was about then, thought Mrs. Jackson, and sure enough, Lady Montfort asked about Violet. Was there any news?

Mrs. Jackson had spent a good deal of thought on Violet's disappearance and had prepared an answer for Lady Montfort that she hoped would go some way to mollifying her ladyship until she had the time to find out what Violet's running off was really all about.

“I believe that we … I … underestimated Violet, m'lady.” This cost Mrs. Jackson a good deal, as she was still very annoyed with herself for having made assumptions where Violet was concerned. “I thought she had settled into a comfortable routine in the house, well that was certainly my impression. Now it seems I was wrong. According to Mary, who shared a room with Violet, she was homesick. I feel entirely responsible for not being aware…” Here she stopped to allow Lady Montfort to take in this information.