Fete Fatale (19 page)

‘Your brother Philip,' I said.

‘That's right,' said Mary edgily.

The picture showed a bronzed and grinning man, in an open-necked shirt, standing outside a very extensive, positively palatial
house. I had been to Australia as a teenager, to visit relatives. It didn't fool me.

‘Vaucluse House,' I said.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Vaucluse House. It's the nearest thing they have in New South Wales to a stately home. Historic monument, you know.'

‘Oh,' said Mary. She sounded disappointed. I really think she had convinced herself that it was her brother Philip's home.

All the time I had been looking around the room for the missing photograph. Finally I spotted it, in a dark corner over by the piano. Mary had been willing to move it into obscurity, but not so far to change the Mother-given order of things as to remove it entirely. I could feel Mary's irritation coming over me in waves as I strolled over and picked it up. It was a graduation photograph, the product of a studio, perhaps in the mid-'sixties. John Morse stood on a studio step in cap and gown. Clearly he was not enjoying the experience, was going through with it only because he had been commanded to. He gazed ahead, aggressive, somehow cunning, and to my mind saying something like: ‘I'm going to get even with you for this.'

‘What university?' I asked.

‘Grimsby,' snapped Mary.

‘Really? Howard Culpepper's university. What did he graduate in?'

‘Sociology.'

She said it as if it were a dirty word. At last something that Mary and I might agree on. I put the picture down.

‘Well, thank you
so
much, Mary, for the tea, and for being so helpful generally . . . '

As we made our goodbyes, some semblance of a normal social relationship in Hexton terms was re-established, and I think that as she closed the door Mary was probably congratulating herself that she had handled things
so
much better than poor dear Thyrza. But then Mary, the new Mary, seemed to congratulate herself on just about everything. She had elevated herself into a nonpareil. Proceedings for sainthood would be initiated shortly.

The first thing I said to myself as I walked slowly and thoughtfully home was: Mary is mad. Of course I meant this in the slack, general way people do use the word, but on reflection I wasn't at
all sure that it mightn't develop into a literal, clinical madness. There was the fact that Mary had apparently re-ordered the events of the fête day in her mind in such a way that it had become a triumph for her: she had gone round graciously congratulating and graciously thanking, and the unlettered peasants had shown inarticulate gratitude and devotion. Murder had apparently not been able to dim the truly royal glow that the event now cast in her mind's eye. Such re-writing of history could spring only from the mind of a politician, a Marxist historian, or from a mind in the grip of a personal delusion.

Then there were the other delusions of her power and influence—the moral presidency of the town that she had mentally elected herself to. This was a figure infinitely grander than the moral busybody that Mary had always genuinely been. This new figure set the tone, led the way, laid down the moral law; she was a force for stability and order. This in the face of her total rejection by Hexton both on the day of the fête, and the day after. One could truly say: That way madness lies—but had madness perhaps come already?

Then there was the matter of the brother.
Could
that in any way be relevant? The likelihood was that it was one of the perfectly normal family secrets that people habitually prefer not to be talked about, and Mary would like less than most to have discussed: jail, bankruptcy . . . lunacy.

But something worth killing Marcus for, if Marcus had found out? And
how
had Marcus found something like that out? And if he had done, wouldn't he have told me?

Well, no: quite likely he would not have told me. Marcus didn't talk readily about other people's affairs (it was his greatest fault), and he didn't like the relish with which I uncovered the seamy underbelly of Hexton life. But then, granted Marcus's tact and charity, how did Mary know that he knew? Because one thing was certain: he would never have mentioned it to her.

And there was something else. Something Mary had said, that had clicked in my mind. Something that reminded me of something someone had said on some other social occasion. Mary herself? Or someone else? What the hell was it? I hadn't taken a notebook to Mary's, thinking to establish a rather pleasanter social atmosphere than I had at the Mipchins', and on the whole I had
been successful. Now I regretted it, though. Except that the thing had been such a little thing that I probably would not have noted it down anyway. Such a very little thing . . .

There was this to be said for Hexton's custom of making calls on the bereaved after a death, over mine of the bereaved making the calls herself: with Hexton's system, the bereaved could make her own choice of funeral baked meats. I felt I would get very tired of lemon fingers and unidentifiable sandwiches without benefit of crust before very long. Thin bread and butter would be vastly preferable, and muffins positively comforting.

On the Thursday, though, a variation on this round, this series of dismal tributes to the attenuated custom of the English tea-time, occurred to me. On Thursdays Lady Godetia's cook at Walworth, her manor house seven miles from town, had the day off, and Lady Godetia drove erratically into Hexton, in a manner that seemed to presuppose an armed escort to clear the motorway before and behind, and ate lunch at Li Chen's. I had no great hopes of anything of any value coming from a chat with Lady Godetia: her name's coming into the case at all was a matter of mischief-making on Mary's part, springing from her need to divert attention from her own doings in the weeks before Marcus's death. Lady Godetia had no interest in church matters: her attendance at Edward the Confessor's was occasional and social, and none of the churches near Walworth saw her any more often. Added to that, she had no doubt spent the entire afternoon of Saturday being gracious in the tent. Nevertheless, Mary had made Godetia part of the case, and to Li Chen's I would go.

Actually, Hexton's Chinese restaurant rejoices in the name of The Jasmine Pavilion, but we always called it Li Chen's, with an intonation that might either be familiar or colonial-lordly. As soon as I got in the door, I saw I had rather miscalculated my time: Lady Godetia was already seated at a table under the windows, surrounded by a series of dishes on plate-warmers, all of them three-parts
consumed. Lady Godetia, under the powder-blue coats and feathery hats, was a heavy nosher. When he saw me at the door, Li Chen bustled forward and offered consolation in his way by being, momentarily, his natural self.

‘I was real sorry to hear about Mr Kitterege, Mrs K. He was a lovely person, no kidding. Try the king prawn today, eh? They're beaut.'

As I made appropriate response, I edged towards the window, and Mr Li reverted happily to his restaurant self: ‘You like table near window? You like nice glass led wine?'

Li Chen was a terrible fraud, who was not above saying ‘flied lice' if the fancy took him.

As we approached Lady Godetia's, it became clear that my tactic was going to pay off, though it did so in a way rather different from my intention. Looking up to wipe sweet and sour sauce from her chin, she witnessed my approach and waved.

‘Oh—Mrs—er—How nice to see you! Do come and join me while I finish my bits and pieces. You're looking a little peaky. You must have overdone things at the fête.
So
tiring, aren't they? Though this year's was
such
a success, thanks to all you busy people.'

It was quite clear that she had only the vaguest idea who I was. Her card-index, consulted no doubt on the night before the fête, must have been put out of her mind immediately afterwards. If I had ever had any notion that there might be substance in Mary's preposterous suggestion, then this would have dispelled it. If Lady Godetia had had anything going with Marcus, then she would have made sure she knew who Marcus's wife was. Not that I had ever had the faintest twinge of doubt on that score. If Marcus had had, or was having, an affair—and maybe he had . . . maybe he was—then I paid him the compliment of absolute confidence that it would not have been with Lady Godetia.

There seemed little point in sitting down with her now, but I did so, and got what pleasure I could from pricking a little pin into her social manner.

‘In point of fact I didn't enjoy the fête all that much,' I said.

‘Oh. That murder. No, most unfortunate, poor man . . . Oh! . . . Oh dear! Oh, darling—you're
not
 . . . Oh, but I didn't imagine
you could be out so soon . . . How
can
I apologize enough? Really,
what
must you think of my clumsiness?'

Colour had come into her cheeks, already heated with her eating. She seemed almost genuinely upset, as very social people can be over a
faux pas.
I waved her back to her lunch as I ordered king prawns and a chow mein and a glass of wine from Mr Li. After a moment's hesitation, and a desperate search for something to say to retrieve the situation, Lady Godetia bent down to gobble at a plate of pork and ginger, apparently intent on being gone as soon as possible.

‘My dear,' she said, still pink with embarrassment as Li Chen departed with my order. ‘I didn't, I really
didn't
, mean to imply that the fête was a success as a whole. I really
hadn't
forgotten your poor husband, and that dreadful scene—
stamped
on my memory, I do assure you. Because he really was a
great
favourite of mine, you know . . . It's just that I thought you were one of the ordinary helpers, and I ought to say something . . . cheery.'

‘That's all right,' I said, extra cool as usual in the face of her mannered gush.

‘We cancelled my speech at the end, you know,' Godetia said, as if that were the ultimate proof of their sincerity.

‘Never mind,' I said. ‘You can probably make it next year.'

Lady Godetia gave renewed signs of wanting very much to get away. Much more of me and she might even leave something uneaten.

‘You actually saw the body float by, did you?' I said, rather as if I were a reporter questioning one of the knights or dames of Camelot about the end of the Lady of Shalott's voyage.

‘Well, yes, actually. Everyone seemed to go out there, so I, eventually, followed. So appalling, and so strange. I
dreamt
about it that night.'

‘What had you been doing before that?'

‘What had I been doing? Do you know, the
police
came and asked me that. Why on earth are you interested in little me? I asked, but they said it was just routine. Well, I'd been talking to Mary Morse about library matters. We're both on the committee: Mary because she's keen on the decency line, as you know, and me because I find it gets me the new books quicker. Well, we were talking about that on and off throughout the day, whenever we
met up. I had to go round and
talk
to people, you know . . . buy things, make the right gestures. So really I was talking to all and sundry, all the time, but
when
I was talking to
who
(or should that be whom?) I really can't say. Now Mary left the tent—oh, about two-thirty or three, and after that I continued to go round . . . talked to Mrs Culpepper, I remember, and her insignificant little husband, who had the discarded toy stall—so unlike
your
husband, my dear.'

‘And had you talked to Marcus that day?'

‘Oh, but ye-es,' she said, summoning Li Chen for her bill. ‘But much earlier. Before I went into the tent, when I was going around the games outside. Your Marcus was demonstrating his machine, and doing so well, and I said one of my silly little things—“You really should be going with the Olympic team”—something quite foolish like that. But your husband was a
man.
You've lost a treasure.' She got up, and went pink again as she remembered her mistake. ‘I can't
say
how sorry I am. That I didn't remember who you were, I mean.
So
unfortunate. Say you've forgiven me. I shall dream about that tonight!'

And Lady Godetia stuffed a ten-pound note into Mr Li's hands and fled. It was clear that she was infinitely more upset by her social gaffe than by Marcus's death.

As I watched her retreating back—and it was quite a back—a voice from the next table said:

‘We do seem to get encumbered with the dimmest of the upper crust in Hexton, don't we?'

I turned my head and saw that while we had been talking, Mr Horsforth had come and sat himself at the next table. Horsforth, I remembered, quite often lunched out—a perfectly sensible decision for a widower with no particular obligation to partake of the depleted and unsavoury school meals service currently provided by the County. He sat there, a glass of iced water in front of him, waiting for Li Chen to arrive with his food. On his face was that expression of fastidious superiority which was what I most disliked about him. Not that I had any inclination to fling myself to the defence of Lady Godetia.

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I believe there are gentry who have brains larger than a pea, but she's not among them.'

‘Her husband was the same,' went on Mr Horsforth, with a
sarcastic smile of reminiscence. ‘Thick as two planks. He was a constant embarrassment at speech days. Since the guest speaker invariably went on about what a hopeless dullard he was at school, it was very much
de trop
for the Chairman of Governors to prove the same with every word he uttered.'