Sheer Folly (6 page)

His attention was distracted by the entrance of another couple, followed by a sleek, blond young man. Owen Howell instantly abandoned his mother and hurried to greet them.

“Lady Ottaline, Sir Desmond, welcome to Appsworth Hall.”

Sir Desmond apologised for the lateness of their arrival. “—unavoidably detained by my wife's loss of a glove just as we were leaving.” His words were sarcastic, but his tone was indifferent.

Lady Ottaline, Sir Desmond
. Where had Daisy heard those names recently? Ah, the Wandersleys, at whose house the Beauforts had made the acquaintance of the Managing Director of Pritchard's Plumbing Products. Wandersley was a civil servant, she recalled, and the two had business together.

Sir Desmond Wandersley looked like a senior civil servant, suave—not to say bland—impeccably turned out, his impressive girth evidence of decades of good living, but he had the height and the tailoring to carry it off. A well-barbered mane of white hair and gold-rimmed eyeglasses added to his distinguished air.

Daisy was more interested in his wife. Lucy and Julia agreed that she was an aging vamp, and her appearance did nothing to contradict their description.

Lady Ottaline wore a slinky grasshopper-green frock, with a long, gauzy, spangled scarf draped over her pointed elbows. Her angular arms emerged with insect-like effect. Her collarbones and face were all sharp angles, pointed chin, pointed nose, even pointed lobes to her ears, exaggerated by long, dangling, glittering earrings, faceted like an insect's eyes. Her face was powdered
white, with a touch of rouge on high, sharp cheekbones, loads of eyeblack, and blood-red lipstick to match her fingernails.

A cross between a mosquito and a praying mantis, Daisy thought fancifully. She was quite surprised when Lady Ottaline's voice turned out to be not a high, thin whine, but low and husky.

Howell introduced his mother and his uncle to the Wandersleys and their follower. Sir Desmond turned out to be a Principal Deputy Secretary at the Ministry of Health, and the sleek young man was Carlin, his Private Secretary.

As Owen Howell provided the newcomers with drinks, Daisy, still standing next to Rhino, was aware of his lordship's tension. And when Lady Ottaline glanced round the room and caught sight of him, Daisy was perfectly placed to see that she was unsurprised—and pleased. Her crimson mouth curved in a small, smug smile, but she made no other move to acknowledge him.

He turned away to fuss with lighting yet another cigarette.

“Are you acquainted with the Wandersleys, Lord Rydal?” Daisy asked.

He didn't respond. Though it could have been just another example of his rudeness, Daisy was convinced there was more to it. He and Lady Ottaline knew each other, but he didn't want to admit it. Rhino, being who he was, had probably irredeemably offended her. Judging by her smile on seeing him, she had either revenged the insult or had immediate plans to do so. Of course, Rhino, being who he was, probably didn't realise he had offended, or didn't care, and he might well not recognise the revenge for what it was.

Dying to expound her theory to Lucy, Daisy decided she had complied with the requirements of civility where Rhino was concerned and deserted him. Before she had a chance to talk to Lucy, the doctor and his wife arrived, and a few minutes later they all went in to dinner.

 

Daisy found
herself seated between Sir Desmond and the doctor. The latter, a tall, gaunt, melancholy man, and a silent one, proved more interested in his food than his neigbours. When Daisy asked him politely whether he was a native of Wiltshire, his answer was an unpromising, “No.”

“I don't know it well, but it seems to be a beautiful county.” This, phrased as a comment rather than a question, received no response whatsoever. Daisy made one more attempt. “Do you enjoy living here?”

“Not particularly,” he said in a low, despondent voice.

Daisy gave up. Fortunately, Sir Desmond was less inclined to taciturnity than the medical man, or just more socially adept.

“I gather you're not a local resident, Mrs. Fletcher? What brings you to Appsworth Hall?” Implicit in the question was an inference that she did not belong in the world of plumbers. Hearing her speak a few words to somebody else had been enough to make him place her on his side of the fence.

“I'm a writer,” she told him.

A fleeting spasm of distaste crossed his face, quickly hidden. “Ah, one of these modern clever young women.”

“I don't claim to be clever,” Daisy said coldly. “I'm a journalist; I don't write literary novels, or blank verse, or anything like that. Mostly just articles for magazines, about places and history, but Lucy—Lady Gerald—and I are doing a book about follies.”

“ ‘When lovely women stoop to follies . . .' ” he misquoted.

“Stoop! Most of them are on hills and we have to climb. But obviously you're ignorant of the existence of the Appsworth grotto. ‘Where ignorance lends wit, 'tis folly to be wise.' ”

“Wise after the event, I'm afraid! You and Lady Gerald are writing a book about the follies of eighteenth-century landowners, not of mankind in general, or lovely women in particular.”

“Strictly speaking, I'm doing the writing. Lucy is a photographer.”

“Tell me about the Appsworth grotto.”

“We haven't seen it yet. We arrived too late this afternoon. According to what we've heard, though, it's the best in the country. There never were very many, and most are in a shocking state of dilapidation, but when Mr. Pritchard bought Appsworth Hall, he repaired this one. Practically rebuilt it, in fact. They say he did an excellent job of it.”

“I expect he did, as far as the physical fabric is concerned, at least. The firm is noted for good, solid workmanship. Aesthetically—”

Daisy laughed. “Aesthetically, grottoes are noted for a mishmash of Romantic sentimentality, Gothic grotesquerie, and Classical pretensions.”

“Indeed! I shall have to make sure to visit the place while I'm here.”

“I understand you're at Appsworth to do business with the firm.”

“Not on my own account,” Sir Desmond said quickly, as if Daisy had accused him of robbing a bank.

“Of course not.”

“You're laughing at me, Mrs. Fletcher. Your generation may find it quaint, but I assure you, it's not so long since being personally
involved with a manufacturing business could get one blackballed.”

“How fortunate that you're involved only on behalf of the government—or so I hear? And in the building business, rather than manufacturing.”

His eyes narrowed, though on the surface his manner remained urbane. “You seem to know a great deal about my business. You're a journalist—but this isn't the place or the time. I'd like a word with you after dinner, if you please.”

“I'm not a reporter. And even if I were in the habit of regaling the scandal sheets with tidbits, which I'm not, I rather doubt they'd be interested in this particular snippet of news. But if you need further reassurance, I'll be happy to give it to you later.”

He gave an abrupt nod, and turned away to respond to Mrs. Howell's anxious twitterings on the subject of the lack of fish.

While sparring with him, Daisy had overheard Rhino, seated on Mrs. Howell's other side, ragging her about the bad soles. Lucy now distracted him with a question about some mutual acquaintance on the London social scene. She had been chatting quite happily with her other neighbour, the sandy young man, who had a Canadian accent. His name was apparently Armitage, but Daisy hadn't been able to hear enough of their conversation to work out what his place was in the scheme of things. His attention, in turn, was captured by the doctor's wife, as loquacious as her husband was taciturn. Perhaps, Daisy thought, her loquacity accounted for his taciturnity.

At least his silence left her free to study the rest of the diners. Armitage, though attending to the doctor's wife sufficiently to make the proper noises in the proper places, was gazing diagonally across the table at Julia, with a besotted expression on his face.

Oh dear, Daisy thought, another victim, and by the look of him one who was not likely to win Lady Beaufort's approval even if he earned Julia's.

Julia was on friendly terms with Owen Howell, as far as Daisy could tell, though they were on her side of the table, beyond the
doctor, so she couldn't see them properly. A pleasant chat at the dinner-table was hardly significant, but what a turn-up if Julia were to fall for the plumber! It seemed at least as likely as that she should accept the abominable Rhino.

At the far end of the table, the unlikely quartet of Mr. Pritchard, Lady Ottaline, Lady Beaufort, and the young bureaucrat were getting on like a house on fire. Daisy decided Pritchard must be a brilliant diplomat, wasted on the world of plumbing.

A couple of maids removed the soup dishes. Sir Desmond turned to Daisy and said in a low voice, “Why all this fishy business?”

“Much ado about nothing. I'll tell you later if you really want to know.”

The maids reappeared. An astonished silence fell as they placed in front of each diner a small plate with a couple of sardines, decorated with croutons and parsley.

Daisy looked at Lucy. Lucy looked at Julia. All three burst into fits of laughter. The infectious sound made most of the others smile, but Mrs. Howell looked ready to weep. Rhino didn't help by saying disdainfully, “Fish! This might just possibly be adequate as a savoury.”

“I told Cook to do the best she could.”

“Very ingenious of her,” said Daisy. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Howell. We were just laughing at a private joke. Nothing to do with your cook, or your excellent dinner.”

“Are you going to share it with us?” Pritchard enquired with a grin.

“Certainly not,” said Lucy, simultaneously with Julia's, “Oh, we couldn't possibly, I'm afraid.”

“Just a bit of juvenile schoolgirlish nonsense,” Daisy explained. “Not at all funny to anyone else.”

“Well, Lord Rydal, at least your obsession has given us all a bit of a laugh. If this isn't enough fish for you, you're welcome to mine, too. Winifred, you know I don't like fish.” Ignoring her resentful look, he beckoned to his butler. “Barker, present this to Lord Rydal, with my compliments.”

Rhino looked askance at such a brazen departure from ordinary etiquette, but to insult his host at his own table would be an even worse breach of decorum. He was apparently conversant with the rules of good manners, even if the guiding principles escaped him. Daisy noticed that he ate all four sardines.

Dinner continued without further untoward events. Mrs. Howell managed to eat with her lips pursed. Daisy wondered whether she was contemplating revenge, perhaps in the form of offering her brother-in-law nothing but kippers and kedgeree for breakfast. Silent, she made no demands on Sir Desmond's attention. He apparently forgave Daisy for being a journalist and entertained her with a smooth flow of small talk. He had an endless fund of anecdotes, no doubt very useful to a civil servant, and some of them were even quite amusing.

At the end of the meal, Mrs. Howell was still lost in a brown study. She made no move to lead the ladies from the dining room. Daisy disliked the practice except insofar as it allowed her to escape cigar smoke—it was bad enough that Rhino had lighted a fresh cigarette after each course. She wondered whether the plumber's household had abandoned the custom of the ladies' withdrawal, or had never followed it. Then she realised that Lady Beaufort was staring at her with a slightly desperate fixed look. When her ladyship saw that she had Daisy's attention, she nodded towards their hostess.

Daisy leant forwards and said gently, “Mrs. Howell, shall we leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars?”

She came to with a start and a shudder. “Cigars? Horrible things.” She stood up. “He
will
smoke them, though he knows I hate the smell.”

Daisy didn't believe it was the thought of cigars that had made her shudder.

The host went to the door and politely held it as the ladies departed. Daisy hung back so she was last to reach him. “Would you mind awfully if I used your telephone, Mr. Pritchard?” she asked. “It's a trunk call, I'm afraid, but of course I'll reverse the charges.”

“Of course you won't, my dear. Make as many calls as you want.”

“Thanks, one will do! I promised my husband I'd ring to let him know I arrived safely.”

“That's the ticket. But don't hang about waiting for the connection. Barker can fetch you to the telephone when the call goes through. I'll tell you what, how's this for a notion? Why don't you ask Mr. Fletcher to join us at the weekend? I don't know why I didn't think of it before. He'd be very welcome.”

Daisy beamed at him. “That's frightfully kind of you. I'm not sure whether he's going to be free, but I'll pass on the invitation.”

“And . . . I don't suppose . . . Do you think Lord Gerald might like to come down as well?”

“I've no idea what his plans are, but I'll tell Alec to ring him up and ask.”

“Better check with Lady Gerald first.”

“She won't mind. If he comes, either she'll be glad to see him, or she'll be too busy taking photos to notice. We're both so much looking forward to exploring the grotto tomorrow.”

“No need to wait if you'd like to take a look later this evening. I had gaslights put in, you know.”

“Did you really? I'd like to see it.”

“I think you'll find the effect quite . . . interesting.” Pritchard's tone had suddenly become mysterious, even creepy. “I'll have it prepared.”

“Thank you.” Daisy went after the rest of the ladies.

How odd, she thought. Could anything be more prosaic than plumbing? Or manufacturing? A creepy manufacturer of plumbing supplies seemed like a contradiction in terms. All the same, she was jolly well going to drag Lucy out into the frosty night to accompany her to the grotto, like it or not.