Sweet Poison (7 page)

‘You are limping, my lord. Shall I telephone Dr Best?’

‘No, in the morning. I bumped my knee, that’s all. Just give me a stick, will you?’ He indicated an elephant’s foot in which umbrellas and walking-sticks were crowded. Bates did as he was asked and then stopped open-mouthed as Edward hobbled inside the house. The chandelier in the hall permitted Bates to see for the first time the state of the young master. His hair and face were messed by oil and dirt and his ulster was smeared and torn.

‘His Grace said you were to go straight into the dining-room without changing,’ the butler said doubtfully. ‘The gentlemen are having their port and cigars, sir, but there is cold ham and salad if you and the lady are –’

At that moment the dining-room door opened and the Duke appeared. ‘My dear boy, I thought it must be you,’ he said, coming forward agitatedly. ‘We have been worried. Have you had an accident? Are you hurt? Bates, tell the Duchess Lord Edward has arrived. Ned, what on earth has happened? You’re filthy –’

‘Calm down, Gerald. Yes, I did have an accident. Trying to avoid a hay wagon idiotically I went into a ditch and broke the axle but I’m not hurt – just knocked my knee a bit. Say hello to Miss Browne, my guardian angel, who rescued me, don’t you know. Miss Browne, the Duke of Mersham.’

‘Good evening, Miss Browne. What has my brother been doing to need rescuing?’

Connie opened the drawing-room door with Honoria, Blanche and Celia Larmore just behind. ‘Ned, is that you? Goodness me, where have you been? We were becoming alarmed.’ Then, seeing her brother-in-law’s grimed face and the way he was leaning on his stick, she said anxiously, ‘Has there been an accident? Are you hurt?’

‘No, Connie, don’t be alarmed. I’m not injured – or only my knee. I’m afraid the Lagonda went off the road. It was either that or colliding with a haywain, and this kind lady, Miss Verity Browne, rescued me.’

‘Ah, Miss Browne – do come in,’ said Connie coming forward. ‘We obviously have a lot to be grateful to you for. Ned, give me a kiss. On second thoughts,’ she said, backing away, ‘I will wait to kiss you until you are cleaned up. Why don’t you go and wash off the worst of the . . . whatever it is you are covered with, Ned . . . and then come into the dining-room and tell us your adventures while you eat. Did you say there was cold ham, Bates?’

‘Yes, your Grace, and salad – and shall I bring in the claret too, your Grace?’

‘Yes, please do, Bates,’ said the Duke.

‘Miss Browne,’ said the Duchess, putting out her hand, ‘you have obviously been very kind.’ She hesitated. ‘You are not by any chance Verity Browne who I was expecting tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Duchess, but now I must go and clean up at the hotel.’

‘Certainly not!’ said the Duchess. ‘We would not hear of it, would we, Gerald? You must be our guest. Bates will show you where to wash and then come into the dining-room and have something to eat while we get a room made up for you. We all want to hear what has been happening so we will sit and watch you eat if that does not sound too like the zoo.’

‘Talking of animals,’ Edward said, ‘Miss Browne has with her an Aberdeen terrier.’

‘Shall I take it to the kitchen, miss?’ inquired Bates. ‘Cook will feed the animal and find a place for it to sleep.’

‘That’s very kind,’ said Verity, beaming at the butler. ‘I would be grateful if you could feed and water Max – that’s his name, by the way – but if the Duchess does not mind, he can sleep in my room. He’s very clean and he’ll curl up on the floor in the corner and not make any mess.’

‘Very good, miss,’ said the butler. To Edward’s amazement, Bates lifted the dog out of the Morgan and carried it off, the dog making no protest whatsoever.

Ten minutes later everyone forgathered in the dining-room – even Hermione Weaver – anxious to hear Edward’s tale and take a good look at the strange girl who had succoured him. Edward, who had had a long and eventful day, was quite happy to leave most of the story-telling to Verity, who seemed quite unawed by the company in which she now found herself; she might regularly have burst in on dinner-parties in ducal mansions for all the effect it appeared to have upon her and yet there was nothing brash or vulgar in her evident pleasure at being the centre of attention. Edward, despite the pain in his leg, enjoyed watching this petite, tousle-haired girl, bright-eyed and pink in the face with excitement, digging into ham and salad while, between mouthfuls, she regaled the assembled company with the story of his brush with death as though she had actually been a witness of the accident. Where Edward might have played down the danger, she exaggerated the damage done to the car and the nearness with which the driver had avoided being seriously injured. Connie kept on glancing at her brother-in-law as if to gauge how much of the story was true, but Edward steadfastly refused to meet her eye. He was in considerable discomfort but he wanted to disguise this from her until the next day. It was unthinkable that he should get Dr Best out of bed, an elderly man on the point of retirement, who in any case would probably be able to do nothing but prescribe rest.

Surprisingly, it was Hermione Weaver who seemed most excited by the new arrivals. It seemed to her mother that, after all, she was not as violently hostile to Edward as she had claimed. When she spoke to him directly it was almost shyly and she seemed even a little jealous that it had been Verity Browne’s good fortune to have come across the motorcar accident and not herself. She also seemed abashed that Verity should have a real job. In Hermione’s circle not many women had paid jobs. It was unthinkable if you were married, of course, and if you were rich and single as she was, there was so much to do that the idea of spending the day as secretary to some businessman or politician was not attractive. However, Blanche did wonder as she looked at her daughter’s animated face if her problems did not stem from sheer boredom. Was she just tired of the empty round of dances, dinner-parties and night-clubs with which she filled her waking hours? Maybe, if Joe could get her a job on one of his papers she might be happier: if Verity Browne could be a journalist why should not Hermione? She decided she would ask her husband when they got to bed that night and see if he thought there was anything in the idea.

The Duke was looking tired and saying very little. It was typical of Ned, he considered, to have an accident driving his motorcar too fast. He was always crashing aeroplanes, motor cars and even boats, and as a result of this accident he had succeeded in breaking up his carefully arranged ‘meeting of minds’. It had all been going rather well, too. Ned had arrived just when the men, relaxing over their port and cigars, were at their most suggestible. It was the time when, with the ladies, bless ’em, out of the way, confidences could be made, friendships forged and unlikely alliances built, but Ned bursting in on the scene had destroyed all that. The women were back at the dining-table and the men could no longer speak freely with the easy confidence of gentlemen gathered in sacred harmony. The whole atmosphere had been ruined, the Duke decided. Before they had heard Edward and Verity at the front door, Craig and Friedberg had to their own amazement found common ground in disparaging the performance of the American forces on the Western Front in 1918, conveniently forgetting that without the Americans the war might have dragged on indefinitely. They told stories – no doubt, the Duke thought, apocryphal – illustrating the poor quality of the American infantry officer, and the two men, who had earlier been snapping at each other’s heels, had gone so far as to laugh at each other’s instances of American ineptitude. That breath of good will was dissipated by the new arrivals. The Duke felt aggrieved but could not say so. As he listened to Verity with half an ear, he reviewed the dinner.

When they sat down there had been some awkwardness about the empty chair but Connie had decided not to clear Edward’s place in case he arrived in time for some food. Hermione had in the end behaved herself, to Connie’s great relief, and had discussed dress-makers with Celia Larmore quite amiably. She had not even been too rude to Honoria Haycraft when the latter opined that night-clubs were the haunt of the devil. Unwisely perhaps, the Bishop had backed his wife up: ‘It’s the cocktails which do the harm in my view. They poison the system. All a civilized person needs is a glass or two of dry sherry before dinner.’

‘And all that smoking,’ went on Honoria, blithely unaware of Hermione’s scowl. ‘In my day girls did not smoke. It’s such a dirty habit.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said the Duke hurriedly. ‘I think you are being unfair on the young. We haven’t left them much of a world to grow up in, you know. What do you think, Hermione?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ the girl said sullenly. ‘I don’t feel as if I am one of the “younger generation” anyhow. Ask my stepfather. The
New Gazette
is always doing stuff about “youth”. I’m sure he knows all about it.’

There was an awkward silence but the Duke covered it with talk of cricket and the moment passed.

The food had been good and the wine first-rate but the Duke pinned all his hopes on the hour the men would spend over their port once the table had been cleared and the ladies had left to take their coffee in the drawing-room. To grace the occasion he had selected two bottles of his finest port and he was determined, without looking obvious about it, to make it known to his guests just how favoured they were. When Bates had placed the decanter in front of him and offered round the cigars in an oak box which his grandfather had brought back from Cuba in 1883, the Duke dismissed the butler and offered Larmore, the most knowledgeable wine-lover among his guests, a light-hearted challenge. ‘Larmore, I remember you telling me you were interested in port so I thought you might like to taste this,’ he began, with all the benevolence of one who knows he is going to give his guests a treat they probably don’t deserve.

The Duke passed him the decanter and Larmore filled his glass before passing it on. While the others were filling their glasses Larmore was going through an elaborate pantomime, examining the wine as he rolled it in his glass and making curious grunts as he mentally checked off its characteristics. He put the glass to his nose and a strange expression transformed his face. Concentrating fiercely, he drank from his glass. The effect was immediate. The lines of petulance around his rather small mouth vanished and his eyes, which had been narrow and anxious-looking during dinner, shone like those of a dog unexpectedly presented with a particularly juicy beef bone. His whole bearing indicated intense, almost sexual, pleasure. ‘By Jove, Duke,’ he said at last, ‘this is splendid. I don’t know I have ever tasted anything finer. Who is the shipper?’

The Duke assumed a look of low cunning. ‘If I tell you the shipper, can you tell me the vintage?’

‘Very well,’ said Larmore.

‘Taylor’s,’ said the Duke.

All eyes were turned on Larmore but he seemed not in the least disconcerted. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I thought it was big enough to be the Taylor’s – splendidly rich and powerful.’ He smelled the port again and then held the glass up to the candlelight. ‘As for the vintage, I think it is too mature to be the ’12 which really leaves only the 1900 or the 1896. Hmm – the only port I have had which could begin to match this was with the Devonshires last Christmas and that was the ’86 Graham’s – a regal port but not as good as this – so I think I am going to go for ’96.’ He looked at the Duke inquiringly.

‘Very well done, Larmore. You have hit the nail on the head. Please, fill your glass.’

There was a murmur of approbation from the General and from Lord Weaver.

‘Certainly I couldn’t have done that, Larmore – identified the vintage, I mean,’ said Weaver admiringly, ‘but even I, Duke, can appreciate it’s of particular sweetness and strength – the wrong words, I know, but I have always found it difficult to describe the distinctive character of a fine wine, so you’ll have to forgive me. You have really done us proud, sir.’ Weaver raised his glass towards the Duke and the Duke bowed his head modestly. ‘The burgundy we had with the fish, that was Corton Charlemagne, was it not?’

‘1921, Louis Latour,’ confirmed the Duke.

‘And if I may be so vulgar as to inquire,’ Weaver continued, ‘the claret was . . . ?’

‘Château Haut-Brion, 1920,’ said the Duke, embarrassed but proud. He did not like to seem to brag but it was well that his guests – even philistines like the Bishop and von Friedberg – should understand the compliment he had paid them.

Once again everyone was silent. Larmore refilled his glass and admired the rich ruby colour which, when he held his glass up to the candle, seemed to flame and flicker. He then lowered his head reverentially as if, the Bishop thought, he was going to pray and inhaled the intoxicating scent of a wine which had been maturing for two generations. Still without speaking, he put his lips to the delicate glass and sipped. The lines of anxiety below his eyes were smoothed and his smile lit up his countenance so that, to the Bishop who was sitting opposite him, he suddenly seemed a much younger man.

General Craig said, ‘I don’t have your knowledge, Larmore, but even my untutored palate recognizes greatness.’ He raised his glass to his lips, his hand shaking so noticeably that the Duke wondered if he were ill. Instead of sipping the wine and savouring its particular character he drank deeply. It seemed to steady him a little, and when he replaced his glass on the table the Duke thought he looked less feverish; quite unconsciously the old man stroked his stomach as though the wine was helping his digestion. ‘My doctor tells me I must drink very sparingly but, as I tell him, I have so few pleasures – pleasures of the flesh – left to me that I am loath to give up one of the few I can still enjoy,’ Craig said sadly.

The Bishop too claimed to drink very little but the Duke noticed with amusement that he drained his glass quickly and refilled it from the decanter, which was now circulating for the third time. The Duke saw that Friedberg was a little at a loss to know how to enter the conversation about wine without making a fool of himself, and hurriedly moved to include him in the general bonhomie by asking him if port was much drunk in Germany, and was told that it was not. ‘We prefer brandy or liqueurs but when I am in England and,’ he bowed his head, ‘in such distinguished company, I do as the Romans do – that is the phrase, is it not? – and with the greatest of pleasure’. Saying which he tossed down his port as though it was slivovitz, which made the Duke wince. Von Friedberg went on to spoil the mood of quiet contentment around the table by embarking on a long and boring lecture about the superior merits of the wines of Alsace – a part of Germany, he was moved to say with drunken solemnity, whatever the French might like to claim.