The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks (5 page)

'Don't bother on my account,' Gerry said. 'It's not all that important.'

'No, no, I want to do it. We're all going to be sittin' round a table together, and it could be embarrassing if I don't know who they are. Now, what was I going to do?'

'Taxis,' said the Countess.

'Ah yes. I was just tryin' to work out how many . . .' And the Earl wandered out, counting on his fingers.

* * *

The following morning there was a telegram from Bradley informing them that the funeral had been fixed for twelve noon on the Wednesday of the following week. 'That's really very convenient,' said Lord Burford. 'The last train to town from the Halt goes at four twenty-five. So if the service takes an hour, they can all come back here and have a bite at a civilised hour, then wander round the house and grounds for a bit, while those of us who're involved can listen to the will being read. Then we can have tea and get 'em back to the station in plenty of time.'

However, in the afternoon, there was another phone call from Bradley. 'Disaster, my lord,' he began dramatically.

'My word, that sounds serious. What's the trouble?'

'I spoke to your rector and then to the undertakers first thing this morning, sent the announcement to
The Times
and then wired or telephoned the legatees. No sooner had I completed everything, when I received notification that a very important court case, in which I am deeply involved, has been called for the morning of the day of the funeral. There is no way of obtaining a postponement and I simply have to be there.'

'I see. That's bad luck. So it means you won't be able to make it to the funeral.'

'Unfortunately, no.'

'Or be here for the reading of the will.'

'Well, I do not anticipate this case going on well into the afternoon. It is important, but not unduly complicated. So I am virtually certain that I could be there by 5 p.m. Unfortunately, as you are aware, by then it would be too late for the legatees to get back to London that night. It is really most unfortunate.'

'Yes, it is.' The Earl hesitated. 'No offence at all, my dear fellow, we would be delighted to meet you, and all that, but is it strictly necessary for you to be here in person? Is there nobody you could send in your place?'

'I'm afraid not. It really has to be a lawyer, as there are always legal questions asked. But my partner, whom I could in theory ask to do it, will be on holiday next week. Then again, I am the executor of the will. There are numerous things which I can explain. People are frequently hurt or disappointed by the provisions of a will, and the executor can often smooth ruffled feathers, as it were, or explain and elaborate any conditions which might be attached to a bequest. It's really not satisfactory if the executor is not present.'

'Yes, I can see that. Well, I really don't know what to suggest.'

'Of course, and I hardly like to mention this, but if it were possible for the other beneficiaries to stay at Alderley overnight . . .' Bradley tailed away in a series of tentative little throat clearings.

Lord Burford did not reply for a moment. Eventually he said: 'Don't think that'll be possible, actually.'

'Oh. Then I'll just have to try and make other arrangements for some later date.'

They spoke for a few more seconds, then the Earl went to find the Countess.

* * *

'So naturally, Lavinia, I told him it wouldn't be possible. You agree, of course.'

'No, George, I do not. I think you should telephone Mr Bradley and tell him they are welcome to stay overnight.'

'But Lavinia, I don't
want
to have people staying here. After the last two house parties, we both agreed no more.'

'This wouldn't be a house party, George, it's nine guests for one night. By ten o'clock on Thursday morning they'll probably all be gone.'

'But the last two times we've had people here it's been disastrous.'

'This is quite different. These people are family, not spies and jewel thieves and blackmailers and film stars,' the Countess said, blithely grouping the four occupations in the same category. 'And when one occupies an historic house such as Alderley, where some of the most eminent men and women in the world have stayed, one cannot just shut its doors, because of a few unfortunate incidents.'

'I know you enjoy entertaining, Lavinia. And you do it jolly well.'

'I see it more as an obligation. And this will be a very good way of breaking the ice and getting back to normal again. After all, we do need to put an end to this stupid nonsense about a curse once and for all.'

'Yes, you're quite right, my dear, as usual. I'll telephone Bradley back and tell him we'll give 'em all a bed for the night.'

'I think perhaps you'd better make that nine beds, George, not just one.' It was unusual for the Countess to attempt a joke, however mild, and she looked quite pleased with herself.

'Oh, very good, Lavinia. Of course. Though it'll be ten, as I suppose Bradley himself will be staying as well. I'll go and put the call through now.'

'Ask Mr Bradley to tell them not to bring evening clothes. We will not dress for dinner that night. We do not want them all to have the bother of bringing large suitcases with them. This way most people should be able to manage with a small overnight bag. I'll have a word with Merryweather. I expect he'll be pleased. I'm sure he's missed all the organising.'

'Well, of course,' said Lord Burford, 'if I'd realised
that
I'd've arranged a house party months ago.'

He went out. Lady Burford considered. Ten people, most of whom she did not know. No couples, so ten bedrooms. Where would she put them? Ten very different people . . .

Chapter Eleven

The phone rang in Tommy's flat. He answered it in his usual way. 'What-ho.'

'Tommy, it's Penny.'

'Oh, hello, old girl. Nice to hear you. How's tricks?'

'OK. Tommy, did you hear about Great Aunt Florrie?'

'Yes. That's the one thing that's been helping me keep my pecker up.'

'Tommy!' The voice was reproachful.

'Oh, I don't mean her dying. I'm sorry she's gone, and all that, but, after all, she was about a hundred and fifty. It's just that apparently I'm remembered in her will.'

'Are you? So am I.'

'Really? You don't know what for, I suppose?'

'No.'

'Nor me. It's maddening. I mean, it might be only some old family heirloom, or something, but there's just a possibility it might be cash. Just a hundred smackers would be jolly useful.'

'Same here,' said Penny wistfully.

'Or even forty-seven,' he added unguardedly.

'Forty-seven? What a funny amount.'

'Oh, I meant fifty. Just saw forty-seven on - on a bus going past.'

'I see. So you're going to the funeral?'

'Gosh, yes, you couldn't keep me away. I've got two days off. A funeral's one thing they can't refuse it for. You?'

'Yes, me and Daddy.'

'And staying overnight?'

'Yes. I've never been there, have you?'

'Once, years ago. I'm really looking forward to it. I want to see where all the murders were committed.'

'Don't! Those are the last places I want to see.'

'They were the last places the people who were murdered wanted to see, but they were.' Tommy gave a subdued chortle.

Penny giggled. 'Tommy, you are awful!'

This had been so frequently said to Tommy that he had come to take it as a compliment. He smiled to himself.

'Anyway,' she said, 'you will be on your best behaviour, won't you?'

'What d'you mean?' he said indignantly.

'Don't do anything Daddy would disapprove of.'

He was about to say that that left very few things it was possible to do at all, but stopped himself in time.

'Butter won't melt in my mouth, Pen.'

'Good. So I'll see you there Wednesday, then.'

'You bet.'

'Bye, Tommy.'

'Toodle-pip.'

Penny rang off. She looked thoughtful. Surely, No. 47 buses didn't go past Tommy's flat.

* * *

'All right, all right,' Poppy muttered, as she hurried to answer the furiously ringing door bell. She opened the door with a cross expression on her face, which was instantly transformed when she saw the visitor.

'Greggy, darling, what a lovely surprise!'

Gregory cast a quick glance behind him before hurriedly stepping inside.

'Sorry about the bell, but I haven't got my key and I could hear someone coming up the stairs.'

'I didn't expect to see you today. You said you'd phone.'

'I know, but I had to see you.' He threw his hat onto the couch, crossed to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a gin and tonic.

'What about?'

'Well, just to apologise, really. Fact is, I won't be able to see you for the next few days, after all.'

'Oh, Greggy, you promised!'

'I know and I'm frightfully sorry. But tomorrow I've got to go to a funeral. Old great aunt of mine just died, aged ninety- six.'

'But that'll only take a couple of hours!'

'No, it's down in Westshire, and I won't be back till Thursday.'

'Oh Greggy, do you have to go?'

'I want to.'

'Want to? But she's only a great aunt!'

'I know, but it seems I'm in her will.'

'For a lot?'

'I don't know. I don't even know how much she was worth. But I am hopeful. Anyway, they can't hold the reading until five o'clock for some reason, by which time the last train back will have left, so I'm going to have to stay overnight. The rest of Thursday I'll be catching up and then Friday evening Alex has invited a few quite important people round for drinks.'

'But if you're staying in a hotel, couldn't I come with you? Nobody's likely to recognise you down there. I'd love a trip out of town - no matter where. I get so bored sometimes.'

'I know, my sweet. But I'll be staying at Lord Burford's place.'

Poppy's eyes grew large. 'Alderley?'

'That's right. I told you he's a sort of cousin of mine.'

'But that's where they had all those murders. There were dozens of pictures of it in the papers at the time. Alderley's absolutely divine. Oh, you are so lucky! I'd give anything to stay there. Do you think one day . . . ?'

'My dear, when we're married I'll wangle an invitation for us both. That's a promise.' One, he thought, he could safely make. 'Anyway,' he went on, 'we've got this evening.'

'Can we go out - do a West End show? You know, I've got this friend, who can always get tickets for anything.'

'That would be lovely,' he said enthusiastically. Then he looked doubtful. 'But perhaps it would be better if we stayed in. Or maybe a local cinema, eh? If we slip in before the second feature's finished, there shouldn't be too many people around.'

Poppy pouted.

* * *

Stella Simmons stared at her face in the mirror. She was quite pleased with what she saw. Not delighted. There was much room for improvement. But, on the whole, not bad. She looked, she thought, if not beautiful, at least attractive. And her training meant that she did know how to make the best of the face she had been born with. Her hair was good: thick, auburn, naturally curly and hanging loosely to her shoulders. Was that style a little too young now? Should she consider a more mature cut? Something to think about. Her brow and eyebrows were good, too, though the eyes were not as large or as deep as she would like - but eyes were something that you really could improve with make-up and false lashes. Her nose was on the large size, but at least straight; the mouth a trifle wide, but only a trifle, the jaw firm - but too square? No, on consideration, not really. She smiled mirthlessly at herself. Her teeth weren't absolutely straight and could do with a little cosmetic work, only she was such a coward when it came to dentists. And they were, at least, very white.

Yes, generally speaking, she would pass.

She got up from the dressing-table and looked at herself in a full-length mirror. She was wearing the smart black suit, which, together with a black straw hat, she had bought especially for the funeral. She was pleased with the cut and style. There was no reason why a funeral outfit had to be unfashionable. And, she, of all people, had to put on a good show: Florrie would have appreciated that.

She started to take the outfit off, thinking deeply as she did so. She wished she had known Florrie better. How many times had she seen her since arriving from America? Six? Seven? She certainly couldn't have hoped for a warmer welcome. Florrie had been genuinely delighted to see her. And her own stories about New York, the fashion scene there, and the Broadway shows had been a real hit with the old girl.

Everything Florrie had told her about the other relations had been useful, too, as they were, really, strangers to her. How would they receive her? The Earl and Countess and Geraldine sounded nice. She doubted there'd be any problems there. Clara, though, unless Florrie was exaggerating, which was possible, seemed to be a real witch.

She hung the suit in the closet. Now, who else would there be? Well, Jean Mackenzie, of course; she knew her quite well. And then the other relations. The second cousins: Gregory, the politician, and Timothy, the attorney. Timothy's daughter. And Tommy. Would he recognise her, she wondered? He was the only comparatively close relative among them and in his early teens had had, she fancied, quite an intense admiration for his older first cousin.

Anyway, this was a great chance to get to know them all. She had no close relatives, and kin were important, particularly to someone in her situation. After so many years in New York, she was making a fresh life for herself. Apart from a few colleagues on the magazine, she did not yet know many people in London. So it was going to be vital to create a good impression at Alderley. For some of these were important people and could be very useful to her, especially if she was to fulfil her ambition and break out from the fashion world into a wider sphere of journalism.

In fact, it suddenly occurred to her, this funeral might in itself be a way to start. There had been the usual formal obituaries of Florrie in the more serious papers, but no human interest stuff at all. After all, the old biddy had had quite a life. And her funeral was taking place within a mile or two of a house now famous or notorious for a series of lurid murders. The host and hostess on that occasion would be among the principal mourners. There must be a chance that some magazine or paper would be interested in a short piece. And Florrie herself would surely have approved of her taking advantage of their relationship, if it gave her a leg up.

The most important thing, though, was really to get to know these VIP relations.

'Nepotism for ever,' Stella said out loud.

Of course, it all depended on nobody in this country ever learning the real reason she had had to leave New York so suddenly. That would really be disastrous. But there was little danger of that.

Was there?

* * *

'No,' Clara said fiercely. 'We've had this argument before. The house cannot be left empty. Burglars always prefer unoccupied premises. Mrs Hopkins would be bound to tell her husband we were all going away, and he has some very disreputable friends.'

'If we had a maid or two, like everybody else I know, and didn't rely on just a cleaning woman, three times a week, the problem wouldn't arise,' said Agatha.

'A maid - or two, as you so vaguely put it - would be a totally unnecessary expense.'

'As long as you've got Dorry and me, you mean.'

'This is irrelevant. We do
not
have a maid. We do have Mrs Hopkins. And Mrs Hopkins has Mr Hopkins, and Mr Hopkins has friends. Which means you must stay home. Dorothy can accompany me.'

'I don't
want
to go,' Agatha said. 'I loathe funerals. In a way, I'll be very glad not to go. But it'll look most odd if I'm not there, especially considering that I am one of the beneficiaries.'

'We're
all
beneficiaries. I'll explain that one of us always has to remain behind and that you volunteered.'

'That's rich!'

'It will show you in a better light than if I explain how you objected to doing this one thing for me, just to set my mind at rest.'

'I've done it dozens of times for you - flitting around the house, turning lights on and off and playing gramophone records loudly until the early hours of the morning, but this is different.'

'I don't know that 'flit' is quite an apt word to describe your movements.' Clara eyed her large and somewhat ungainly stepdaughter meaningfully.

Agatha's already rather ruddy complexion took on an even deeper hue. 'That's damned unfair, Stepmother.'

'Do not use that sort of language in this house, Agatha! I won't have it.'

'Oh, please, don't quarrel!'

Dorothy spoke pleadingly, her hands clasped together, as if in prayer. Her face wore an imploring expression.

The words which had led to her speaking hardly merited the name quarrel, but to Dorothy even the slightest hint of what she always called "unpleasantness" was a major crisis, liable to lead to hysterics. Agatha immediately took a grip on herself and managed a forced smile. 'Don't worry, petal. No quarrel.'

She turned back to Clara. 'Why, for once, can't you stay behind and the two of us go?'

'I am not letting you take your sister away, even for one night. Heaven knows which of your godless and immoral ideas you might fill her head with.'

'That is totally absurd. Why don't you admit the real reason: that you're not prepared to forgo several hours of potentially very profitable gossip and prying and pumping, among some of the cream of society?'

This hit home and Clara could think of no better response than: 'That is unworthy of you, Agatha.'

Dorothy said desperately: 'Look, Mother, I don't want to go either. I dread having to meet all those people. Couldn't I stay home and Aggie go with you?'

'Wouldn't help,' said Agatha. 'It's the look of the thing I'm concerned about. We should both be there.'

'Besides,' Clara said, 'you know you'd be far too nervous to stay here on your own. Suppose some villain did break in? You'd be totally useless. He might murder you in your bed.'

'Whereas I'm expendable,' said Agatha.

'You know I did not mean that. But you are more capable of taking care of yourself.'

There was a sullen silence for a moment. It was broken by Agatha. 'You can't stop me going,' she said sullenly.

'No, I cannot physically stop you. But you would be unwise to go against me in this. It is my house you're living in, remember.'

'And you'd throw me out, just because I went to my grandmother's funeral?' Agatha sounded incredulous. 'This is unbelievable. I—'

'Please!' This time Dorothy's voice was almost a scream. 'Aggie, darling, do what Mother wants. Just once more. Please - for me.'

Agatha looked at her. She was plainly seething, but at last muttered: 'Oh, all right.'

'Oh, thank you.'

'That's more like it,' said Clara with a satisfied air. 'And if you like I'll tell everybody that you've got a bad cold or a sore throat or something. Would you prefer that?'

Agatha took a deep breath. 'Tell them what you bloody well like,' she said. And she strode from the room.

Clara gave a screech of horror.