Murder at Maddingley Grange (9 page)

“Probably scrap metal.”

“With a staff of over two hundred.”

“Nonsense. How can a music-hall double act and a stuffed raccoon in drag run a business? He's having you on.”

“If you're rude to them, Simon, after taking all that money, I shall be furious.”

“Rude? When am I ever rude? I shall behave impeccably as I always do.” Simon perched on the desk near a large globe, varnished deep amber from years of exposure to Uncle George's tobacco smoke. He spun it slowly, holding his finger on the very center.

“D'you remember…Hey—” Laurie looked at him. “Do you remember what you used to call the equator?”

“No.”

“A menagerie lion running round the world.”

Laurie closed her eyes more out of irritation than with a wish to recall the past. Yet suddenly there he was. She saw him as clearly as she had when she was seven. Loping along under a brazen sun, the wind stirring his mane, looking neither to left nor right. His great paws left prints in the sand like flowers. His eyes were triangles of golden light and he was kind.

Laurie's eyes filled with quick tears and she blinked them hard away. She felt tired and cross. She didn't want to be bothered with all these people. Or with clean sheets and fresh flowers and Bath Olivers and cheese. Especially she didn't want to be bothered with cheese. What she really wanted more than anything else was to be a child again in the kitchen garden with Mackintosh, helping to set the shallots. The fact that this was quite impossible she laid at Simon's door. Everything was his fault. She opened her eyes, glared at him and said, unkindly:

“You're very skeptical about Hugh and me. What about your own future? When are you going to fall in love?”

“Never.” There was a sharp scraping sound. The globe stopped spinning and Simon studied his broken nail. “It's a dead loss. So much wasted energy. Hours of heaving and sighing and mooning about and nothing to show for it at the end. Give me the clear-eyed pursuit of capitalism any day.”

“So you mean to marry money.”

“I shall certainly ‘fall in love,' as you so soggily put it, where money is.”

“What about Rosemary Saville, then? She's very pretty.”

“All heiresses are pretty. And I quote.”

“Or perhaps you've already met the unlucky girl?”

“That's my business.”

“You're so secretive about your personal affairs.”

“That's what personal affairs are for.”

Laurie couldn't imagine Simon, with his ironical pessimism and cool light eyes and cozening smile, in love. Not if love meant living in anguish until the phone rang, then stammering at the sound of a longed-for voice. Or spending the days wire walking between cloudless skies of rapture and flinty chasms of despair. And finding the earth beneath one's feet strangely mobile. She couldn't see him going through any of that. But then, Laurie thought with a sudden bleak stab of perception, I can't see me either.

“In spite of what you say,” she continued, “I have noticed the occasional scavenging of the herbaceous borders and the spoils disappearing in the back of your Karmann Ghia. Like the other Wednesday, for instance.”

“The detecting doesn't start till tomorrow, Marples.”

“And what about—”

The sound of the telephone made them both jump. It rang for quite a time while Simon made Laurie sit and wait for the butler to do his stuff. Eventually the library door opened and Gaunt glided across the parquet, bent gracefully from the waist and murmured: “A Mr. Wriothesley wishes to speak with you, madam.”

“Hugh!” Laurie lurched on unaccustomed heels across the hall. “Darling,” she cried into the receiver, “where are you?” Simon, following, watched his sister's annoyed expression smooth out into sympathetic concern. “Oh, no—poor you. How on earth did you manage that?” She listened again, then said:

“Of course we'll manage. Simon's here and we've two helpers. You mustn't worry…No—don't do that. You wouldn't be any use with a sprained ankle—quite the reverse…All right. I'll give you a call when they've all gone. On Sunday. Bye-bye.” She hung up. Simon repeated his rodent leer. “That's no funnier than it was the first time.”

“Caught his foot in a rabbit's burrow, has he?”

Before Laurie could reply, Gaunt rematerialized. “I believe it is now seven-thirty madam. Would you like me to summon the guests?”

“Yes, please.” As she acquiesced, Laurie shrank slightly from the butler's empurpled countenance and dragon's breath.

Gaunt lifted the soft hammer and swung it back with great élan, no doubt the better to make a strong connection. Unfortunately, so enthusiastic was the movement that the whole of his body followed through, describing two complete circles before he succeeded in whacking the gong with great force and accuracy.

Shivers of concentric sound floated up to the gold and blue and scarlet bosses on the ceiling of the great hall, spreading along the corridors and landings, past the cloth-eared ancestors in their heavy frames and into the consciousness of the Madingley punters. Laurie gripped her brother's hand.

“Oh, Simon,” she whispered. “I'm in a terrible funk. Tell me something to cheer me up.”

“Let's see…” Simon tucked her arm through his and started to stroll toward the terrace. “There is one interesting item that's just struck me.”

“What's that?”

“Now that Hugh isn't coming we shall be thirteen.”

As they stepped outside a peacock called out. A fierce harsh scream. The weekend had begun.

T
he evening was soft and warm, the coming sunset hinting at a sky of rosy gold. Birds were still up and about and a rich sweet ululation lay joyfully upon the ear. Simon, who was flourishing a silver cocktail shaker with great panache while admiring the stone urns, foaming with white and red and lemon flowers, placed all along the terrace, thought everything looked quite splendid.

Laurie thought so too. Disappointment and ill temper disappeared as she watched the distant haze of fine silver spray spouting from the dragon, twisting and twining his huge bronze coils, in the center of the lake. Trees cast long dark shadows. The waters of the moat slapped against the stone parapet and grasshoppers rattled their dry legs. Laurie entertained the notion that Apollo might be present. That he had come, drawn by the calm formality of the landscape and the attendant welcoming stillness of the trees, to take his place among them all.

He had always been her favorite deity; so bright, serene and loving. Aged ten, she had argued forcefully with her classics mistress that as well as being in charge of healing, prophecy and music he was also the god of gardening. The fact that this designation had nowhere been noted in the annals of mythology bothered her young mind not a jot. Now she took a deep sustaining breath and experienced that well-known harbinger of stormy weather, a soothing calm.

Mrs. Saville and Rosemary were relaxing in a pair of basket chairs. They had opted for a Gibson and a sidecar, and Simon, having strained the drinks over ice and placed the glasses on a silver tray, handed it to Gaunt, together with a dish of freshly made caraway crackers and some cream cheese and anchovy twists, and watched him glide off.

“Look at that.” He nudged his sister. “Smooth as melted butter. You see how unnecessary it was—following up that reference. Wasting money on a long-distance call.”

“I don't agree.” Laurie turned away from the sighing trees. She had called the number on the Hon. Mrs. Hatherley's crested paper, discreetly from the landing extension after dressing for dinner, only to find that the lady herself had flown to Biarritz. Her secretary/companion to whom Laurie connected was on the point of following and had a cab at the door as she picked up the receiver. She spoke for a flurried moment only, leaving Laurie with the disturbing information that “poor dear Vivienne” had migrated south “to get over the tragedy.”

But when Laurie passed this disturbing snippet of information to her brother he laughed. “I expect she broke a nail. You know what these
Tatler
types are like.”

Laurie looked at him now. He appeared very pleased with himself, lifting his martini glass to toast Rosemary Saville.

Rosemary smiled her acknowledgment, leaned back and felt the flagstones warm through the thin soles of her evening shoes. She uncrossed her shiny, silk-stockinged legs, crossed them the other way and toyed with her jade bangle. She was thinking how easily and with what grace she had taken to the thirties mode. Not like the girl standing so awkwardly behind the drinks trolley. She looked quite hoydenish and wore that lovely frock in the manner of a child dressed up in its mother's clothes.

Rosemary then fell to wondering where Martin was and felt a delightful shiver of anticipation at the thought of all her secret machinations, the shiver tempered slightly with concern that her gallant might be found somewhat wanting when the moment of truth arrived. For there had been more than a touch of wimpery, it seemed to Rosemary, in the Watteau room. She hoped she was not going to have to provide enough backbone for two. An accomplishment of which her mother had tirelessly boasted during the twenty-five years of her marriage. Rosemary's father, a shadowy figure at the best of times, had faded away entirely in 1977. A movement caught her eye.

Mr. Gibbs had put his head around one of the folding terrace doors, gripped his throat with one hand, covered his mouth with the other, gargled, then struggling like mad with his invisible opponent, vanished behind a curtain. Meanwhile his wife had maneuvered her mother-in-law to a low-backed chair. When the old lady had settled, the chair completely disappeared. Her body covered the seat and back and her spreading skirts concealed the legs so that she seemed to be hovering on the air. This phenomenon struck no one present as humorous. She seemed quite at home, which surprised Simon, who was of the belief that Mrs. Gibbs senior's most natural habitat must be under a stone. Or at the bottom of a pond.

Noticing that after a suspicious sniff the caraway crackers had been waved away, Laurie picked up a bowl of assorted nuts and braced herself to walk through the assembled company and offer this alternative form of sustenance.

Mother's eyes gleamed and her countenance creased into folds of warty anticipation. She dipped hooked fingers in the bowl and scrabbled round. Laurie was reminded of those little cranes in a glass case at the fair that claw up a pile of gimcrack and swing over to the exit chute, dropping the one thing you wanted on the way. As the old lady crammed the nuts into her mouth, Fred said to Violet: “Don't blame me if she cracks a molar.”

“Now let's get you all something to drink.” Simon bent toward the trolley's bottom shelf where the brown ale lurked shyly behind the Punt e Mes and Oloroso. “Mrs. Gibbs?”

“Violet to you, dear. And I'll have a G and T.”

“Oh,” said Simon, coming up a layer. “Ice and lemon?”

“Got any limes?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Lemon it is then. And a Campari and orange for Mother. Only the juice has got to be fresh. Anything else gives her the gripes.”

“And easy on the Campari,” interrupted Fred. “One nip and she's out the window.”

Simon beckoned the butler, who put down his tray of delectables and drifted over. “Squeeze half a dozen oranges, would you? Make sure the juice is strained.”

“Very good, sir.” Gaunt made his way toward the steps descending to the moat. Laurie hastily redirected him and Simon foolishly asked Fred what his pleasure was.

“Can't tell you that in front of the missus,” said Fred. “I'd never hear the last of it.” He winked and gave the trolley a brief but penetrating once-over. “Is that what I think it is?” crouching for a closer look. “Clock this, Vi—stout.” His wife joined him and said: “Well, I never.”

“It's been a good few years since I tasted that. Remember them steak and oyster puddens in the Cock and Bull? We used to swill 'em down with that stuff.”

“Well, you're not having it now. It's too rich for your blood.”

“I could have it diluted,” said Fred hopefully. “Black velvet. Got any champagne, Simon?”

“No,” said Simon, who had no intention of wasting his Krug on the likes of Fred.

“I'll have me usual then. Scotch. On the rocks. Talisker if you've got it.”

“Teachers?”

“That it then?” Simon gave a tight little nod. “I suppose it'll do at a pinch.”

“He's spoiled rotten,” confided Violet. “Won't hurt him to come down in the world for once.”

Simon picked up a chunky cut-glass tumbler and reached for the tongs. It was becoming obvious that the Gibbses were not even going to have the decency to run true to form. Typical. He poured a generous measure of whiskey, added ice, handed the glass over and made Mrs. Gibbs's gin and tonic. Fred then said: “The tide's going down from where I'm standing, John,” and returned his empty glass. Simon refilled and handed it back with a winning smile, saying: “I'm afraid we don't have any tankards.”

Fred guffawed. “That's what I like—a man with a sense of humor. Because without a sense of humor, Simon, where are you?”

“I assume exactly where you were before but without a smile on your face.”

“He's dry, isn't he? Isn't he dry, Violet?”

Violet agreed that Simon was very dry. The Gregorys appeared, closely followed by Mr. Lewis. Two medium sherries and a tomato juice. First names were offered and exchanged all round with the exception of the two matriarchs. An air of gaiety began to prevail. Simon abandoned the trolley to chat and charm his way around the company at large, leaving Laurie standing next to the young man in round spectacles now known to her as Martin. She couldn't help wondering what had brought him to Madingley Grange, for he looked as ill at ease now as he had when first stumbling from the bus. She forgot her own awkwardness in trying to make him feel more at home and offered a cheese and anchovy twist.