The Affair of the Bloodstained Egg Cosy (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Misgivings

'What's the matter, Nick? You look worried.'

Martin Adler's companion in the first class compartment of the Orient Express looked up and gave a smile. 'Why do you speak in English, Martin?'

'Good practice for you, pal. Frankly, yours sounded a bit rusty when you were speaking with those Britishers at the reception the other day. So I think we'll stick to English for the rest of this trip. Nothing makes an Englishman feel more superior than to hear another guy talking broken English.'

Nicholas Felman hesitated for a moment; then: 'OK, you are the boss,' he said carefully. 'How did that sound?'

'Not bad. Keep trying. But you didn't answer my question: why the anxious visage?'

Felman shrugged. 'Just nervousness. I have never had experience of anything so important as this. I cannot help wishing that you had not asked for me to accompany you, Martin. You need someone older - someone more practised at negotiations of this nature.'

'Don't be such a hick. I didn't want one of the old guard of stuffed shirt diplomats - all hot air and protocol. I wanted someone I could talk to, who understands me, and whom I understand. You know just as much about the situation as any of those old buffers.'

'Yes, I believe I do, and I do not want you to think I am not grateful for your confidence. It is merely that I cannot bear the thought that I might fail my country. The situation is so perilous—'

'You don't need to tell me that, old buddy. But I don't see in what way you could let the country down. If we should fail, I'd be to blame. But the British aren't our enemies. They want to help. These are just going to be cosy, informal talks to decide the precise details of how best they can help - and how we can best repay them.'

'You make it sound very easy. But I have this feeling that things are not going to proceed quite as smoothly as you anticipate.'

'You're a natural-born pessimist,' said Adler.

* * *

'Blasted foreigners.' George Henry Aylwin Saunders, twelfth Earl of Burford, muttered the words as he sat in a wicker chair on the terrace at Alderley, gazing out across the tree-dotted parkland, baking under the summer sun.

A few yards from him, a hammock had been slung from a hook on the wall of the house to the spreading branch of a nearby tree. At that moment the only indication that Lord Burford was not simply soliloquizing was a bulge in the underside of the hammock; but after a quarter of a minute his daughter's voice from inside it murmured: 'Which ones? Richard's? What's wrong with them?'

Ten seconds passed before Lord Burford said: 'Coming here. Disturbin' things. Having to be entertained. Shown round. Talked to. Not understandin' English all over the place. Deuced unsportin' of Rich to foist 'em on us. I blame your mother, I'd have said no.'

'You wouldn't - any more than you did to Algy.'

'Well, no, p'raps I wouldn't. But I'd have said yes in a grumblin' manner. Algy Fotheringay's different. No one can keep him away when he decides to pay a visit. He's like a 'flu germ.'

'Well, what about the Peabodys? You invited them, too.'

'Couldn't very well get out of it. Been correspondin' with the feller for donkey's years. When he wrote saying they were coming to England and he'd like an opportunity of examinin' me collection I had no choice. But I didn't want 'em here.'

'You'll thoroughly enjoy having them. You love showing off your guns.'

'Not to Peabody. I know these Americans. He'll keep insistin' how much better his stuff is, and crowing over this new piece he's picked up in Italy. Yankees!'

'I thought he was a Texan.'

'He is. Why?'

'I don't think he'd take very kindly to being called a Yankee.'

'Why not?'

'A Yankee's an American from the northern states. Even you must know Texas is in the south.'

'Oh, I can't be bothered with these fine distinctions. Americans - Yankees - foreigners: they're all the same. I don't mind entertainin', but I like to choose me guests. And I like 'em to be English. But when the party consists of two central Europeans, two Yankees, and the only two Englishmen are some septic civil servant and Algy Fotheringay, it makes a chap feel like emigratin'.'

'Perk up. Jane's coming too, remember? You like her.'

'Course I do. Charming gal. Wish all your chums were as presentable. She doesn't make up for the others, though. I think we're in for a ghastly few days; and you know one of the worst things about it? However gruesome things get, I won't be able to blame your mother. She didn't invite one of 'em.'

'Perhaps she'll meet somebody up in town today and ask them down.'

'If she does, it'll be somebody absolutely charming, who'll be personally responsible for saving the weekend from complete disaster. You mark my words.'

* * *

'Excuse me, but it is Lady Burford, isn't it?'

The Countess of Burford paused in her leisurely examination of Messrs Harrod's furnishing fabrics and surveyed the speaker through her lorgnette. He was a tall, bronzed young man with deep-set blue eyes, and he was smiling at her engagingly.

'It is.' She looked for a few seconds, then her face cleared. 'Of course. You're Lucy Arbuthnot's nephew.'

'My word, you've a good memory.'

'For faces. I can never remember names.'

'Giles Deveraux.'

'Of course. We met at her Yorkshire place about three years ago.'

'That's right. How are you, Lady Burford?'

'I'm very well, thank you.'

'And the Earl - and Lady Geraldine?'

'They're both in excellent health, I'm thankful to say. You're looking extremely fit. Been abroad?'

'Yes, for several months.'

'Lucky you.'

'It was far from pure pleasure. My work keeps me on the move.'

'Oh, of course, you're in the Navy, aren't you?'

'Was, I left a couple of years ago. I'm by way of being a writer now.'

'Indeed? What sort of things do you write?'

'All sorts. Bit of freelance journalism. Travel books. Guide books.'

'And what is the current project?'

Deveraux hesitated. 'Um, well, I'm about to start on a hectic series of country house visits in connection with a commission I've received.'

'Oh?' Lady Burford fixed him with an enquiring gaze.

Deveraux seemed a little embarrassed. 'Actually, I've been asked to write a book on famous British houses - one of a series. Each one will cover a different period - Elizabethan, Queen Anne, Georgian, and so on.'

'And which period are you dealing with?'

Deveraux cleared his throat. 'Er, late Stuart.'

'I see.' Lady Burford looked at him somewhat grimly. 'And why isn't Alderley being included? It's the finest smaller Carolean mansion in England.'

'Unfortunately, the houses have been more or less selected by now—'

'Which ones?'

'Well, Eltham Lodge, Ramsbury, Honington, Belton—'

Lady Burford interrupted with a snort. 'You must be out of your mind! Some of those places aren't in the same class as Alderley.'

'Well, that's a matter of opinion—'

'Fiddlesticks! It's not a matter of opinion: it's a matter of fact. You ever been to Alderley?'

'No, I've seen pictures of it.'

Lady Burford dismissed pictures with a gesture of contempt. 'You definitely committed to include certain houses and no others?'

'Not really. There's nothing about it in the contract.'

'Then you must come and see Alderley. Don't make up your mind until you've been. I guarantee that afterwards you'll agree Alderley's got to be included. How about it?'

'It's very kind of you. But I'm afraid my time has been very carefully allocated. At the end of next week I'm off to Eltham, and from then on it's a different house every few days until the end of October - and my publishers want the manuscript by the New Year.'

'I see.' Lady Burford thought for a few seconds. Then she said: 'What about this coming weekend?'

Deveraux hesitated again. 'I haven't made any firm arrangements. I was hoping to do some sailing . . .'

'You must come to us. Now don't argue. You'll be under no obligation to include Alderley afterwards if you don't want to. But you must see the place and talk to my husband before you make up your mind. Will you?'

'Well,' Deveraux smiled, 'if you insist.'

'That's settled, then. We are giving a small house party, anyway, so it'll fit in quite nicely. Thursday suit you? That's when most of the others are arriving.'

'Thursday will be admirable.'

'Trains at quarter-past ten, twelve, two, and four from Paddington. Takes about two hours. Tell the guard to stop at Alderley Halt. It's an old right we've got.'

'Actually, I shall probably motor down.'

'Well, it's easy enough to find. Look forward to seeing you. 'Bye.'

'Good bye, Lady Burford. And many thanks.'

Deveraux watched Lady Burford walk briskly away. Then he strolled off in the other direction. He gave a little smile to himself. 'Well, my boy,' he muttered under his breath, 'congratulations, I must say you arranged that very nicely indeed.'

* * *

Richard Saunders eyed the man who was sitting opposite him, fastidiously sipping coffee out of a Crown Derby cup. Then he pushed an open box of cigarettes across his desk. 'Cigarette, Thornton?'

'Thank you, no, Minister. I do not smoke.'

Richard took one himself and lit it before saying: 'I asked you here this morning because I thought it would be a good thing if we got together for a chat about the weekend. I wondered if you have any advance thoughts about these talks.'

Edward Thornton put down his cup, took out a white linen handkerchief and carefully wiped his lips. Then he said: 'None of any importance, I'm afraid, Minister.'

He was a tall, thin individual, wearing pince-nez and a wing collar. There was little in his personality to impress. Yet Richard knew him to have a reputation as one of the Foreign Office's best negotiators - a man of icy logic, decisive speech, and prodigious memory.

Thornton said: 'As I see it, the negotiations should be relatively straightforward. After all, there is no clash of interests involved. HMG and the Grand Duke want basically the same thing.'

'The details may be tricky, though. That's where you're going to come in especially.'

'I feel confident I am adequately prepared and can advise you with a high degree of accuracy.'

'Good man. Just talking to you makes me feel happier. As you know, I'm very much a new boy at this sort of thing. But I don't think you'll let me make too many floaters.'

Thornton smiled thinly. 'I do flatter myself that I have saved the reputation of more than one minister in the past. But I do not expect to be called upon to do so on this occasion.'

'I hope you're right,' said Richard.

* * *

Merryweather, Lord Burford's venerable and stately butler, sat in his pantry and ticked names off his list. Mr. and Mrs. Peabody, the Royal Suite; the European gentlemen, the Cedar and the Blue bedrooms; Miss Jane her usual; Mr. Fotheringay, the Green; Mr. Deveraux, the Grey; Mr. Thornton, the Regency; and Mr. Evans, the Dutch. All the rooms ready. Everything done.

Merryweather read through the list once more, and suddenly a strange feeling of uneasiness smote him. There was something wrong with this house party. It was in a way different from any of the others, the many, many others, which he had supervised at Alderley. The guests were too diverse, too disparate. Most of them were strangers to each other, and even to the Family. There weren't enough ladies, either, which made the seating at table awkward. And speaking of that . . .

Merryweather made a quick count of the guests. Yes, there would be thirteen to dinner. It was the last-minute addition of this Mr. Deveraux that had caused it. The Family wouldn't mind; but it was to be hoped none of the guests was superstitious. Had her ladyship realised? Perhaps he should point it out to her.

Merryweather got to his feet. He found himself hoping her ladyship would find an additional guest. For thirteen to sit down this evening would somehow set the party off on quite the wrong foot. And he couldn't help feeling that the weekend was handicapped enough already, without further troubles being added to it . . .

CHAPTER SIX

Jane's Journey

It always gave Jane a kind of thrill to tip the guard and loftily instruct him to have the train stopped at Alderley Halt. It seemed so delightfully feudal and anachronistic. So it was with a slight disappointment that she heard him reply cheerfully: 'That's all right, miss. We're stopping there anyway. There are some other passengers for Alderley on the train.'

But he took her hard-earned shilling nonetheless. Jane found an empty compartment and leaned back in a corner neat, reflecting that it was a pity she'd mentioned it. On the oilier hand, she was forewarned now. For one of the other passengers for Alderley might well be Algy Fotheringay, and it would be ghastly if he spotted her and she was stuck with his company all the way. But she probably didn't need to worry: Algy would certainly be travelling first class and wouldn't deign to enter her humble third class compartment. In fact, she thought, with a momentary and uncharacteristic twinge of bitterness, it was probably rare for any but first class passengers to have the train stopped at Alderley.

It was horrible to be poor. Especially when your family had once been rich and influential. It had been in her grandfather's day that things had really started to go wrong. It was almost frightening, looking back, to see how quickly a family fortune could shrink. Her father, an only child, might have been able to retrieve the situation. But he had been a charming and impractical dilettante, who had never really woken up to the fact that he was becoming poor. His wife and family had not realised it, but the cost of giving Jane and her younger sister Jennifer a good education, and enabling them to do the London season, had almost bankrupted him. He had died suddenly, almost penniless and uninsured.

Mrs. Clifton and her daughters, then twenty and eighteen, had found themselves in great difficulties. They had raised some capital by selling both the country home near Bath and the town house, and had rented a smaller one just outside London. But it had been clear that they would not be able to live on this money for long, and that at least one of the girls would have to get a job.

Jennifer had been fortunate. She had been the beauty of the season the previous year, and at school had shone in theatricals. She had decided to try her luck on the stage. She could afford no formal training, but her looks and a natural talent had stood her in good stead. After a few months in provincial repertory, and a cameo part in a talkie by the promising young director Alfred Hitchcock, she had got her big break: the chance of going on a long tour of the United States with a leading Shakespearian company. Jennifer had jumped at the opportunity.

With the tour half over, she had died suddenly.

It had fallen to Jane to break the news to her mother that Jennifer had succumbed to a rare disease and been buried in the mid-west of America.

Mrs. Clifton had never really recovered from her husband's death, and the new shock had been too much for her. She suffered an immediate heart attack and died eight weeks later.

A distraught Jane, who in at little over eighteen months had seen her whole world collapse, had tried to drown her grief with gaiety. She had joined up with a set of the so-called bright young things and had lived wildly for twelve months.

She had gone through about half her money when, one day, on a visit to Somerset, she had run into one of her father's ex-gardeners. He had told her that his young son was dangerously ill. There was no hope for him - unless by a miracle he could be taken to Vienna for a new operation perfected by an Austrian surgeon.

Jane had seen the family's doctor, checked with her bank, and agreed to pay all the expenses.

The operation was completely successful. But Jane had been cleaned out: she had no choice but to get a job.

This, however, had not turned out to be so easy. She was without qualifications, and she shied away from the usual sort of position taken up by girls of her class in similar circumstances - nursery governess or paid companion. Eventually she had obtained a post as a hotel receptionist -only to walk out after one week when the manager made a pass at her. Then she had moved to the country to become an instructress at a riding school. This had gone well until one day she had seen a pupil, the seventeen-year-old daughter of a rich company promoter with a large family of potential clients, viciously beating a troublesome horse. Jane had snatched the whip and used it to give three or four vigorous thwacks across the back of the girl's riding jacket.

In London again, Jane had got work with an antique dealer. This had lasted until she had discovered she was expected to ask certain customers to pay with two cheques - but to enter only one in the books. Finally had come Mayfair Modes. It was not the sort of job Jane had ever imagined herself doing - but she had been getting desperate. Almost from the first, however, she had known she wouldn't stick it long. In a way the blow-up with Bottway had come as a relief - even though she had put herself in a terrible stew financially.

But she wouldn't think of that this weekend. She was going to enjoy herself, pretend she was accustomed to ease and plenty and forget that in a few days she'd have to start looking for a job again.

It would be good to be back at Alderley. Like going home. Her visits there, and her friendship with the family, had been the one unchanging feature of her life. And, thank heaven, the weather had cleared up. After a long hot spell it had rained heavily that morning and Jane had feared that a wet period had set in; but now it was lovely again, and all the fresher for the rain. Jane stared out of the window and watched the city give way to suburbs, and the suburbs in their turn to soft green meadows.

When at last the train puffed into Alderley Halt, Jane heaved her two small cases down from the rack, jumped out, and, without waiting for a porter, ran awkwardly with them to the barrier. She stopped, and glanced back; she wanted to see who else alighted. Two men were getting down from a first class compartment. Jane gave a puzzled frown, then her face changed, as from another compartment the figure of Algernon Fotheringay emerged. He was wearing a blazer in two-inch wide red and yellow stripes and the most voluminous plus-fours Jane had ever seen. She turned and hurried out to the sleepy station yard.

Lord Burford's Rolls Royce was waiting there, the liveried figure of the chauffeur Hawkins, an old ally of Jane from her schoolgirl days, standing beside it. Jane walked across. 'Hullo, Hawkins.'

Hawkins touched his cap and permitted himself a discreet smile of welcome. 'Good afternoon, Miss Jane.' He came forward and took her cases from her.

'How are you, Hawkins?'

'Nicely, thank you, miss.'

'Hawkins, who were you expecting to meet?'

'Yourself and three gentlemen, miss: two foreign gentlemen - Mr. Adler and Mr. Felman - and Mr. Fotheringay.'

'They'll be out in a minute. I think I'd prefer to walk. I'll take the short cut. Tell her ladyship I'm on my way, will you?'

'Very good, miss.'

Carrying just her bag, Jane started off briskly. The station was about a quarter of a mile from the quaint, old-world village of Alderley itself. Jane walked along the single street, passing the Rose & Crown, Jenkins's Garage, and the half dozen shops, and out the other side onto a quiet country lane. Shortly she came to a stile on the left. She clambered over it and set out across the field along a footpath - just as the Rolls passed along the lane behind her.

Five minutes later Jane topped a rise, climbed over a low wall that marked the boundary of the Burford estate, and looked down on one of her favourite sights - Alderley itself, solid and serene, flanked by its outbuildings and surrounded by the tree-dotted park, the lake, which at one point came within thirty yards of the house, the beech copse, and the home farm half a mile beyond. All was spread out below her like a perfect miniature model, and Jane just stood looking down in sheer pleasure.

From here the house, which was built basically in the form of three sides of a rectangle, looked like a reversed capital E with the centre bar missing. It was three storeys tall, but outwards from both top and bottom bars of the E - the east and west wings - a two-storey extension projected.

Jane started down the slope. Another ten minutes' brisk walking and she came to the higher wall which flanked the park. Somewhere the other side of the wall she could hear the sound of a car engine, getting closer. It was noisier than the Rolls, and Jane wondered if it was Gerry in the Hispano-Suiza. She followed the wall until she came to a small door. She stopped, opened her bag, and took from it an old key. This had been given to her by Lord Burford many years previously - an act considered a special mark of esteem - and had been treasured by Jane ever since. She opened the door, passed through, and locked it after her. As she did so, she realised the sound of the car engine had stopped. Just in front of her stood a row of trees, flanking the drive. Jane passed between two of them - and was instantly splattered from head to foot by a thick spray of cold, dirty water.

She stood gasping, rubbing the water from her eyes. She heard a squeal of brakes, got her vision cleared, and looked up to see a bright red two-seater open car, which had pulled up a few yards along the drive, facing the house. The young man in the driving seat was looking back over his shoulder, an expression of dismay on his face. He hurriedly put the car into reverse and backed down the drive until he was level with her. In spite of herself, Jane could not help noticing that he had blue eyes and very brown skin.

'I say, I'm most terribly sorry,' he said, in a pleasant voice. 'I didn't see you until it was too late. Are you in a frightful mess?' He broke off. 'Oh dear, you are, aren't you?'

For five seconds Jane was speechless. Then she let fly. 'You blithering idiot! Do you always dash along private drives at ninety miles an hour in complete silence?'

'Well, no. Actually, I was only doing about thirty. And it was so beautifully peaceful I just switched off the engine to coast a little way and enjoy the quietness.'

'Not caring two hoots that you might knock down some poor footbound pheasant—'

'Footbound pheasant? Is there one of those around here? How very sad. What's the trouble? Rheumatism of the wings?'

Jane breathed deeply and clenched her fists at her sides. 'I meant peasant,' she hissed. 'You didn't care what footbound peasant you knocked down.'

'Oh, I assure you there was never any danger of that. I could have stopped very quickly if anybody'd stepped out. I mean, I didn't hit you—'

'Thanks for that, anyway.'

'Everything would have been all right but for an unfortunate combination of circumstances. There's a hollow in the road just here, you see, and it's right in the shadow. Also it was full of water. It must have been left from the heavy rain this morning—'

'I didn't think it had been left from last January's snow!'

'I'm trying to say that I'm not really all to blame. I was simply cruising quietly along. I couldn't see the hollow or the water or you. And you know, you did step straight onto the drive without pausing.'

'Oh, that's right. Motor like a lunatic, half-drown me, and then blame me.'

'I was not motoring like a lunatic and I am not blaming you. I'm merely exonerating myself. It was an accident.' He was starting to sound cross.

'I sincerely hope it was an accident! Because if I thought you did it on purpose—'

'Oh, don't be such an idiot.' He swallowed and apparently with something of an effort, said quietly: 'Are you going up to the house? If so, can I give you a lift?'

'No thank you. I think I'll be safer if I stay a considerable distance from you.'

'Just as you wish.' He slammed the car into gear, accelerated, and let in the clutch - just a little too rapidly.

Now, while they had been talking, the water from the puddle, having spread itself over a larger area when the car first passed through it, had been soaking into the surface of the drive around the rear wheels. The result could have been anticipated: as the wheels spun fiercely Jane was comprehensively sprayed by a fine cloud of muddy specks.

The young man looked round, realised what he had done, made as if to stop again, seemed to think better of it, and roared away.

Jane stood quite still. The only word she managed to get out was a long drawn Out 'O-oh.' Then she started to march up the drive, muttering imprecations against all motorists. After a few minutes, however, her anger gave way to misery, and she found herself blinking back tears. Absurd to get so upset. And she'd made a bit of a fool of herself, too, by flying out at him like that. But she hadn't been able to help it. She was going to arrive at Alderley looking like a drowned rat. Moreover, her feet and legs had taken the worst of the deluge, and in her traps, now presumably at the house, reposed the only other pair of silk stockings she possessed in the world. She would have to change into them as soon as she arrived; and if they should ladder before she had a chance to get the ones she was now wearing washed and dried, she would have to borrow a pair from Gerry. Humiliating.

Before Jane got in sight of the house she stopped, cleaned her face as best she could with her handkerchief, applied some powder and lipstick, and ran a comb through her hair. Having done this, she felt a little better. But not a lot.

When she approached the house she was tempted to avoid the front and to enter by a rear door. But this would entail a long march, round the stables and orangery and through the kitchen garden - and then she would have to find a servant to notify her hosts of her arrival. So she strode up the shallow steps, past the huge Doric columns, to the great front doors, and rang the bell.

The door was opened almost immediately by the pontifical Merryweather. 'Good afternoon, miss.'

'Hullo, Merryweather,' Jane said, going into the big, oak-panelled hall. 'How are you?'

'I am in my usual excellent health, thank you, miss. May I take the liberty of enquiring after your own?'

'Oh, I'm pretty fit, but as you can see wet and dirty. I had a contretemps with a - a—' Jane gulped, 'a gentleman in a red tourer.'