A Particular Circumstance

by Shirley Smith

  The young footman who was waiting on them had retired to stand by the sideboard and could not possibly have heard Sir Benjamin’s question, but even so, Hugo kept his voice equally quiet as he said, ‘I fear so, sir. His equally obnoxious man has made it known among the servants that his master has been fitted out for his funeral clothes by no less a tailor than Weston of London.’

  ‘That does not surprise me,’ Sir Benjamin murmured. ‘In spite of his resentment that you are my chosen heir, he seems determined to create a good impression among the other mourners.’

  ‘Well, to be fair to my cousin Alfred, his grandfather was more senior than my own and he feels he has a greater claim on your estate, sir.’

  ‘True,’ Sir Benjamin sighed, ‘but being a childless bachelor, I may dispose of my fortune as I please.’

  He looked more penetratingly at Hugo, his once-handsome face falling suddenly into sad folds, and then his keen eyes clouded over and he gave a deep sigh ‘Do not allow yourself to be left to a lonely old age, my boy. Marry and have children. The sooner the better.’

  Hugo said nothing to this. He was spared the necessity of a reply to Sir Benjamin’s broad hint by the entrance of his cousin, Alfred, who had arrived at Westbury Hall the previous evening, fortunately after Sir Benjamin had retired for the night.

  Alfred had made a nuisance of himself to Hugo, with his demands for the best accommodation for his valet and complaints to the housekeeper that he needed extra pillows on his bed, and an insistence that brandy should be brought up to his room at gone midnight, when the servants should be able to expect some rest. Hugo had dealt politely but firmly with his difficult behaviour and had even been able to view his unpleasant criticisms with good humour, but he was all the more determined to avoid his cousin Alfred at all costs and not to allow him to take any further liberties with either himself or any of the servants.

  Alfred now seated himself at the breakfast table, smiling with airy nonchalance, as though his churlish behaviour had never happened. He was indeed dressed to advantage by one of London’s foremost tailors and his cravat was a positive miracle of creative fashion, of which he was only too aware. He held his chin proudly high of its lightly starched, intricate folds. His shapely lips were stretched somewhat unnaturally in a condescending smile and his elegant white hands were spread gracefully before him, as though he were hesitating politely before he started his breakfast.

  The two cousins were quite unlike, Mr Alfred Westbury being of a much lighter colouring and with rather close-set amber-brown eyes. He was neither as tall or as muscular as his cousin but, nevertheless, Hugo had to acknowledge that he was a good-looking man and carried himself with the arrogance of one who had some standing among the ton. They very rarely met socially, but he’d heard that Alfred was an inveterate gambler and was often badly dipped at cards. Not that he cared, Hugo thought sarcastically. As far as he was concerned, Alfred could go to the devil. The sooner the better.

  ‘Dear Sir Benjamin, I fear my presence is at a most inopportune time, coming as it does at the interment of your poor brother,’ Alfred said, as he helped himself to a generous portion of the luscious rashers of pink bacon and some coddled eggs.

  ‘True,’ Sir Benjamin murmured. ‘A most sad and mournful occasion, to be sure. Only my great age is helping me to come to terms with it.’

  Alfred Westbury waited for the footman to finish serving him and when the young man had retired once more to his position near the sideboard, he continued to smile as he said in his soft, oily voice, ‘It further grieves me to have to tell you, sir, that there are some ugly rumours circulating about the … mmm … er … discovery of Hugo’s grandfather behind the panelling in your library.’

  ‘I believe so,’ sighed Sir Benjamin.

  ‘You believe so, sir? Those words hardly do justice to such a particular circumstance. The words “dreadful”, “ghastly” and “horrifying” would be more suitable.’

  ‘And your point, Alfred?’ Sir Benjamin said with exemplary patience.

  ‘Why, sir, that the discovery of a family skeleton in a cupboard, where he was presumably thrust so violently all those years ago, must, shall we say, throw some suspicion on his immediate family?’

  Although his tone remained soft and quiet, Alfred’s amber eyes darted meaningfully between Sir Benjamin and Hugo, and gleamed with ill-concealed malice.

  Hugo remained silent as his great-uncle laughed softly and said in a deceptively gentle voice, ‘How well I know you, my dear Alfred. You are so like my dastardly brother, George. No doubt your father too inherited his unspeakable depravity and evil vices. With your gambling and womanizing, you, sir, are the culmination of that particular inbred evil.’

  There was a shocked silence at this and Sir Benjamin smiled again as Alfred scowled and moodily pushed aside his breakfast. Hugo and Sir Benjamin rose from the table together and bade him farewell. ‘I would remind you that the funeral service for Hugo’s grandfather, your late Great-Uncle Charles, is at eleven o’clock in St Paul’s Church,’ Sir Benjamin said coldly, but Alfred maintained a sulky silence as they left the room and he continued to scowl at his rejected breakfast plate for some minutes.

  Other family guests were present at the ceremony, including a couple of aged aunts and a friend of Hugo’s from his Oxford days, whose father had known Charles Westbury. Mostly, though, the mourners were village folk who came to pay their last respects, as was traditional for tenants on a large estate. After the ceremony, attended by the few remaining family members, Hugo noticed that Jane Grayson’s brother-in-law, Bertram Grayson, was among the congregation in church for the service of remembrance, escorting Mrs Casterton and her daughter, and afterwards, at Westbury Hall, as his great-uncle’s elderly butler served wine and refreshments.

  Uncle Bertram seemed to be at pains to avoid them, Charlotte thought, but it was inevitable that Alfred should meet Jane Grayson and her daughters during the luncheon for the mourners. Amidst the tinkle of delicate china and the clink of crystal glasses, Alfred was introduced to the three ladies by Matthew. The conversation was conventionally restrained and low-key, but this didn’t stop Alfred from presenting his most gallant and polished persona. He paid particular attention to Charlotte, having heard that she could expect a decent portion from her deceased papa’s estate, on the occasion of her marriage. He managed to separate Charlotte from the rest of her party and was quite determined to put himself out to charm her, exerting all his considerable skills as a dashing blade and an out-and-out regency buck.

  Charlotte, however, steadfastly refused either to be charmed by him or to make any attempt to charm him in return. In fact, to his chagrin, he noticed Miss Grayson’s eyes following the tall, elegant figure of his cousin as Hugo circulated among the guests, greeting newcomers and gracefully accepting condolences from among his neighbours. Alfred was politely ignored and after some while he became less confident and indeed quite despondent. With a last desperate attempt to gain Charlotte’s attention, he said with false brightness, ‘Do you care to walk, Miss Grayson? Perhaps I may crave your mama’s permission to take you and Miss Kitty walking in the gardens at Sheringham? They are so peaceful with such everlasting beauty amidst the tranquillity of silence….’ His voice tailed off at this point as he realized that his pretentious attempt at poetic language had been overheard and from just beyond Charlotte’s shoulder, he met Hugo’s darkly scowling gaze.

  Noticing his sudden silence, Charlotte glanced behind her and she was also aware of Hugo’s black looks. She made a sudden irrational decision and said demurely, ‘You may be sure that I shall be guided by whatever Mama says, sir, but yes, it would be a very agreeable outing.’

  Hugo was angered to see that her face held an expression of both pride and amusement at Alfred’s amorous overtures and his scowl became even more pronounced. Hell! The flirtatious minx was pleased at the effect she was having on him, just as she had been when she’d flirted with Richard Thorpe. As for Alfred, he was ogling her stupidl
y, like a fish caught on a hook. Hugo felt an unaccustomed surge of helpless jealousy and quickly composed his features into an expression of bland politeness as he greeted them.

  ‘Miss Grayson, Cousin Alfred. It was good of you to come.’ He offered his arm possessively to Charlotte and said, ‘I must see that you have some refreshments, Miss Grayson.’

  With that, he almost marched her to the buffet table and Charlotte was too taken aback by his high-handed actions to protest. Instead she allowed herself to be persuaded to fill her plate with dainty slices of meat and pie, almost as if she were in a dream. The air was suddenly alive with the tension between them and Hugo firmly stifled a desire to give her a set down over her behaviour. Alfred, meanwhile, excused himself quietly and slid back among the other guests, leaving Charlotte and Hugo alone.

  ‘I should warn you,’ Hugo said stiffly, ‘that my cousin Alfred is somewhat … untrustworthy where young ladies are concerned. Your mama would do well to forbid you from having anything to do with his rackety invitation to walk in the gardens at Sheringham.’

  Damnation! This was worse than giving her a set down. Even to his own ears, he sounded like a pompous ass. As he expected, Charlotte’s anger surfaced immediately.

  ‘How arrogant you are,’ she said, softly furious. ‘Excuse me, Mr Westbury, I must go and seek out my sister.’

  He gave her a slow, deliberate smile. It was a wickedly glinting smile, which made Charlotte blush, as he’d intended it should, but he bowed formally as she swept across the room to join Kitty and their mother. Looking at her ramrod-straight back and the proud set of her head as she walked away from him, Hugo’s smile faded abruptly.

  Miss Grayson had not bothered to hide her obvious antagonism towards him and any idea he’d had of charming her into lowering her guard against him seemed doomed to failure. Meanwhile, there was the obnoxious Alfred to deal with. Hugo hoped he would only be here a couple more days and that Alfred was determined to be vigilant. He would not allow any unsuspecting female of his acquaintance to be put at risk by his unscrupulous cousin. He decided to ask Harry Bunfield to keep an eye on him.

  Alfred, meanwhile, had slipped down the wrought-iron staircase to be joined by Josiah Bennett, his personal servant and valet who, although he was as quietly spoken and soft of foot as his master, was yet not able to detect the soundless approach of Harry Bunfield, who stole after him, unseen and unheard. Bunfield followed him down the magnificent staircase, dodging aside and holding his breath as he waited for his quarry to reach each landing in turn. Alfred finally arrived at the gloomy stone corridor and went through the stair hall leading to the library. Here, Harry Bunfield was intrigued to see Alfred step through the panelling into another dismal passageway which led eventually to a thick wall of greenery. Alfred parted this natural screen and then vanished.

  Carefully and soundlessly, Bunfield followed, first peering around cautiously and then crawling out into a shady wood, moving very nimbly in spite of his rather heavy figure. The trees were set closely together and were very high, their branches interlaced to form a roof, effectively shutting out the light. As Harry Bunfield hid behind a tree to watch, Alfred’s valet appeared suddenly from the bushes. The man had a furtive expression. His sallow face and the eyes set too closely together predisposed anyone into thinking him untrustworthy. Now, his unnaturally sleek black hair, swept back from his brow like a wet seal, made him look even more of a villain. He stood closely together with Alfred Westbury, and the two of them were obviously completely unaware of the sharp eyes and ears of the silent observer.

  Alfred was speaking to the valet in a low, intense tone.

  ‘Bennett, did you try my bedroom door last night?’

  ‘No, sir, I certainly did not.’

  ‘Damn! I could swear someone did. It must have been you.’

  ‘No, sir. I assure you it was not.’

  Alfred scowled as though in disbelief and was silent for a while, then continued suddenly, ‘And did you hear footsteps last night? It sounded like some accursed sleep walker, creeping about softly and slowly in the dark.’

  Bennett answered quietly and patiently. ‘No. I have never heard footsteps in the night, Mr Westbury.’

  Although he still kept his voice low, Alfred was petulant. ‘Must be a cursed ghost, then. I keep sensing a creeping silent presence in the night, but you say you’ve heard nothing, damn you.’

  Josiah Bennett was as quiet as ever as he said calmly, ‘No. Never, sir.’

  ‘Well, no matter. But what of my cousin’s doings?’

  ‘Well, sir. I have heard that Mr Hugo returned from a journey to Norfolk shortly before our arrival and immediately offered his services to convey Mrs Grayson and her daughters to a social evening with the West family.’

  ‘Who the devil told you that?’

  ‘I heard it mentioned in the servants’ hall, sir.’

  ‘Mm. Devil take their clacking tongues.’

  ‘And I have noticed myself, Mr Alfred, sir, that Miss Charlotte Grayson and Mr Hugo Westbury seem to be … ever more close … while her association with the young lawyer, Matthew King, seems to have cooled somewhat of late.’

  ‘Ha. Does it now?’

  ‘Yes indeed, sir.’

  ‘And how the devil do you know that?’

  ‘Mrs West’s servant, sir. She observed Miss Grayson in the company of Mr Hugo Westbury on the evening of Miss West’s betrothal party. They were alone together on the terrace, sir. Very close, they was, sir … he was kissing her hands passionately.’

  ‘My God! Is this true, Bennett?’

  ‘So true, sir, that I hesitated to tell you, sir, knowing your own admiration for Miss Charlotte Grayson,’ he said unctuously.

  ‘Be quiet, damn you!’

  ‘Yes, sir. I am only telling you what Emily, Miss West’s maid, that is, observed for herself.’

  ‘Close, were they?’ Alfred hissed between his teeth. ‘My two-faced proud cousin and that lying wanton.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ the oily Bennett said softly, ‘she is a most beautiful young lady and he would be a happy man who could win her….’

  ‘Cousin Hugo must be taken care of,’ Alfred snarled softly. ‘He must be given a severe warning that if he refuses to leave the lady alone, he will be rendered incapable of ever pleasing a lady and in no condition for lovemaking. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Alfred, sir. I shall attend to it forthwith. I know of one or two local bruisers who could effectively accomplish that for us, sir, for a consideration, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Alfred softly. ‘But remember, my man, I have enough knowledge of you to make sure that if anything goes wrong, you could find yourself wearing the hempen cravat, dancing the Tyburn jig, the noose, Bennett, the gibbet, unless you deliver a positive outcome. Be warned.’

  ‘Sir, please. I swear to God, I will always serve you loyally.’

  ‘See that you do. And now, go.’

  When Alfred Westbury had returned to the house and his valet had disappeared deeper into the wood, Harry Bunfield turned slowly to retrace his steps, deep in thought and determined to find an opportune time to report to Hugo and Sir Benjamin. He’d been keeping a close watch on Alfred Westbury and even hidden inside the house in order to observe Alfred and his valet, Bennett, at close quarters. All their movements, however innocuous, had been duly entered into Bunfield’s shabby, dog-eared little notebook. At the moment, Sir Benjamin and Hugo Westbury were dealing with the visitors and entertaining those who had stayed on for the drinks and refreshments after the interment. This was not a suitable moment to seek a meeting with them. He must bide his time and report back when they were free of the constraints of the funeral party. Meanwhile, he would continue to stalk the unsuspecting Bennett, in an effort to discover the names of the local bruisers whose services Alfred’s valet intended to procure.

  It was late afternoon before the last guests had departed and Hugo was aware that his great-uncle was exceptionally weary a
nd jaded, fit only to be allowed to rest and to be quiet with his own thoughts. He’d seen nothing of Bunfield and guessed that the Bow Street Runner was tactfully keeping his distance after the funeral. He was also aware of the absence of his cousin Alfred, but gave it little thought, thankful only that if Alfred was out for the evening, he would not be obliged to make small talk over dinner.

  Thankfully, Hugo dined alone, because neither Sir Benjamin nor Alfred appeared and afterwards he dismissed the servants and sat in solitary state at the table, deep in his own thoughts. He had never known his grandfather and indeed his own parents were but shadowy figures after such a long time and yet he had found the funeral service both sad and moving. He must discover once and for all the circumstances of his grandfather’s death and who had been responsible for it. He would definitely summon Bunfield tomorrow and talk over his visit to Cromer and put the questions that he still wished to ask about the way in which his grandparents had perished. He remembered vaguely how his mother and father had talked of the shipwreck that had killed his grandparents, but it was all so long ago and he’d been but a boy, taking little heed of their talk. Death had had no meaning for a young lad, full of life, indulged by his parents and cared for by devoted servants. After all, he had never known his grandparents. He had just been happy and contented with his strong, handsome father and his beautiful, vibrant mother. He had never had a brother or sister to love and his tall gentlemanly father and his elegant American mother gave him all the affection he needed. They were his whole world and he’d wanted nothing more.

  But that situation had come to an abrupt end when he was only nine years old and both of them had succumbed to typhoid fever and died within a fortnight of each other.

  He remembered the sense of unreality at the time. The hushed voices of the servants, his own inability to understand both the concept of death and its inevitable finality. He’d felt immense isolation and bewilderment and remembered long hours spent wandering in the lonely, silent rooms of the great house, which formerly seemed filled with visitors, light and laughter. It was only years afterwards that he’d come to appreciate the quiet affection of his Great-Uncle Benjamin, and the warmth of some of the servants, who’d done their best to heap kindness and comfort on him.