DEATH ON DOOMSDAY
Pollard & Toye Investigations
Book Four
Elizabeth Lemarchand
To M.E.P and O.W.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
ALSO IN THE POLLARD & TOYE INVESTIGATIONS SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
“Lions? Don’t be such an ass, Arminel.” The eighth Earl of Seton shot an exasperated glance at his half-sister, six years his senior. “Opening a place to the public doesn’t have to mean turning it into a shambles.”
“Lions … shambles … horrid suggestions of the Colosseum,” Felicity Tirle remarked sotto voce to her husband, Lord Seton’s younger brother, who was sitting beside her. “Definitely not lions, Arminel darling,” she went on aloud. “Incompatible with the ethos of Brent. So are fun fairs. There’d have to be teas, of course, but the emphasis would be on culture. And horticulture, naturally. That’s where you come in.”
“Or where I go out.” Lady Arminel Tirle planted her empty coffee cup on a table with symbolic finality. “Imagine it. Mobs trampling everywhere, dropping orange peel and picking the flowers. Pinching cuttings too, I expect.” She spoke with her characteristic vigour, a slight, energetic spinster in her early fifties who had made the market garden on the estate pay. Her short dark hair was barely touched with silver, and an open-air life had weathered her complexion to copper-rose. She had the Tirle high cheekbones and good nose, and was wearing slacks and a polo neck jersey.
“But it wouldn’t be that kind of mob,” Giles Tirle broke in eagerly. “You may get a cutting swiper anywhere, but without gimmicks we’d only draw the sort of people who care about places like this. I’m all for opening — the sooner the better. Historic houses are part of the nation’s cultural heritage.”
He leaned forward as he talked, his eyes bright with enthusiasm behind massive horn-rimmed spectacles. There was a strong family likeness between him and his half-sister, but he had a donnish look, and the pallor of an indoor man. A social historian and an authority on English domestic architecture, he was a Fellow of an Oxford college and confusedly Left in sympathy.
“Coachloads of Conservative women and Mothers’ Union,” commented his wife, her intelligent, rather angular face amused. “Can’t you see them arriving, and Blennerhasset’s Tours cashing in like mad?”
There was a pause, as Lord Seton lit another cigarette. The clear light of a fine spring afternoon flooded through the mullioned windows, picking out the geometrical pattern of the Elizabethan panelling and the great coat of arms over the fireplace. There was a spurt of flame as a log rolled over on the hearth. He got up to throw another log on the fire, and remained standing, his left hand thrust into his trouser pocket and absently fingering some loose coins. To his secret chagrin he was only vestigially a Tirle in appearance, having inherited the fair colouring and conventional upper-class good looks of his mother’s family. More usefully he had inherited the Tirle business acumen, which sometimes lay dormant through an entire generation, and since coming into the title some years earlier in his middle thirties he had nurtured the family finances with marked success. Arminel shared his abilities to a lesser extent, and as he watched her unobtrusively he saw that her initial hostility to the idea of admitting the public to Brent was giving way to a guarded interest.
“Unlike Giles,” he said, expelling a mouthful of smoke, “I don’t feel the slightest obligation to share Brent with the masses. As far as I’m concerned, opening the place is purely a question of money.”
“That’s a point of view which I —” Giles began heatedly, but Arminel swept him aside.
“Should we ever do more than break even?” she asked.
Roger Seton concealed his satisfaction and picked up some papers.
“Take Holchester Manor,” he said. “About our size, with roughly equal attractions and no gimmicks laid on. Old Pomfret-Guille has let me have some figures. They’re confidential, of course.” He proceeded to summarise, with comments, the financial outcome of the opening of Holchester Manor over a period of four years.
“As you can see,” he said, “we probably shouldn’t do more than recover our initial outgoings in the first year, and only break even in the second, but on the other hand, we’re much more on the map than Holchester, and with competent publicity we might build up quite quickly. In the long term, I should expect enough to come in at least to keep up the house and grounds to a decent standard. With costs rising the whole time this is going to be a problem without extra income from somewhere.”
“How much private life should we have left?” asked Felicity.
“Not much in the season,” Lord Seton replied frankly. “Not if we want to make money, that is. It pays to put in an appearance, and wage bills would have to be kept down. We’d have summer afternoon opening only — we aren’t in the all-the-year-round category. Biddy is game to organise the cleaning and the flowers, and so on.”
Bridget Seton, lovely and a little withdrawn, raised a Georgian silver coffee-pot, and looked around enquiringly. “I don’t think there’d be any difficulty in getting in extra help,” she said, refilling her sister-in-law’s cup. “Once the village had got used to the idea of the house being opened, they’d want to be in on it. But as I’ve told Roger, the thought of taking people round just paralyses me. I always muddle the different periods… I’m not a bit like Hermione Pomfret-Guille.”
“Thank God you aren’t,” her husband replied with feeling. “Anyway if you take on the cleaning woman and the flowers, you certainly shouldn’t be called on for showing round. We’d have to recruit a squad of guides locally to help out, of course.”
“Oh, but I shouldn’t want to contract out anything,” she said hastily, an undercurrent of emotion in her voice. “After all, it’s a question of Robert’s future here, and his children after him, isn’t it?”
A slight constraint was perceptible. Roger Seton turned to throw his cigarette end into the fire, and Giles and Felicity, parents of Robert, shifted their positions on the sofa. Bridget Seton’s unconscious masochism was always an embarrassment. She was dominated by a sense of failure in not having produced a male heir to Brent and the title. After the birth of her second daughter, an illness and inevitable operation had put an end to her hopes.
Lady Arminel cleared her throat briskly, and dispelled the tension by deliberately introducing a thorny subject. “Well,” she remarked, “if we must go to these lengths to safeguard Brent’s future, let’s hope Robert won’t break his neck out hunting in the meantime.”
Giles and Felicity rose to the implied criticism of their younger son, Paul.
“What none of you seem to realise is that Paul is simply expressing the Zeitgeist of the entire rising generation — the universal challenge to established values at the present time. He’s not the only member of the family, either, who’s showing signs of —”
“Anyway, he’s calming down,” interposed Felicity, deftly cutting off her husband in full cry. “Why, the present school’s kept him for nearly five terms.”
“Well,” said Lord Seton from the hearthrug, ignoring the diversion, “do I take it that we’re agreed to accept a grant from the Historic Buildings people, and open the place to the public?”
There was general assent.
“What’s the next step?” enquired Arminel.
Lord Seton appeared to deliberate. “I think the best thing would be to get t
he firm of consultants who advised Pomfret-Guille to send a chap down to have a look round. They’ll charge quite a hefty fee, of course, but you can’t make money without spending it.” He forbore to mention that he had already paid two visits to the office of the firm in question, and had been expensively lunched on the second occasion.
Ten days later Maurice Corden of Stately Homes Limited, who had so successfully advised the Pomfret-Guilles on the opening of Holchester Manor to the public, drove down from London to Brent. Drawing up at the main gates he noted approvingly that the house was invitingly visible from the London-Crockmouth road across the park, the Elizabethan ‘E’ of grey stone admirably sited against a backdrop of wooded hillside. A useful touch of theatre for a start, he thought, and on a rather statelier scale than he’d expected. He gave it a long, hard look, his long nose twitching slightly in interested anticipation, and let in the clutch.
As the park with its clusters of fine trees flowed past on either side the house became progressively more imposing. The car turned into the forecourt, and Lord Seton emerged from the porch in leisurely fashion, cigarette in hand and spaniels at his heels. He raised a hand in greeting. Leaping out, Maurice Corden reciprocated with excessive bonhomie.
Brent, home of the Tirles since the fifteenth century, incorporated work of three architectural periods. The Elizabethan south wing included part of the original manor house. Projecting wings on the north side enclosed a courtyard, and had been completely rebuilt in the eighteenth century as a status symbol on the elevation of Sir William Tirle to the peerage. On coming into the title and estates, Roger Seton had put forward conversion plans which would enable four households to co-exist in complete independence. After much discussion and some heart-burning the plans had been agreed upon by the immediate family circle. The Setons and the estate office now occupied the west wing, and Giles and Felicity Tirle the greater part of the eastern Georgian wing. Lady Arminel had a first-floor flat in the north-west angle, and Bill Emmett, the handyman and caretaker, was housed on the east side of the north gate into the courtyard, together with his wife, Elsie, and teenage daughter, Rosalie. The unoccupied state rooms were thus conveniently grouped in the rest of the Elizabethan and adjoining eastern Georgian wings, available for large-scale entertaining. They contained some valuable pictures, furniture and china, and an outstanding collection of miniatures. This included one of Charles II, commissioned by the monarch from Samuel Cooper, and presented by him to the lady of the house, together with a witty note alluding to favours received.
Lord Seton, keenly alive to the wind of economic change, had decided from the start to open Brent to the public, but also to keep the idea strictly to himself until the conversion of the house had been carried through. He was highly satisfied with the outcome of the latter. Not only was the general layout now practicable for escorted tours, but an invaluable supply of family power was assembled on the spot.
Maurice Corden, who missed little, congratulated him on his foresight, but the remark met with a cool reception.
“It was the only workable subdivision of the house if four families were to be fitted in. You’ve grasped the lie of the land remarkably quickly, Mr. Corden.”
They were standing in the minstrels’ gallery overlooking the great hall. Maurice Corden perched himself on the balustrade.
“I’ll come clean,” he said chattily. “Your write-up in Country Life three years ago. I always do my homework, you know. It impresses the not-quite-so-shrewd. Competent articles, weren’t they, but a touch pedestrian?”
Lord Seton, who had personally approved the articles, made a noncommittal reply, and remained standing. Maurice Corden shot a glance at him, but went on in a conversational vein. “Well do a lot better,” he said. “Brent’s going over big, you know. In my line of business you get to know if a place will tick. We’ve got the lot here, haven’t we? Accessibility, picture-book setting, architectural interest and such props… Everything to make the Great British Public feel it’s getting its money’s worth. We can risk a highish admission charge, I think. There are just one or two snags, of course. Circulation inside the house won’t be too easy.”
“I foresaw that,” Lord Seton remarked. “Nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid.”
“Not to worry,” Maurice Corden assured him. “We had the same problem at Holchester, but Hermione Pomfret-Guille and I found a way out. Delightful people, she and John. I always drop in on them when I’m up that way. I daresay you’ll run across them sometime. One of the oldest families in the north, you know.”
The violent banging of a door and hurried footsteps below made comment unnecessary. The next moment Giles Tirle appeared in the hall, hair ruffled and collar and tie askew.
“Mr. Corden?” he called up urgently. “Good show! I’m just back from Oxford. It’s absolutely vital that we discuss the reconditioning of the old kitchen. My brother’s jibbing at the expense, but in my view it’s essential if we’re going to show an authentic comprehensive picture of Tudor domestic life. I consider that we’ve a moral obligation to maintain authenticity…”
Lord Seton managed to get in a suggestion that the conversation could be conducted more easily on the ground floor.
In the screens passage, which linked forecourt and enclosed courtyard, Giles Tirle showed almost uncontrollable impatience to sweep Maurice Corden into the cavernous and derelict room opposite the hall.
“Just look at it!” he exclaimed. “Think of the potential! There’ll have to be preliminary treatment for damp, of course. It should never have been allowed to get into this state. It’s a perfect example of its period. What, Roger? Supper? My wife hopes you’ll join us, Mr. Corden, and we’ll be able to talk things over in peace. There’s an enormous amount of work ahead. Half the stuff in the state rooms will have to be shifted round…”
“Perfectly all right by us, Mr. Corden.” There was barely concealed amusement in Lord Seton’s eyes. “Perhaps you’ll have an opportunity of discussing the circulation problem with my sister-in-law. The idea is that she organises the escorted tours of the house.”
Bridget Seton glanced up enquiringly as her husband’s image appeared in her dressing-table mirror.
“I’ve unloaded the fellow on to Felicity and Giles for supper,” he said, grinning broadly. “We can eat on our own, thank God. If he survives, I’ll take him off to the office again.”
“I do hope Felicity won’t bait the unfortunate man. She was so naughty once or twice at lunch.” A faintly anxious expression came into Bridget’s lovely face. “You know, Roger, I’m sorry for him. It’s being so desperately anxious to seem at ease that makes him say all the wrong things.”
“Save your pity for something more deserving, darling. He’s impossible: the camaraderie, and the blatant name-dropping. But I admit he’s first-class on the job. Sees possibilities in a flash, and knows about costs and returns. Anyway, I’ll push him off after lunch tomorrow. Ready to come down? I badly need a drink.”
Over the coffee cups Felicity Tirle smiled winningly at her guest.
“You’re the Writing on the Wall, Mr. Corden, spelling out the horrors we’ve let ourselves in for with appalling clarity.”
“My dear lady, if you did but know how my heart bleeds for my distinguished clients. That after centuries of pride of place —”
“Not centuries where I’m concerned, Mr. Corden. I’m mere professional middle class. Jumped up, in fact.”
“The concept of class —” Giles began.
“Not now, darling,” Felicity said firmly. “You haven’t unpacked yet, and Mr. Corden and I are going over the house to work out the best route for my escorted tours. Including the reconditioned Tudor kitchen, of course. Shall we go along now?”
Snatching up a notebook and pencil she led the way, abandoning her veiled banter. As they progressed through the state rooms it was borne in on her that Maurice Corden knew what he was talking about. He was surprisingly knowledgeable when it came to the contents of the rooms
, too, and perceptive about items likely to have popular appeal. He’s really quite tolerable in his own sphere, she thought. I wonder about the guide book… If Giles does it on his own, either it won’t be ready on time, or it’ll read like a thesis for a Ph.D.
On the following morning Arminel Tirle tracked down to one of the greenhouses and confronted her brother across boxes of seedlings.
“Do I have to come and discuss things with this man Corden?” she demanded.
“For heaven’s sake, Arminel,” replied Lord Seton. “Obviously you must be in on decisions about access and outside amenities, as Corden calls them. Unless you want to contract out, that is.”
“You know perfectly well I don’t want to contract out.”
“All right. Well come on, then. He’s waiting for us in the park.”
She followed unwillingly, and they cut through the market garden towards the north-east angle of the house in silence.
“Why this side? What does he want to do?”
“Open up the east gate and drive, instead of bringing people in up the main drive. I hadn’t thought of it myself, but it’s got points.”
Rounding the corner they came into a formal garden enclosed from the park by a box hedge. Beyond it Maurice Corden was inspecting the disused drive in a canary-yellow pullover and light, tight trousers. Catching sight of them he waved enthusiastically and came striding up to the gate, a large folder under his arm.
“Good morning, Lady Arminel! How delightful to meet again! Of course the O.C. Grounds must be in on these weighty decisions.”
A slim erect figure in earthy dungarees, Lady Arminel eyed him coolly down the distinctive Tirle nose.
“Good morning, Mr. Corden. Actually my status is manager of my brother’s market garden. On a commission basis.”
“It’s this important access question we’ve got to consider,” Lord Seton interposed urbanely. “How do you feel now that you’ve had a look at the surface of the old drive?”
Death on Doomsday Page 1
