Christmas Stalkings
Page 9
“How about three angels with short curly hair, all different colours? Dear Lord,” Annabel muttered suddenly. “They’re trickling in for evensong and the police are still in the vestry talking to ghastly Mr. Wallace. Do you suppose they’ve arrested Ashley as well?”
“I hope so,” said Helen with an enormous yawn. “Then I won’t have to mark her essay on George Eliot over the holidays.” She stuck a long piece of masking tape across the last box to keep it closed during its short trip back to the school. “There. We’re finished. Why don’t you and Rob come back to our place for a drink? We’ll send out for a pizza and start celebrating Christmas. For real, this time.”
JOHN MALCOLM - THE ONLY TRUE UNRAVELLER
What a wonderful surprise this was for a Gilbert and Sullivan fan to find in her Christmas stalking! John Malcolm, whom I’d met at a convention in Philadelphia, was ready to oblige when I asked him to write us a story. He says this one’s been waiting to come forth for a long time. He hopes we like it. How could anyone not?
John Malcolm has written eight crime novels featuring Tim Simpson, an art-investment specialist with a London merchant bank, whose work involves him in the desperate dealings and acquisitive violence of the art and antiques underworld in Europe and North America.
He has also written short stories for Collins Crime Club’s Diamond Jubilee Collection and Macmillan’s Winter’s Tales 22 and is the author of books and articles on antique furniture. He lives in Sussex, England.
Submit to Fate without unseemly wrangle Such complications frequently occur Life is one complicated tangle Death is the only true unraveller
The Grand Inquisitor
The Gondoliers
by Gilbert and Sullivan
It does not often snow on Christmas Eve in London. Winters have been mild for two or three years, and London has never been a snowy spot. It was very cold that day, however, and as we strolled down the tree-lined central avenue in the Brompton Cemetery I was more than a little mystified, when the first flakes began to fall, at why my friend Quentin Cranbrook should have been so insistent on this excursion. After all, as afternoon darkness fell, it would have been much more sensible to have remained in the Cranbrooks’ comfortable flat just round the corner in Earls Court Square, where his charming wife, Jill, was preparing a succulent turkey and suitable embellishments for our traditional meal the following day.
But Cranbrook had insisted, and it had been so kind of him to invite me, knowing that since the death of my dear wife two years previously I had faced my Christmases alone. I had not wished to demur. Cranbrook was an old acquaintance and in years past we had often made up a foursome. The death of my wife in childbirth changed all that; I had worked very hard at my small export business to overcome my loss and Cranbrook had been much engrossed in his biographies. For once the literary tide seemed to be flowing his way and, with the increasing popularity of biography, he was expecting at last to support his lovely wife fully, without needing the financial resources with which she had loyally sustained their life in London.
“You enjoyed the Gilbert and Sullivan last night, I think?” he queried heavily, rhetorically, as we strolled along the wide path flanked by those plane trees which, in the summer, make the Brompton Cemetery a shady place for workers to relax in at lunchtime.
“Indeed I did.” We had gone, the three of us, to a performance of The Gondoliers by a company part revived D’Oyly Carte and part new. It is the Americans who have re-energized our taste for Gilbert and Sullivan with their wonderful version of The Pirates of Penzance, performed in London by Pamela Stephenson and George Cole, showing how radical, how fresh the original version must have seemed to Victorian eyes. This, however, had also been a fine performance; the melodies still rang in my ears.
“That is why I have brought you here.” Cranbrook flashed me a significant glance. “I have something to show you which will interest and, perhaps, amuse.”
I looked at him in some surprise. He was getting to be a bit of an odd fellow, I thought, so immured in the research which the production of biographies demands. The details of past relationships and actions fascinated him; to him the long hours in libraries and archives, the poring over books, documents and letters were no hardship, no task, but physically the occupation had taken its toll. Looking now at his big frame, wrapped up in a bulky overcoat and muffler against the freezing cold, I saw how it was becoming hunched from hours of study, bent, as it were, into an attitude of seated literary attention. His hair too, always a little wild, had receded from the brow and bore the occasional trace of grey not just temporarily induced there by a melting flake of snow but, alas, more permanently inscribed among his locks.
At that hour, on Christmas Eve, the cemetery was emptying of those souls who had come to place an occasional memorial wreath or flower to lost ones. The lights and roar of traffic along the Old Brompton Road were dimmed behind us by the high entrance wall as we progressed farther toward the colonnaded mausoleum at the center. The Brompton Cemetery has not suffered quite the neglect and vandalism that Highgate has endured but, beyond the well-kept central avenue, I could discern areas of uncultivated growth in which the tombstones fought to maintain their dark, formal dominance among the trees. Here and there a memorial had fallen, toppled by weather or time or, perhaps, the sacrilegious antagonism of youth. It is sad that such attacks should occur, especially in so distinguished a cemetery, with so many notables among its residents, recumbent amid some two hundred years of history.
We had just passed, for instance, the marble tomb of one Colonel Byrne, a doubtless courageous officer whose inscription recorded his gallantry whilst serving with Garibaldi in Italy, the Sixty-fourth Regiment of Foot in the American Civil War, and our own Yeomanry in the Boer War. A man, I mused, who showed an enthusiasm for the cannon’s mouth which might not be approved of in our own, less military times. There is a fascination about the inscriptions on tombstones which has always held me; it was instructive, in the fast-gathering, chilly gloom, to read those letters close at hand, still visible on the vertical planes where the thinly falling flakes of snow had not yet settled.
“Here we are.” Cranbrook stopped and produced a flashlight. “I think you will agree that it will have been well worth it.” He stepped off the gravel path and bade me to follow him into the second row of tombs lining the route. He did not hesitate but I followed a little more gingerly; the gap between the rows of stone in the first line was narrow and my shoes, leather-soled, would not keep out much of the half-inch surface covering of snow.
He pointed to a pair of vertical monuments set on a gravel panel with a molded stone surround. Separating them was another memorial, almost lying flat, in the shape of a small stone cross. Cranbrook gesticulated at the brown stone of the left-hand monument with an air of triumph and flashed his torch upon it, standing back so that I could see.
“Joseph Ballard Carter,” I read aloud, feeling that it was expected of me. “Of Brimfield, Massachusetts. Born August 21st 1813. Died May 22nd 1889. Also his wife, Mary Chamberlain Carter.”
“No, no,” Cranbrook interrupted. “Not them. They’re the parents. Here.”
He concentrated his torch upon a scrap of white stone, a scroll added like an afterthought to the base of the memorial. It was in the shape of a piece of paper or curled sheet, held at an angle against the heavy, pedimented base. The inscription was becoming faint and I had to concentrate to read it as the occasional snowflake drifted across my vision.
“Mary Frances Ronalds,” I read aloud. “Nee Carter. Born August 29th 1839. Died July 28th 1916. ‘Ever Near.’“ Beneath the faded inscription there were some other engravings and faint straight lines almost like hieroglyphs which, on peering closer, I could just faintly discern. “Good heavens,” I said. “I do believe that’s a bar of music.”
“Correct. Sullivan’s music.” Cranbrook’s voice was eager, full of satisfaction. “That is the grave of Fanny Ronalds.”
“Fanny Ronalds?”
“Jennie Jerome?”
“The same. Winston Churchill’s mother. She knew Fanny Ronalds well, of course.”
“Good heavens.”
Cranbrook’s voice thickened. “Fanny Ronalds was a celebrated beauty. Her husband is said to have left her after they had three children.” He gesticulated vaguely at the other memorials. “Two of them here. But Belmont and Jerome vied for her affections. She gave a huge ball in New York—this was in the 1860s—at which she wore an extraordinary harp-shaped crown lit by gas jets. She tricked both Jerome and Belmont each into paying for the ball.”
“Tut, tut.” The idea of a harp-shaped crown lit by gas jets stirred a memory in my head, but I was becoming uncomfortable. The snow seemed to be settling a little more. It was incredible to think of a white Christmas in London, but the chance was becoming very strong. I had not brought my gloves, and my overcoat could have been thicker. “The music?” I let the question hang.
“Ah, yes! The music!” Cranbrook waved his torch excitedly. “Mrs. Ronalds went to Paris, like the Jeromes, to star at the court of Louis Napoleon. She improved her lungs as the guest of the Bey of Algeria. But the Franco-Prussian War brought them all over to London where, as a musical enthusiast, she soon met Arthur Sullivan. She was the love of his life. His diary records his meetings with her, almost daily, over thirty years. They give no doubt as to the nature of their relationship; Sullivan always noted the number of times he had engaged with her sexually on his visits. He was, like many creative artists, very active in that direction.”
“Oh, dear.” My hands were becoming numb. To keep a diary is a dubious enough pastime; to record such events in it is not only ungallant but certainly not the action of a gentleman.
“They were treated virtually as man and wife in the upper London crust.” There was, now, a feverish quality to Cranbrook’s voice. “They could not marry, of course, because a divorced woman was excluded from society. But everyone knew. Everyone. She sang, accompanied by Sir Arthur at the piano, divinely. Everyone celebrated her performances of his ‘Lost Chord.’ Royalty particularly. Sullivan was not always faithful to her, but he maintained her and her family— parents included—in a separate house at 7 Cadogan Place. He was certainly deeply attached to her. And she to him. She outlived him by sixteen years.” He flashed his torch at the small stone scroll. “She left no doubt of that The bar of music engraved thereon is said to provide the clue for music lovers. I believe it is from ‘The Lost Chord/ The particular association signifies the words ‘Forever Thine.’ As I say, she left no doubt as to whom her heart belonged.”
“That’s extraordinarily romantic.” I peered at the faint lines. “This was a very kind thought of yours, Quentin. What a splendid idea, especially after last night. London is a city with many fascinating sights, but I would never have come across anything like this.” I looked up at him. “How on earth did you come across it?”
He paused a moment before answering. In the gloom his big figure loomed back behind the torch, which he still pointed downward at the tomb. As I straightened from my crouch upon the gravel I became aware of how isolated we were. The center of Brompton Cemetery is cut off from the surrounding city like a great walled park, and the street lighting glowed only faintly in the distance. The sound of a jet airplane passing overhead was muffled by the falling snow which, if anything, seemed to be increasing.
“The Duke of Edinburgh,” Cranbrook replied cryptically. “Not the present one, of course. Alfred, the younger brother of Edward the Seventh, who would have been Prince of Wales when Fanny Ronalds came to London. Edinburgh was a rather gruff, reserved man. Married off to a Russian grand duchess. Was elected King of Greece but had to decline. Naval officer. Eventually became Prince of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, poor fellow, and had to lose his English title, home, and succession. Typical of Victoria’s younger children, really. Rough deal. There’s never been a biography of him. I’m working on one.”
I wondered when the cemetery would officially be closed. We were far from the entrance gates. Surely, oil Christmas Eve, the guardians would push off early? A glance back toward the tree-lined avenue told me nothing; the flakes were thickening and darkness was now becoming intense. Behind Cranbrook only a jumble of tombstones, crosses, bending angels and sarcophagus shapes could darkly be discerned. It really was time for us to leave. What a strange fellow he was, his mind occupied with these late-nineteenth-century biographical details, culled from dusty tomes, memoirs, and letters in dry libraries. How unlike my own life, with its commerce abroad, travel, and business contracts. And yet, and yet; the story of Fanny Ronalds was surely an unexpectedly romantic bonus from so moribund a quarter. What days those must have been; what a glittering, lavish life the fortunate few had led before the Great War ended all that. I glanced down at the now dim scrap of stone upon the monument; what little residue
it was for so passionate and sought-after a beauty, one who had mingled with and loved the cream.
“A biography?” I queried, moving away slightly in hope of drawing Cranbrook away too, of breaking his concentration. “Of the Duke of Edinburgh? I can’t say I know anything about him.”
Obstinately, his bulk did not shift. “He was musical as well. A violinist; quite good, apparently. A great patron of music, too. He and Sullivan played together frequently.”
“Really? Where?” Surely, I thought, this could be discussed in the warm?
“At Sullivan’s house, sometimes. I had theory that Sullivan might have met Fanny Ronalds through him originally. You see, when she first came to London she was undoubtedly Edinburgh’s protégée. She headed for royalty like a homing pigeon. Anita Leslie implies that she obliged Edinburgh with more than just piano and vocal accompaniment to his violin.”
“Tut, tut.”
“It’s quite possible. My idea was that they might have met—Sullivan and Fanny, I mean—at one of Edinburgh’s musical weekends at his country estate, Eastwell Park.”
“I beg your pardon?” It was now intensely cold. Suddenly my coat seemed insubstantial, papery. A chill took hold of my ribs and spine. The idea of returning to the Cranbrooks’ flat in Wetherby Mansions was becoming desperately attractive. I was going to catch my death of cold here.
“Eastwell Park, in Kent. It was Edinburgh’s country estate. Sullivan went there often in the 1870s.”
“Eastwell?” My throat had become very dry. An icy dampness was seeping through my leather shoes.
Cranbrook’s little cultural outing had gone on far too long in this paralyzing weather.
“Yes. Eastwell. It’s now an expensive country hotel. Eastwell Manor, near Ashford. You know it, don’t you, my dear, Jones?”
The emphasis he gave my surname made his question vaguely menacing. I stared at him. “Know it?”
“Yes, know it. You know it. I know it, too. I went there to do my research two weeks ago. I couldn’t afford to stay there myself, of course. I put up at a bed-and-breakfast place in Ashford. But you, you could afford it, as a businessman. And you were there. I saw you. I even checked the register. What a common name Jones is. How very easy for you.”
“Easy?” My throat was arid. The word came out as a croak.
“Easy! To register. As Mr. and Mrs. Jones. You and my wife! Jill! You thought I was away doing my research. Ironic, wasn’t it? The research was on the very place you chose to take my wife for your luxurious, debauched weekend!”
“Oh, no. No, no. It wasn’t—look, Quentin—I—”
“Don’t deny it!” he shouted. “Don’t dare to deny it!” The torch flashed in a wave as he tugged at his clothes. “I saw you! And Jill! Faithless bitch
!” A dreadful gleam caught the torchlight.
“Jesus! That’s the turkey knife!”
“It is! It is! I shall have the pleasure, when I carve the bird tomorrow, of knowing what it will have done to you!”
“Quentin! For heaven’s sake!” ^
“Submit to Fate!” he shouted. “Submit to Fate without unseemly wrangle!” Then he lunged.
I had a second’s lead on him and leapt backward before turning to plunge across the farther path into the deeper jungle of tombs and vegetation. A single apposite inscription caught my eye.
Nearer, My God, to Thee.
The man was mad. Raving mad.
“‘Death,’“ he shouted, jumping after me, “‘is the only true unraveller!’ I’ll unravel you!”
Never had a line from The Gondoliers been so sinister. Gilbert had a nasty sense of humor. If only Jill had listened to my plea to go to Paris for the weekend! But she was too cautious; she feared we would bump into someone who knew us at the airport. A quiet drive off somewhere in the country, with a fire and oak beams, would be more discreet God, how I’d wanted her! The hotel had been superb. And her enthusiasm—she had clung to me so passionately. How could this situation be resolved?
“For God’s sake, Quentin! Listen!” He was almost on me; only a solemn angel with one broken wing and a sad expression separated us. Reproach was written on its every lineament: O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
Right here, might have been the answer; fortunately he stumbled on a stone edging and, clutching wildly to balance himself, grabbed a marble obelisk that teetered dangerously under the impact. He tumbled sideways, knocking his head on a projecting molding impressed with Gothic lettering:
The very hairs of your head are all numbered.
He blinked owlishly, half-stunned, as I took the opportunity to beat a retreat behind a more substantial monument embodying a huge sarcophagus that would have accommodated Henry the Eighth and all his wives.