by Clara Benson
‘What do you think of the MacMurrays?’ was her next question.
I had no intention of telling her what I thought of the MacMurrays.
‘They seem very pleasant people,’ I replied.
Joan laughed.
‘Oh, you needn’t be tactful with me,’ she said. ‘I saw your face yesterday when Gwen got her hooks into you. You were a picture! But I quite agree with you,’ she went on, answering my unspoken rather than my spoken comment, ‘they are ghastly. Well, she is at any rate.’ She then told me a scandalous rumour about Mrs. MacMurray which I shall not reproduce here. I was shocked and was about to reply stiffly, when we were joined by Angela Marchmont, who appeared just then around the corner of the house.
‘Why, Mr. Knox,’ she said. ‘You look as though you had just had a fright!’
‘Oh, I was telling him that old story about Gwen. I think I must have shocked him.’
‘If it is the one I think you mean, Joan darling, I don’t think you are being quite fair to Gwen to be repeating such a tale, which is not very nice and is probably not true. Nor is it fair to Mr. Knox, who is entitled to judge people on their own merits and not on what you tell him.’
It was all said very calmly and pleasantly. Joan looked a little sheepish.
‘I suppose it isn’t really the thing to go around telling stories that might not be true but it was Bobs who told me and he swore it was,’ she said. ‘And really, she is so exasperating. I don’t know why we have to have them here so often. She always makes catty remarks about my figure and my clothes, all the while pretending to be as sweet as sugar. You know the kind of thing I mean: “You’d look simply marvellous in this dress, darling, if you just got rid of that little bit of extra weight on your hips and had better skin. It’s exactly your colour”.’
Despite my disapproval, I smiled at her accurate mimicking of Gwen MacMurray.
Mrs. Marchmont laughed and excused herself, as she had only been passing that way in order to fetch a scarf from the house. We watched her as she moved off.
‘I suppose I ought to be cross with Angela for giving me a ticking-off but I can’t. She’s such a dear,’ said Joan.
In spite of myself, I was curious to know more about the MacMurrays and could not help saying so.
‘I gather you are not fond of them,’ I said.
Joan wrinkled her nose.
‘Not particularly. Hugh is Neville’s cousin, so they have a standing invitation to visit, pretty much. They’re here practically all the time and seem to stay forever. Of course, it’s only because they’ve got no money. But Hugh also wants to butter Neville up so as to make sure he gets pots of cash when Neville dies.’
‘So he is mentioned in Sir Neville’s will, then?’
‘Oh yes. I think he comes into quite a lot of money. Didn’t you see their faces at lunch, when Bobs made that joke about Neville’s changing his will? They both looked like thunder. It would hit them hard if they had nothing to look forward to. Hugh was never very rich but now he has married Gwen he is even less so. You must have seen how expensively she dresses. They live a very fast life in town, too and mix with a rather disreputable crowd. Gwen in particular would simply tear her hair out if she hadn’t Neville’s money to look forward to. She maintains a decent pretence most of the time but when she has had too many cocktails she talks about it quite openly.’
Joan’s information tallied perfectly with my own experiences and my own impressions of the MacMurrays.
‘But you don’t really think that Sir Neville is going to change his will, do you? Surely it was just a joke on Bobs’s part.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ replied Joan, lowering her voice, even though there was no-one around. ‘In fact, if you’ll promise not to tick me off again, I’ll tell you something I heard yesterday.’
My good and bad selves struggled with each other briefly but my curiosity won the day.
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘Well, I was in the library yesterday afternoon, looking for a book. I had the window open, as it was a nice afternoon and the place can get awfully musty. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular except my book but then I heard two people walking about on the terrace under the window. I didn’t see either of them but one was Neville—I recognized his voice immediately. He seemed to be very angry about something, I don’t know what exactly but then as they passed directly under the window, I heard him say, “Don’t think you will be getting any money from me. That’s all finished now”, or something of the sort. I promise I wasn’t eavesdropping—it all happened before I could move away.’
‘How could you be sure it was MacMurray with him?’ I asked.
‘Who else could it have been? None of the other guests had arrived at that time.’
I had no answer to this.
‘In any case, you don’t seem to have heard very much of the conversation, so perhaps it was all something quite innocent,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Sir Neville was refusing to pay a dishonest tradesman or something of the kind.’
Joan snorted and looked disbelieving but was prevented from replying by the arrival of Simon Gale, who told us he was just going to fetch Mr. Pomfrey from the station. We watched him depart in the car and Joan said:
‘Poor Simon! One can’t help but feel sorry for him, working here.’
‘He told me he was very happy here,’ I said, surprised.
‘Of course he did. He would hardly tell you otherwise, would he? But Neville works him very hard and Simon is really not up to it. He had a terrible War, you know and was ill for quite a long time afterwards. I don’t think Neville means to treat Simon badly but he doesn’t have much sympathy for sensitive people, especially men and I don’t think he believes in shell shock.’
I had never been much of a believer in it myself but it seemed useless to argue, as I saw that Joan’s sympathies were all with Gale, so I nodded understandingly.
We headed back towards the house and wandered slowly around the formal garden that lay behind it, then stopped for a moment by a ha-ha that bordered one of the lawns to look at the building, which appeared very handsome and stately in the late afternoon light. I lost myself in a day-dream for a few minutes, picturing myself and Sylvia in just such a house of our own, taking the dogs for a stroll around the grounds, she looking up at me and laughing at something terribly witty that I had just said, and then returning for tea in front of a roaring fire. It was an attractive picture and yet at the same time unconvincing. My day-dream held a shadow—of what I knew not; it was too blurred and indistinct—but there was something there that contrasted with the bright, cheerful picture in my head and made the whole image seem somehow artificial.
‘Here are Rosamund and Bobs,’ said Joan. ‘I wonder what they’ve been doing.’
It was indeed Rosamund and Bobs, who had just come on to the lawn from the path that led round past the conservatory to the front of the house. They waved and we started forward to meet them.
‘There you are!’ said Rosamund. ‘We were wondering what had happened to everybody. We haven’t seen anyone for simply hours!’
‘That’s probably because you insisted we walk as far away from the house as possible, to the very furthest corner of the grounds,’ said Bobs.
‘Nonsense, I did no such thing!’ exclaimed Rosamund. ‘Do you like our park, Charles? Of course, the formal garden is simply ghastly but we shall be starting work on that in the spring. I thought we might have a small shrubbery instead.’
Perhaps it was that same afternoon light which had shown off the house to such flattering effect, or perhaps it was the health-giving exercise, but she looked absolutely radiant. Marriage to a wealthy man certainly suited Rosamund, as I had always suspected it would and for the first time since I had arrived, I was conscious of a regret that I had thought long since dead and buried.
‘Joan, must you take those awful dogs everywhere with you? They do get under one’s feet so and they’re such a bore,’ said Rosamund,
as we entered the house through the conservatory.
‘Don’t be unfair, Rosamund,’ said Joan reproachfully. ‘They have never given you any trouble. It isn’t you that looks after them, it’s me or Neville and they only get under your feet if you don’t look where you’re going.’
‘Rosamund demands that the path of life be smoothed for her without any effort on her part,’ observed Bobs.
‘Of course I do,’ answered Rosamund, with disarming honesty. ‘I should like to have everything fall into my lap. And why shouldn’t I? There’s no harm in it.’
Her remark brought to mind Gwen MacMurray, who had expressed a very similar sentiment the previous evening and I wondered how it was that a trait which struck me as so ugly in one woman could be so attractive in another.
We found the others gathered in the drawing-room for tea, together with a new member of the party, who I gathered must be Mr. Pomfrey. He was a dried-up little old fellow with, as Bobs had mentioned, a crushing hand-shake. He was evidently a great authority on gardening and Joan began questioning him closely about some new treatment for black fly she had heard of. As I sipped my tea, I noticed that Gwen MacMurray was eyeing Mr. Pomfrey with interest and I watched with amusement as she moved over to where he was standing and neatly cut Joan out. There was a low whistle next to me and I turned to find that Bobs had seen it too.
‘As neat a job as I ever saw,’ he said.
‘Shh! She’ll hear you.’
‘What do you think? Is she pumping old Pomfrey for information? I’ll bet she is simply dying to know why he’s come here this afternoon. She’s got the wind up her all right—terrified that she’s not going to see a penny of Neville’s money.’
‘Is he really going to rewrite his will?’ I asked. I had thought Bobs’s remark at lunch-time was just a joke but Joan’s story had given me pause for thought. Bobs shrugged his shoulders.
‘No idea, although I shouldn’t be surprised. Neville’s rather a stuffy old fellow and I can’t imagine him being too pleased if he knew what they get up to in town.’
I dismissed this reply as Bobs’s usual rumour-mongering and concluded that Mr. Pomfrey was probably here for other reasons. It seemed unlikely that Sir Neville should advertise an intention to alter his will so openly, especially when the people who would be most affected by the change were actually in the house. I glanced over at Hugh MacMurray, who was looking as cheerful as ever, seemingly oblivious to rumours about his supposed impending impoverishment. He was roaring with laughter at something Angela Marchmont was saying and seemed to have not a care in the world.
Gwen at last released the solicitor from her clutches and I heard Sir Neville say: ‘Shall we return to the study, Pomfrey? There are just a few more points I should like to mention.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Pomfrey. ‘Indeed, as I said before, the course you wish to take carries certain…implications, shall we say? I am convinced we ought to discuss these more at length before I carry out the actions you mentioned.’
He excused himself to the company at large and they left the room together. I looked over at Gwen MacMurray, to see if I could judge whether or not she had had any success in finding out the purpose of Mr. Pomfrey’s visit but her face gave nothing away.
That night, at dinner, I was seated next to the solicitor and found him to be a likeable little fellow, intelligent with a dry sense of humour. He had obviously mixed a good deal in society and had a fund of mildly indiscreet anecdotes with which he entertained Angela Marchmont (who was sitting on the other side of him) and me throughout dinner while the rest of the table shrieked and laughed uproariously at some of Bobs’s past escapades, which he was recounting with great relish.
‘We were all talking last night about the Mason case,’ I said, ‘and between us were unable to agree on whether or not the accused is guilty.’
‘Much like the rest of England, I imagine,’ replied Mr. Pomfrey. ‘Did you reach a conclusion?’
‘Not at all. There was much debate about whether the crime was “in character”, so to speak. Some found it difficult to believe that a woman could have committed the murder at all. We tend to think of violence as being the preserve of men and although we all know that there have been many women murderers, they generally use more subtle weapons, such as poison. All the neighbours said that Aline Mason was a delightful girl. Somebody else must have done it, surely?’
‘It might seem so,’ he replied cautiously. ‘And yet, I myself can think of several examples in which a woman of apparently calm temper has resorted to violence.’
‘Yes, Joan was telling us of a school-mate of hers who did that,’ said Angela, who had been on the side of the ‘possibles’. ‘And I myself witnessed something of a similar nature, years ago, although in this case it was an instance of a child that lost its temper unexpectedly and beat a dog so savagely that it had to be destroyed.’
‘Indeed? Where was that?’
‘Oh, it was several years ago, in—in New York. The child belonged to some friends and had always been believed to have a particularly sunny nature.’ She looked as though she wished to say more but thought better of it.
‘What an odious child! I hope he was severely chastised,’ I said. ‘What became of him? Did he grow up to be a useful member of society?’
‘I believe so,’ said Angela, smiling.
‘Well, it just shows that you can never tell,’ said Mr. Pomfrey. ‘For myself, I am inclined to believe that Miss Mason did in fact kill her mother, although we may never find out the real truth. Juries often have a lot of sympathy for pretty young women who stand before them in the dock.’
‘Yes,’ said Angela. She looked thoughtful but said no more.
The ladies soon retired and when we joined them, Sir Neville again stayed for only a short while before withdrawing to his study. This time, his departure caused no remark but I could not help thinking again about the conversation we had had the night before and wondering what he had meant when he had talked of ‘liars and schemers’.
Once again, the gramophone was put to use, although nobody seemed to be in the mood for dancing. For some reason that I could not quite put my finger on, the atmosphere was one of general awkwardness: whereas last night we had all been very gay, tonight everyone seemed rather tetchy and gloomy. Various people wandered in and out of the room without making much effort to join in the conversation. Joan and Gwen had descended into a state of barely-concealed mutual hostility, while Bobs’s occasional attempts at jokes all fell flat and Sylvia sat in silence by the window. Only Angela and Mr. Pomfrey seemed unaffected; they sat together at one end of the room and chatted merrily.
‘Darlings, no wonder you’re all sitting there like the end of the world. This song is simply too dreary!’ exclaimed Rosamund, hurrying breathlessly into the room. She looked through the gramophone records and selected a much livelier air. ‘There! Now, which of you men would like to dance with me? Mr. Pomfrey, I know you won’t refuse!’
Mr. Pomfrey gave a dry chuckle.
‘My dear Lady Strickland, I applaud your optimism but I fear the speed of this modern music would be quite too much for me. Perhaps Mr. Buckley will oblige instead for this song. However, if later on you should decide to play something more appropriate to my advanced age and declining energy, I assure you I shall be most honoured!’
Bobs, as ever, was happy to oblige but despite the change of music, there still seemed to be something wrong with us all. I wondered what it was and could only suppose at last that it had something to do with the arrival of the solicitor—or rather, what he potentially represented, since he himself was perfectly inoffensive.
When the song had finished, a slower one was found and Rosamund insisted that Mr. Pomfrey keep his promise, which he did with great solemnity. Ever the perfect hostess, she seemed determined that we should all be happy. She danced with all the men in turn, though none of the other women showed an inclination to join in and kept up a constant flow of gay chatter, first w
ith one of us, then another. I admired her activity enormously and was surprised and pleased to find that her efforts were proving successful, as the atmosphere began to lighten perceptibly. Having danced until she was breathless, she then coaxed us into playing a game of Consequences, which had us all roaring with laughter by the end.
‘Oh!’ said Rosamund, wiping her eyes after one particularly silly round. ‘I must remember to play this game the next time my guests are bored and threatening to leave! I declare I haven’t played this since I was a child but I am glad I remembered it.’
‘Perhaps we can get Neville to come and play,’ suggested Joan. ‘It might cheer him up a bit.’
‘What a good idea!’ said Rosamund, after a pause. ‘Charles, you shall come with me and help me persuade him. He may be grumpy with me but he can’t say no to a guest, can he?’
She pulled me out of the room before I could protest and ran lightly ahead of me along to the study.
‘Bother! Why on earth has he locked the door?’ she said. She knocked and listened.
‘Darling, do leave those fusty old papers and come along to the drawing-room,’ she said loudly. She grimaced and shook her head at me as I approached. ‘Are you sure?’ she called. ‘Well, then, don’t stay up too late.’
She turned to me with a rueful look and we returned along the passage to the hall. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with him this week,’ she said. ‘It’s really too bad of him to desert his guests but I can’t do a thing with him when he is in this mood.’
We were met in the hall by Hugh MacMurray, who had just come in through a side door.
‘Hallo!’ said Rosamund. ‘We’ve just been trying to persuade Neville to come and join us but he refused, didn’t he, Charles?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘Old Neville being stubborn, what?’ said MacMurray. ‘That’s a shame. We shall all have to cheer him up. Brrr!’ he continued, with a shiver. ‘It’s jolly cold out there! I shall need a stiff drink to warm myself.’
‘Good gracious! Whatever possessed you to go outside at this time of the evening?’ said Rosamund.
