by Heron Carvic
“If you’ll help me push the car out of the garage we can coast down the drive and I needn’t start the engine till we’re clear, to save waking the parents.”
“Right,” he agreed, and hoisted Morden to his feet. “Can you manage?” The man refused to speak and minced across the room, hobbled by the restricting wire. Tom said good night to Miss Seeton—admitting with a rueful look at his watch that it was actually good morning and they’d likely be meeting again later in the day—thanked the Timsons and followed Morden. He shone his torch down the steps. “You keep behind,” he told Deirdre, “and I’ll go ahead in case he falls. But”—he stopped—“how’re you going to get back in?”
“Timson can unbolt the front door and I’ll use my key and creep in quietly. I’m not trying secret passages on my own.”
They started down and Timson closed both panels before joining his wife to help collect the cups. He asked Miss Seeton if there was anything further they could do. Nothing, she replied, but Hélène fussed. Madame must return to bed; madame would need her sleep, and, as to that, if madame would ring the bell when she awoke, she, Hélène, would bring her breakfast to her bed. Miss Seeton, however, was firm in her refusal. These poor old dears had quite enough to do as it was and she assured Hélène that she would be down punctually for breakfast.
Back in bed, she reached to switch off the lamp. What a remarkable couple. Truly remarkable. One might well have expected the night’s events to overwhelm them, at their age. But no. And they were so brave, so—so capable. She nodded a tired head. Remarkable, at their age—truly remarkable.
Timson went down to draw the bolts and Hélène set the tray on a console table near the stairs before preceding her husband up to bed. Mamselle Seeton was a woman truly remarkable. One might well have supposed that the events of the night would have overwhelmed her, at her age. But no. So brave, and capable of all. Hélène nodded her tired head. Remarkable, at her age—in truth remarkable.
chapter
~6~
DESPITE HER GOOD intentions, Miss Seeton was late for breakfast. Losing her way to the bathroom and then worrying, while dressing, over her forthcoming meeting with the boy Derrick had delayed her.
Why had he introduced that man, Morden, into the house? Apparently for an attack upon herself. But why? They surely could not be so stupid as to imagine that her very tenuous connection with the police endangered any plans that they might have. She had, of course, won a great deal of money last week, but even if they imagined she still had it, which she hadn’t, they could not, reasonably, suppose that she had it with her now. Last week . . . All that hired jewelry which she had been wearing . . . That could be it. Word of that must have got about. They presumed it to be her own and imagined that, for such a visit as this, she would be sure to have it with her. Ether, after all, only rendered one unconscious for a space, and they—or rather Morden—had obviously meant to rifle her belongings. How silly of them. How very, very silly.
Silly or not, it failed to make the prospect of a confrontation with Derrick any less embarrassing. To be already in place before the other came down, to be able to nod, smile and say how do you do while engaged in eating would give the breakfaster an advantage.
As it was, Derrick had the advantage, but he lacked the knowledge to make use of his position.
With his bedroom at a distance, he could have had no apprehension of further happenstances during the night and therefore did not know that Miss Seeton was still in the house. He had been anxiously awaiting some comment upon the guest’s tardiness and the subsequent discovery of her absence. Hearing the door open and taking it for granted it was Timson or Hélène, he was dumbfounded to hear his family greet Miss Seeton by name. He dropped his knife and fork and choked on a piece of bacon. His mother effected introductions and Derrick, finally red in the face and watery as to eye, mumbled an apology for having choked.
Deirdre turned from serving at the sideboard. “On a crumb of conscience?”
A warning look from her father put an end to further provocation.
The rest of the morning was one prolonged ordeal. A police car arrived at ten o’clock and a detective inspector from Guildford interviewed Miss Seeton, who, in spite of Tom Haley’s efforts in dumb show to prevent her, put forward her theory that the night’s alarms and excursions had been an attempt to rob her of nonexistent jewelry. The inspector then saw the Timsons and finally invited Derrick to accompany him to headquarters and make a statement.
Miss Seeton was asked if she wished to attend church and whether in that case she would prefer to walk down or to drive. Recognizing the Victorian tradition that the carriage was not used on Sundays except for the aged or the infirm, she elected to walk. Tradition also insisted, she remembered, that the stroll to church induced the proper frame of mind for the service, while the return journey was conducive to an appetite for lunch. Circumstances augured ill for both theories. Derrick’s absence was not mentioned on the way to the village, the police visit was ignored and there was little conversation apart from remarks by Miss Seeton on the charm of the countryside and comments, mostly unfinished, by Lady Kenharding.
News of the police car’s call at the abbey was rife and Derrick’s presence in it on its return had been observed, so that the family’s arrival at the church was greeted variously with offensive curiosity or effusive discretion. The burning question was: had Derrick been arrested or would he be returning home? Granted the situation, whatever text the vicar had selected for his sermon could probably have been twisted to fit the occasion, but his choice from Job of “He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more” was particularly unfortunate. It set tongues wagging in whispers throughout the church and focused the attention of the entire congregation on the Kenharding family pew.
The family pew, below the choir, at a right angle to the main body of the church, boasted its own private entrance and through this the earl marshaled his party the moment the service was over. He set a brisk pace, determined to avoid running for a second time the gauntlet of the parish’s avid interest in the abbey’s affairs. What he had gleaned of the night’s incidents, the police proceedings during the morning and now the general knowledge of his domestic situation brought home to him at the church, had forced his hand and changed his mind.
The walk back was accomplished almost in silence. Deirdre appeared to be traveling some pleasurable path of her own. Miss Seeton could think of nothing helpful to say; she felt that the family would be happier without a stranger in their midst; also, she was suffering from a sense of guilt that in some way her presence in the house had made matters worse. The sole attempt at conversation was made by Lady Kenharding.
“Mark, do you think perhaps . . .?” She left it in the air.
Her husband might not have heard, but a minute or two later he regarded her fondly and said, “Yes, Penny, I do.”
This fragment illumined for the visitor a relationship where disparity in age was no bar to understanding, and explained the countess’s superficial vagueness. Accustomed to the affinity of a mind in tune with her own, she rarely needed the full support of words to express her thoughts.
At the abbey, Deirdre, who wanted the chance of a private talk, proposed to conduct her guest round the estate, a suggestion vetoed by her father.
“As head of the house I claim the privilege of showing Miss Seeton our unrivaled collection of weeds and ruins.” His daughter protested but was overruled. “You can help your mother.”
“Doing what?”
“I’ve no idea, but failing that, you could always assist Hélène to boil the egg or whatever it is we are to have for lunch.”
“I understand,” said Lord Kenharding when he and Miss Seeton were out of earshot, “that you didn’t sleep well.”
Oh. The statement posed a problem. To admit to sleeping badly in a strange house was tantamount to criticizing the arrangements for one’s comfort. On the other hand, to say that one had slept wel
l, though perfectly true in regard to the hours when opportunity offered, would be to imply a falsehood. Perhaps if one turned the conversation, she might be able to avoid the issue.
“I assure you that the bed is most comfortable. And the hot-water bottle that Hélène had placed in it—so thoughtful—was very warming. A remarkable couple, she and her husband, so kind and—er—helpful.”
“I’m glad you find them so, Hélène came originally as lady’s maid to my mother and married Timson, who was then a footman. They should have retired years ago but they refuse to consider it and I’m bound to admit that what I could manage in the way of a pension would not be commensurate with their deserts. Also, we should be lost without them.” Miss Seeton relaxed; the turning of the conversation had been successful. “I saw Timson last night,” continued Lord Kenharding, “coming out of your room with a poker. Please,” he added as Miss Seeton began to speak. “It did not for a moment cross my mind that there was anything in the nature of an assignation. I merely presumed that he was being—er—helpful.”
Oh. Miss Seeton realized that whatever turn she took, Lord Kenharding would be there before her with the issue planted firmly in her path like a gate for her to open. She gazed for inspiration at an herbaceous border run to seed and weed; it inspired nothing but a desire to start work upon it with a fork. She shifted the crook of her umbrella to her arm and pulled at the fingers of one glove; no inspiration there. Finally she looked up at the grave face above her, with its humorous mouth and the fine etching of laughter round the eyes. She smiled.
“Shall we,” suggested her host, “begin at the beginning? You never taught Deirdre. Had you done so, I am convinced she would have progressed further than the drawing of indifferent matchstick men.”
She told him of her visit to The Gold Fish and all that had transpired since then, without interruption until she reached the episode of the ghost’s intrusion.
“Derrick?”
“Yes.”
“Stupid of me. I knew of the priest’s hole, naturally. We kept it from the children while they were young—children can be thoughtless and there would always have been the risk of an accident or a bad fright at a party, with games such as hide-and-seek—and to tell the truth I’d forgotten all about it. I wonder how Derrick found out—and when.” His expression grew somber. “It explains a great deal. But I had no idea there was another exit. They were sometimes built that way in the older houses, like ours, where the thickness of the walls allowed for it, but it was comparatively rare.”
“You won’t blame Deirdre for having spoken to me and for telling me about the motor accident? She really was trying to act for the best: she’s very concerned about you—and Lady Kenharding. Also, I think, though she hides it under an offhand manner, distressed about her brother.”
“No, I won’t—I don’t—blame her. Quite the contrary. Youth has the impatience—you could call it courage—which age and experience can dull. I was badly frightened by the car business, not, I prefer to think, on my own account—in fact, I’m sure not, since my immediate reaction was anger—but out of concern for my wife and daughter.” His mouth tightened. “Thatcher telephoned me with smarming sympathy on the ‘accident,’ congratulated me on my lucky escape, but pointed out that Penny and Deirdre were more vulnerable than I and that if I continued my opposition to his running of the casino, they might not be so fortunate. We may know, theoretically, that to yield to blackmail, whether it’s against a group or an individual, is unprincipled folly, but it is difficult to apply theory when faced with fact and principles become submerged in emotion. The government which allows itself to be held to ransom for political considerations; the airline which pays up over a bomb threat; the man who pays out or keeps silent under threat—all are buying too little time at too high a price and mortgaging the safety of countless others since, once successful, such an operation will be repeated until it becomes big business.” He spread his hands in a gesture reminiscent of his daughter. “I’m sorry. In excusing myself, I’m lecturing you. Unforgivable.”
Poor Lord Kenharding. It was, one could see, a very awkward predicament. And of course, in theory, she was sure, he must be perfectly right. Though in practice, and if one were in the same quandary oneself . . . But here Miss Seeton’s imagination failed her. Try as she might, she could not see herself as the victim of blackmail and was therefore in no position to comment. “I really do feel,” she told him, “most strongly, that it would be best if you could bring yourself to talk to the police.”
“I have,” he replied banteringly. “And that,” he pointed out, “is the object of our present exercise.”
Missing his point, she continued a previous train of thought. “Also, couldn’t you just avoid the casino altogether?”
“Give up my directorship, you mean?”
Well, no. Actually she hadn’t meant that, since she hadn’t known . . . though now she came to think of it, she remembered that Deirdre had mentioned it and she had quite forgotten—forgotten that she knew, that was to say—that he was one. Perhaps—yes, that might well be it—perhaps he needed the money.
He partially read her thoughts. “The directors’ fees are purely nominal; it wasn’t for that I agreed to be on the board. I hoped that if some respected names countenanced legalized gambling, we would be able to influence the way in which such establishments were run and avoid the intrusion of the racketeers.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “A forlorn hope. To avoid, in fact, exactly what is happening. And as to respect for the name—they have succeeded in killing that, too, by suborning my son, introducing him to drugs and seeing that his name was blazoned in the press through a court case.”
The pain in his voice drove Miss Seeton to seek for something comforting to say. “Your son is young. The young will experiment—often foolishly and thoughtlessly. And many of them are easily led. Occasionally they can become more deeply involved in wrongdoing than they intended. Don’t you think that sometimes this can teach them better and make them stronger than if they hadn’t? Become involved, I mean.”
Lord Kenharding looked at her for several moments; then: “My dear Miss Seeton—you are an artist, and I haven’t shown you the long gallery. Very remiss of me. Come along.” He turned abruptly and strode toward the house, with Miss Seeton almost running to keep pace with him. He threw open a side entrance, ushered her in and up a narrow servants’ staircase.
At the first flight they stopped in front of a closed door. Lord Kenharding jingled a ring on a chain from his pocket, selected a small metal tube, inserted it into a hole beside the jamb and turned it.
“Our only alarm system,” he remarked. He chose another key, unlocked the door, reached in to flip a switch and stood back for Miss Seeton to enter.
The gallery, which ran nearly the full width of the abbey, stretched before her, infinitely long, infinitely dreary, lit by a procession of six chandeliers, in each of which glimmered a single low-watt bulb. The sheeted shapes of chairs and sofas, drapes drawn across the tall windows on one side and the dark oblongs of endless pictures, with here and there a pedestal supporting a sculptured head or bust, marching the length of each wall, combined to produce an effect of dust and decay. Her guide depressed another switch and, instant magic, history sprang into glowing life. Miss Seeton gazed in awe; moved forward in reverence.
She stopped. It couldn’t be. So like, so very like, in some respects, The Marriage of the Arnolfinis. Though here the young man did not wear that unbecoming black hat, and was turned toward the girl whose hand he held. But had Van Eyck ever painted in England? Not that she could remember or had ever read. Lord Kenharding resolved her doubts.
“One of my ancestors had the good sense to marry money in the Netherlands. Painted in Bruges at the home of the bride in 1436.” So that explained how the spelling of the name Derrick had come into the family.
Miss Seeton stared ahead down the gallery. But there must—there must be a fortune here. “All entailed,” he divulged, “li
ke the house and land.” He shrugged. “It would be possible to break the entail, but once you start selling, everything goes and what have you to show for it? My father considered it and we talked it over, but I think he was very conscious of having succeeded as a younger son. After all, a trust is a trust, and there is always the feeling that the next generation may be more hard pressed than oneself. Come on.” He urged her past a painting and two drawings by Holbein the younger. “I didn’t bring you here to browse—you can do that any time you like to your heart’s content. There.” He halted in front of a large miniature. Miss Seeton examined it. How right John Donne had been.
. . . And, a hand, or eye
By Hilliard drawne, is worth an history,
By a worse painter made . . .
Then it dawned on her: this was the young man at breakfast, Derrick, in fancy dress. “Beheaded on Tower Hill for treason in 1684,” said Lord Kenharding, and he moved away, followed by the reluctant Miss Seeton.
She delayed involuntarily before—yes, unmistakably—a Rubens. Next, dwarfing it in size but not overshadowing it, was a huge canvas by the same master’s pupil and one-time chief assistant, Van Dyck. From the full-length portrait Deirdre’s face smiled at her, framed in side ringlets, while the figure in its low-cut bodice edged with pointed lace appeared, from the swirl of the dress, only to be at pause before leaving the picture. Miss Seeton hurried to join Lord Kenharding in front of another large frame: a young man by Gainsborough, and the youth, as she had known it would be, was Derrick again; Derrick in powdered wig, lace ruffles and knee breeches, lounging in graceful artificial ease against a stone pillar improbably placed amid the roots of an overhanging tree, of which, typically, neither twig nor leaf had the temerity to throw a shadow on the face.
