by Eric Brown
‘Saw action at Diego Suarez, by any chance?’
‘In the thick of it, sir.’
‘Good man.’
Pandora cleared her throat. ‘And I flew Spits and Hurricanes for the Air Transport Auxiliary,’ she said.
Colonel Haxby looked taken aback. ‘Flew? You say you flew?’
‘Don’t sound so shocked, Colonel. Women can fly kites, you know. Started off as a mechanic, then took flying lessons. Might not’ve seen active service, but I delivered the damned things to squadrons up and down the land.’
‘Well, you live and learn,’ the colonel declared, draining his Scotch. ‘Top this up, would you, laddie?’ he said, thrusting his glass at Royce. ‘And you,’ he said to Maria. ‘No doubt you were still in nappies?’
She regarded him neutrally. ‘I was still at school when the war started, Colonel.’
Haxby turned to Charles. ‘And you, Elder?’
Charles beamed at his interlocutor. ‘Sadly, I was exempted military service on, ah … health grounds, and pushed papers across a desk for the Department of Information.’
Colonel Haxby chuntered, ‘Well, someone had to do it.’
Royce returned with the old soldier’s Scotch.
Having determined everyone’s service record to his satisfaction, if not approval, Haxby declared, ‘It’s all very well standing around shooting the breeze, but what I’d like to know is, where is he?’
‘“He”?’ Pandora asked impishly.
‘Who else?’ the colonel brayed. ‘Ruddy Connaught.’
‘Ah …’ Royce said, ‘he’ll join us for drinks at six.’
‘He will, will he? Hard bird to flush from cover? Always was a bit of a coward, old Connaught. Know what he did in the war?’
When no one obliged him with a reply, he said, ‘Sweet bugger all. Bloody conchie. Pulled up spuds in the shires. That’s the measure of the man.’
He opened the flap of his blazer, and Langham was surprised to see a leather holster equipped with a service revolver strapped to his thin torso. ‘Well, I’ll give you notice. I’ve come to shoot the yellow belly.’ He knocked back his Scotch and almost hit Royce in the chest with his glass. ‘If you please, waiter.’
While the young man scampered off to the bar, the guests stared in shock at Colonel Haxby.
‘Shoot the great man?’ Pandora said with relish. ‘Well, we might not love D.C., but that’s going a bit far, isn’t it?’
‘Great Man, my derrière!’ the colonel expostulated. ‘The man’s a coward. Asked me down here so he could apologize, he did. Only way he can apologize is to accept my challenge to a duel, and when he’s laid out dead, I’ll rejoice.’
‘Apologize?’ Maria enquired.
‘Not for the ears of the fairer sex, my dear.’
Royce returned with the old soldier’s Scotch – a triple, Langham judged – and Charles had the foresight to change the subject. ‘How many other guests are we expecting, young man?’
‘Just one,’ Royce said. ‘Lady Cecelia Albrighton. Oh, and Connaught’s brother, Monty, arrived in the village this morning. He phoned to say he’d be up for drinks.’
‘Lady Cecelia? Gentry?’ Colonel Haxby snorted. ‘Don’t like the sound of that. Bloody aristocrats can’t be trusted. In bed with the ruddy Nazis, they were. All the dashed lot of ’em.’
‘Isn’t that going a bit far, old boy?’ Pandora said, and Langham received the impression that she was enjoying herself.
Haxby ignored her. ‘Anyway, why’s Connaught hobnobbing with aristocracy?’
‘Apparently, he knew Lady Cecelia during the war,’ Royce said.
Pandora snorted. ‘“Knew” in what sense, Wilson?’
‘I’m sure I’ve no idea,’ the young man said. ‘You’ll have to ask Connaught himself.’
Langham looked at his watch. It was almost four fifty. ‘Time we were pushing off if we’re to make the appointment with Annabelle,’ he said to Maria. ‘Charles, would you care to accompany us?’
‘I think, my boy, that I might retire to my room and rest for a spell before dinner, if you’ll excuse me.’
Wilson Royce took the opportunity to suggest he show the rest of the guests to their respective rooms.
‘Forty winks before grubs up,’ Colonel Haxby said. ‘But do the honours and fill me up before we go, laddie.’
Langham took Maria’s hand and they escaped.
SEVEN
‘Well,’ Langham said as they drove through the gates of Connaught House and along the lane towards the village of Trennor Pendennis, ‘what did you make of that?’
‘I feel as if we’ve just escaped from a lunatic asylum.’ Maria laughed.
‘What I’d like to know is why Connaught is gathering all these misfits?’
‘Misfits who have a grievance against him,’ she said, ‘and to whom he wishes to apologize.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser. Perhaps Annabelle might be able to shed light on the situation.’
They drove into the cobbled harbour. An old fisherman sat outside the Fisherman’s Arms, mending a fishing net. Langham drew up and asked him where he might find Threepenny Cottage on Bramble Lane. The old man gargled something incomprehensible and pointed to the opposite headland. Langham thanked him and set off.
‘Was he speaking French, by any chance?’ he asked as they left the village.
Maria said, ‘Cornish, I think.’ She pointed. ‘That way.’
He turned down a lane that branched off the main road and veered towards the headland across the bay from Connaught House.
‘And there’s Bramble Lane,’ she said.
Langham eased the Rover down the lane and, a mile further on, made out the roof of a honey-stoned cottage.
‘How quaint,’ Maria said as they pulled up outside Threepenny Cottage.
They climbed out, and the mystery of the cottage’s appellation became obvious. The cottage’s extension had the twelve sides of a threepenny piece.
Annabelle Connaught was sitting at a garden table when Langham unlatched the gate. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun, and waved in greeting.
They crossed the lawn and Langham made the introductions. Annabelle wore a vast floppy sun hat and a low-cut summer dress patterned with huge red poppies. She indicated a pair of binoculars on the table. ‘I saw you set off, so I put the kettle on. Or would you prefer alcohol?’
‘Tea will be perfect,’ Langham said. ‘Earl Grey, if you have it. Black.’
Maria asked for Earl Grey too, but with milk, and they sat at the table as Annabelle returned to the cottage.
‘She seems nice,’ Maria said.
‘Sane, you mean, after that lot back there?’
‘She reminds me rather of the Lady of Shallot.’
He picked up the binoculars and swung them across the bay in the direction of Connaught House. Pandora Jade and Wilson Royce were strolling across a side lawn, deep in conversation. He passed the binoculars to Maria.
She fixed them to her eyes, frowning as she adjusted the focus. ‘My word, it brings it so close. It’s strange, Donald … like watching a film with a different soundtrack.’
He smiled. ‘Nice way of putting it.’
‘Oh, and this must be Denbigh Connaught himself.’
Langham screwed up his eyes, but the house was so far away that he was unable to make out individual figures.
‘He looks huge,’ Maria reported. ‘Like a bear dressed up in a sailor’s uniform.’
‘A uniform? Here, let me look.’
She passed him the binoculars. ‘Behind the house, towards the sea. Near that odd-looking wooden building.’
He readjusted the focus and viewed the scene behind the house. He found the circular timber construction, hidden from the house by a high boxwood hedge, and before it the flaxen-haired figure of Denbigh Connaught. He was garbed in baggy pants and a navy blue roll-neck sweater, and Langham understood why Maria thought he resembled a sailor, though a local fisherman would be a more accur
ate description. He stood beside the stump of an old tree trunk, as if lost in thought, and appeared to be caressing the wood almost tenderly. As Langham watched, Connaught turned, walked across to the timber building Maria had mentioned and disappeared inside.
Annabelle returned bearing a tray piled with scones, clotted cream and a teapot. ‘I thought you might like to try a local delicacy – just one won’t spoil dinner, I’m sure.’
She poured the tea and they helped themselves.
‘I saw you admiring the extension,’ she said to Maria. ‘My father was so taken with it that when he came to have his study built in ’forty-eight he copied its twelve-sided design.’
Langham indicated the binoculars. ‘I noticed the odd timber building.’
‘The shape is not the study’s only peculiarity,’ she said. ‘It revolves, keeping pace with the sun. My father knew George Bernard Shaw in the thirties, and was rather taken with his revolving study. He practically lives in the thing these days. But enough of my father.’ She smiled at Langham. ‘Did you manage to …?’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t get through to you last night,’ he said, licking cream from his fingers. ‘I did call, but there was no reply. I wanted to report progress.’
‘Don’t apologize. I was out. So … there has been progress?’
‘Well, not much, I admit.’ He told her what he’d learned about Wilson Royce’s trip to London. ‘I caught up with him in a pub, where he was bragging about making a killing in the art market.’
Annabelle pulled a face. ‘The art market? How odd. I suppose it’s a sideline.’
‘That’s what he said. My colleague’s looking into the matter while we’re down here.’
‘What impression, if any, did you get from his activities?’ Annabelle asked.
‘A little early to tell. My colleague has been speaking to Royce’s contacts in London today. I did learn that he fancies himself with the ladies.’
Annabelle rolled her eyes. ‘He’s so pathetic, it’s almost pitiable.’
‘Do you know why your father employed Royce as his business manager?’
Annabelle shrugged. ‘He said something about his no longer wanting to bother himself with business matters.’
Langham nodded and sipped his tea. ‘Did your father tell you why he wanted to change agents?’
‘He mentioned it last year, just before Christmas. He said that Pritchard and Pryce were getting a bit stale, whatever that meant. I was against the move. Old Pritchard knew my father and his work intimately, and I could see no benefit from his joining another agency.’ She smiled at Maria. ‘I hope you’ll understand my candour, Mrs Langham? Well, my father took umbrage, arguing that I didn’t know what I was talking about. Then he almost kicked me out of the house.’
‘How rude!’ Maria exclaimed.
Annabelle sighed. ‘My father is like that. He’s dominated my life, controlled me, for almost thirty years … So why should I have been in the least surprised?’
‘Your mother …?’ Langham asked tentatively.
‘Died when I was a couple of months old,’ she said. ‘Of course, I don’t remember her. And my father doesn’t keep photographs or any other memorabilia.’
‘Obviously, his loss—’ Maria began.
Annabelle shook her head. ‘He’s not in the least sentimental. I think he soon got over my mother’s death. He’s so caught up in his work, so absorbed in the inner life of his imagination, that personal relations are not in the least important to him.’
‘But as a novelist,’ Langham said, ‘I would have thought they would be of prime importance.’
‘Have you read any of his books, Mr Langham?’
‘I must admit that I haven’t.’
‘They deal with human beings solely as embodiments of ideas and theories. He deals in mythic archetypes and eschews – detests – the current trend of kitchen-sink realism. My theory is that he disdains writing about real human beings because he’s so egotistical that he understands no one but himself – and he sees himself as one of his mythic heroes.’
‘I see,’ Langham said, intrigued. He was looking forward to meeting Denbigh Connaught.
‘So when he flew into a rage and threw me out, a part of me was hurt, but another part of me understood … and I pitied him for his lack of empathy.’
Maria said, softly, ‘You see your father as a damaged person, Annabelle?’
The woman smiled, as if grateful for Maria’s insight. ‘Very damaged,’ she said.
‘Do you have any idea what made him that way?’
Annabelle leaned back in her seat and stared across the bay at Connaught House. ‘His father was a distant figure and his mother doted on him, spoilt him something rotten. I think this formed his world view – that is, that the entire universe revolved around his needs and desires. In essence, he never really grew up. He’s in the grip of a terrible infantilism that has corrupted his relationship with everyone he’s ever met.’
Langham smiled. ‘You didn’t by any chance study psychiatry, did you?’
She nodded. ‘For a year, before I decided to switch to general medicine.’
‘The odd thing,’ he said, ‘is your father’s desire to apologize to the people he invited to Connaught House. This doesn’t seem the behaviour of someone unable to empathize.’
Annabelle looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure that I understand. Apologize?’
He glanced at Maria, then said, ‘Several of his guests – my friend Charles Elder, Pandora Jade and Colonel Haxby – all mentioned the fact that your father had invited them down in order to apologize to them.’
‘That’s the first I’ve heard about this. Are you quite sure?’
‘Charles had it in writing,’ Langham said, ‘and the others mentioned it earlier.’
Annabelle shook her head. ‘I thought it odd that he should invite so many people down to the house at the same time. He’s usually very reclusive. He cherishes his own company, especially when working on a book.’
‘Is he working at the moment?’
‘Apparently, he’s finishing off his latest novel, but then he’s always rewriting. He can take up to two years to knock a book into shape. He’s a perfectionist, you see.’
‘So his inviting so many people at one time is an anomaly?’
‘Very much so,’ she said. ‘He told me he was inviting a few people, and suggested I stay out of the way.’
Langham stared at her. ‘What an odd thing to say.’
She sipped her tea, then sighed. ‘My father keeps people in compartments, and is averse to allowing his various acquaintances to mix. He shows a different side of his personality to each one. To me, he is authoritative and domineering; to others, he plays the role of the great man of letters, or the tragic, widowed recluse, or the suffering artist. Perhaps it’s a reflection of his damaged personality that he hasn’t been able to integrate his psyche and present a whole man to the world at large. Perhaps, on some level, he has the self-awareness to realize this, which is why he doesn’t care for people to see his many, diverse selves.’
Langham finished his scone. ‘Do you happen to know any of his guests?’
‘No, but my father’s mentioned them on and off over the years. I gather he had a fling with Pandora Jade in his younger days, but as far as I know he hasn’t seen her for decades. As for the colonel … They were friends, or acquaintances, before the war, when my father lived in London. I think my father loaned him some money at one point, but I can’t be certain about that.’
‘And Lady Cecilia?’
‘They had an affair, during the war, when my father was working on her estate. He was a conscientious objector, you see, and he worked on the land. Lady Cecelia was married. She suffered a nervous breakdown at the time, and I’ve often wondered if it might have had something to do with their clandestine affair.’
‘Perhaps,’ Langham ventured, ‘this is what’s preying on your father’s conscience. How did the affair end? Did he leave her?’
‘I don’t know the details, but I do know that she was hospitalized for a number of years.’
‘Years?’
‘Apparently so.’
Maria replaced her tea cup on the saucer. ‘Were you with your father during the war?’
She laughed, but there was a certain brittleness in the sound. ‘Good Lord, no. He packed me off to a boarding school in Scotland. He said it was for my own good. I saw him about once a year …’ She stopped suddenly, and Langham received the impression that Maria’s question had touched upon a raw nerve.
He stared down the length of the garden, to where a white picket fence ran the length of the clifftop.
As if eager to change the subject, Annabelle said, ‘Come, I’ll show you the view.’
Langham took Maria’s hand and they strolled with Annabelle to the end of the garden. He approached the fence with caution and peered over, his nausea rising. A sheer drop of a hundred feet was traversed by a flight of steps cut into the cliff face. Far below, he made out a concrete jetty, with a small, bobbing motorboat moored to a rusting capstan.
‘At some point over the weekend,’ Annabelle said, ‘I’ll take you out on my boat and show you the spectacular caves along the coast.’
Langham nodded queasily, taking in the narrowness of the precipitous steps and the chain hand-rail pegged into the cliff face. ‘That would be … interesting.’
Maria, sensing his unease, squeezed his hand.
They strolled across the garden and paused to admire the inland view, the golden cottages of the village rising up the hillside and the hazy verdure of the surrounding forests.
Annabelle reminisced about how she had been drawn back to Cornwall after three years in London.
‘A practice at St Austell, a few miles along the coast, advertised a position for a GP, and it was an opportunity too good to spurn.’
‘With the advantage that it was close to your father,’ Maria said.
Annabelle gave a grim smile. ‘I cannot honestly say that that was part of the attraction. No, I missed the place. After all, I spent the first ten years of my life here.’
They returned to the table and finished their tea, while Annabelle chatted about the beauty of the area.
