A Final Reckoning

by Susan Moody

  Leeming turned to him. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Probably the same thing that brings the rest of us,’ I said, sensing that, for reasons I was unaware of, horns were about to be locked.

  ‘Well …’ Leeming’s tone was oily. ‘Actually, I do have a connection with the Lodge, from way back. A strong one.’ He nodded importantly. ‘Just wanted to see the old place again.’ Ignoring the other man, he gazed at me with anticipation, waiting for me to ask questions.

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, indeed. You see, I was very good friends with the two—’

  ‘I see it obviously didn’t happen for you,’ Petrol-Can Man said quickly.

  Deflected, Leeming stared at him. ‘What do you mean?

  ‘I mean that if you can only afford to come to a place like this on a cut-price offer, you can’t exactly be making it hand over fist, after all.’

  ‘Making what?’

  ‘Money, old boy. Money. Isn’t that what you were always going to do?’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ The Leeming character snorted unattractively through his nostrils and made a fist while his plump tomato face reddened even further.

  ‘I don’t think, I know.’ Petrol-Can Man smiled at me. ‘This man’s not bothering you, is he?’

  ‘I can handle it,’ I said. ‘And thank you again. Without you I might not have made it to this … occasion.’

  ‘This Mingle. Stupid name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you two know each other?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘Only in a manner of speaking,’ I said.

  Petrol-Can Man glanced at him. ‘Are you still here?’

  Leeming glowered. ‘I’ll sort you out later,’ he said over his shoulder as he moved off.

  ‘You and whose army?’ my rescuer childishly called after him.

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Goes back a long way. He doesn’t recognize me, but I spent a term at the same school as that fat bastard. I can’t imagine what he’s doing here. I know for a fact that he never met any of the family, and at school, everyone loathed him. I remember him as a hulking great bully, shoving the heads of the smaller boys down the school lavatories, or hiding people’s games kit so they ended up with detentions.’

  ‘I wonder what his previous connection with this place was,’ I said.

  ‘Like I just said, he has none. Have you been crying?’ he said.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

  He touched my shoulder. ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘I’m a big girl,’ I said.

  ‘But not a very big big girl, as far as I can see.’

  He had a point. Like my sister, I was a tad over five foot two. ‘True,’ I said.

  He grinned at me. ‘So what do you think of the place so far?’

  ‘Very choice.’

  ‘It’s been in the Palliser family for centuries, gifted to the Palliser of the time by a grateful monarch for services rendered during the Third Crusade. And later, it was briefly the stopping place for Ann Boleyn on her way to be married.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’

  ‘I read it in the brochure someone thoughtfully placed in my rather smart bedroom.’

  ‘I see.’ I wanted to say more, but we were joined by a couple from Liverpool who told us they’d visited the gardens last year, while the place was still being renovated, and were thrilled to be actually staying in the house this time round.

  Eventually the circulating waitresses slipped away. There was a clapping of hands, a request for silence and David Charteris started to address us.

  ‘My Lord, ladies and gentlemen,’ he started, as everyone began eyeing everyone else, wondering which of them was titled. ‘I’m David Charteris, your host, and I’m delighted to welcome you here tonight, at the start of this introductory weekend to what I hope will become one of the most sought-after small hotels in the country. If you enjoy your stay with us, please tell everyone you know. And if you don’t enjoy yourself …’ He looked round at us and shook his head. ‘Nah, that’ll never happen.’

  There were appreciative titters from his audience.

  ‘But if for some reason you do find yourself displeased, let us know immediately. Now, I won’t detain you long, but I’d like to give you a brief history of the house, for those of you who haven’t discovered the folder in their rooms, or haven’t had time to read it …’

  He proceeded to repeat what I already knew, plus quite a bit more. ‘As to how it came into my hands … uh … the … uh … previous owners found it difficult to keep the place going, and turned to me, as a distant member of the family to whom it originally belonged. I was offered the opportunity to buy it at a knock-down price … and believe me, by then the poor old Lodge was just about ready to be knocked down itself.’ He paused for another appreciative chuckle. ‘As you can see, thanks to seven years, much thought and love, and a great deal of money, which I was fortunate enough to possess after some careful investments and a lot of luck, my partner and I have finally turned it into the place we always knew it could be. So, if you enjoy being here half as much as we do, you’ll have a very good weekend. Enjoy yourselves. Thank you!’ He raised his glass in a toast to his guests, and they responded with a mild cheer.

  A heavily edited version of the past, I thought. Not that one could blame Charteris for suppressing part of it. What did surprise me was that no one appeared to be aware of the tragedy which had taken place here twenty-three years ago.

  A man of about fifty joined us. ‘What do you think, then?’ he said, addressing Petrol-Can Man.

  ‘About what?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘This place.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  The guy put out a hand. ‘I’m Brian Stonor. You’ll no doubt have appreciated mine host’s sanitized-for-your-protection account.’ He put his head on one side. ‘Any particular reason why you’re both here today?’

  I shook my head firmly.

  ‘None at all,’ said my companion. ‘I’d … uh … I’d heard that Weston Lodge was a fine old house, and I’m interested in country houses. Member of the National Trust and all that sort of thing. And the price was pretty reasonable so I thought I’d indulge myself.’ He laughed uneasily. He must have known he sounded unconvincing. Bogus, even. ‘What’s your excuse?’

  ‘Pretty much the same as you.’ Stonor smiled at me. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said vaguely. I had a strong feeling that all three of us were hiding something. ‘Same as you, really. An interest in old buildings, needed a break, that sort of thing. ‘

  ‘I used to live hereabouts, when I was much younger,’ Stonor said, giving me a piercing look. ‘My mother sometimes worked here, as a matter of fact, when they needed extra staff for big occasions. They were great entertainers in their day, the Pallisers. Just thought I’d take the opportunity to look round the place again, see how much it’d changed since my time.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I murmured.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other.’ As he started to walk away, he added, staring at Petrol-Can Man, whose name I still hadn’t discovered, ‘You’re a brave man, coming back here.’

  My companion’s face flushed. He’d seemed disconcerted by the other man’s name, which was vaguely familiar to me too: had he been in the news recently? Appeared on some ridiculous reality TV show? Been had up on terrorism charges? None of these possibilities struck a bell.

  I longed to know why Stonor should consider him brave to attend this weekend.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m not being very polite. The truth is, I’m suffering from jet-lag: I just flew in from Singapore the night before last. And for various reasons, coming on this weekend is a bit traumatic for me.’

  Trying to lighten the atmosphere, I asked, ‘Which of them do you suppose is the lord?’

  He made a visible effort. ‘The tall thin bad-tempered one?’

  ‘I’m guessing
it’s the elderly gent over there.’ I indicated a man in thornproof tweeds which had probably belonged to his great-grandfather, teamed with a brilliant silk tie of green, blue and yellow swirls. I’d recognized him as the old boy who had told me he would send Gerry-from-the-garage to my rescue – if he remembered. ‘And I also can tell you,’ I added, ‘that he knows nothing whatsoever about the combustion engine. And that his memory isn’t what it was. And that he likes talking to chickens.’

  ‘All that just by looking at him?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Look, will you sit next to me at dinner?’ he said. ‘I hate having to make small talk to strangers.’

  ‘Aren’t I a stranger?’

  ‘Not really. Surely you’re aware that a damsel rescued from distress automatically becomes a friend. It’s a universal law.’

  ‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile, since that’s what we’re here for, I think we ought to do some mingling.’

  We both moved around, meeting some of the other guests and, in my case, avoiding the Leeming man. The tall woman in the leather jacket introduced herself as Dr Maggie Fields, brought in by David Charteris to produce an inventory of the contents of the house.

  ‘It’s amazing that so much of it is still intact,’ she said. ‘Apart from a couple of cursory lists drawn up by the insurance company, it hasn’t been catalogued for centuries.’

  ‘I see it all the time,’ I said. ‘I go to a lot of these big houses through my job … I’m with Chauncey’s.’

  ‘We ought to keep in touch,’ she said.

  We exchanged business cards, and I moved on to speak to a nice couple from Liverpool, and two golf players with almost identical blonde wives. A man with thick blond eyebrows and the grizzled complexion of someone who spent most of his time out-of-doors came over and told me his name was Trevor Barnard. It was a name I knew well, both from reading my sister’s letters and also from evidence produced at the trial of Clio Palliser. The third boy had stated that having squeezed out into the open via the pantry, he was too terrified to run down to Farmer Barnard’s house in case she followed him and slaughtered the farmer and his wife as well as himself.

  ‘It’s good to see the house open again,’ Barnard said. ‘It’s stood empty for years.’ Looking round the big room, he added, ‘Charteris has certainly made a good fist of doing it up.’

  ‘These big places weren’t intended to be locked up and left.’

  ‘Which is why I always cheer when these football stars and pop singers, even the Russian oligarchs, buy them up. They don’t seem to mind spending millions on houses that would otherwise fall into disrepair.’

  ‘And if you know any history,’ I said, ‘the families who originally built them, or were gifted them by the reigning monarch of the time, were no more distinguished – or undistinguished, depending on your point of view – than the new owners today.’

  ‘Very true. It only takes a villain three generations to become respectable – or so I read somewhere. But I can tell you the local community is really pleased that, in this instance, it’s David Charteris who has taken over the Lodge. As a member of the Palliser family, he provides a continuity that’s much appreciated.’

  We chatted further until a gong sounded. At the far end of the room, Charteris tapped the side of his glass with a spoon until we were all quiet. ‘I know we’re all here to relax and enjoy ourselves,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to think of this more as a house-party than a collection of strangers. So just for tonight, I’ve taken the liberty of telling you where to sit so that you can get to know each other. I hope you won’t mind.’

  ‘Good idea,’ called the man from Liverpool. ‘I have to sit next to the wife every day – it’ll be good to get away from the old bat.’

  ‘Darling, really,’ said his wife. ‘People will think you mean it.’

  ‘How do you know I don’t?’ Darling put his arm around her and squeezed her affectionately while everyone laughed.

  Petrol-Can Man rejoined me. ‘So much for sitting next to distressed damsels,’ he said. Smiling, he put out his hand. ‘We really ought to introduce ourselves, don’t you think? I’m Gavin Metcalfe-Vaughn. Widely known as Gavin Vaughn.’

  ‘Hello, Gavin Vaughn.’ I shook his hand. ‘I’m Chantal Frazer. With a z.’ I hoped he couldn’t feel the tremble of my fingers. I hoped I sounded normal, though beneath my shirt, I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. His name was so familiar to me that once I had known it almost as well as my own. In the terrible aftermath of Sabine’s murder, when I still pored over whatever information I could find about it, I’d read his name dozens of times: in reports of the trial, in the inevitable true-crime book which had followed immediately after, in the ‘think’ pieces and articles about the case. Over the years I had thought about him obsessively.

  And now, almost unbelievably, he was standing here in front of me.

  Gavin Vaughn. The third boy.

  Three

  ‘So how are your hens?’ I asked my neighbour at the dinner table. ‘Did you have an interesting chat with them?’

  The elderly man in the thornproof tweeds bent tangled white eyebrows in my direction. ‘They tend to bang on a bit about their various health problems, arthritis and slipped discs, that sort of thing, but otherwise, yes, I did.’

  I laughed. ‘Does talking to them help them lay?’

  ‘Absolutely. They’re so productive that I’m able to supply all the local restaurants and grocers round here. Nice little earner, actually. Keep hens yourself, do you?’

  ‘No. Though I do like eggs.’

  He frowned. ‘Don’t I know you?’

  ‘My name’s Chantal Frazer. You stopped in the lane this afternoon, promised to send Gerry from the garage out to help me.’

  ‘Good Lord, did I really? I think I must have forgotten. So sorry, mind like a sieve these days. I’m Desmond Forshawe, by the way.’

  ‘Presumably you’re not staying here.’

  ‘No. Couldn’t afford it, frankly. I’m one of young David’s neighbours, and when he came up with the idea of bringing in the locals to mix with his guests, I was first in line to sign up. Suits me, I must say; means a night off from wrestling with the baked-bean tin.’ He laughed, showing large yellow teeth. ‘And what is your profession, may I ask?’

  ‘I work for Chauncey’s.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I don’t know them awfully well, but Julian Gardner’s an old school chum.’

  Sir Julian Gardner was the chairman, a formidable gentleman renowned for his large nose as much as for his encyclopedic knowledge of medieval armour.

  ‘Usually use one of the other lot when I have to raise a bit of cash,’ Forshawe was saying. ‘To be frank, it’s not much fun, owning a biggish house. Shocking problems with the roof, for a start. Attics full of plastic buckets when it rains. Used to drive m’wife mad, poor old girl.’ He coughed, then gazed around the beautiful dining room. ‘Pity you didn’t know this place in its heyday. There were some pictures here then, I can tell you.’

  Trying to remember some of the details Sabine had provided, I said, ‘There was a Hockney, wasn’t there? Um … a Gainsborough—’

  ‘Gainsboroughs?’ he interrupted dismissively. ‘Two a penny in their day. No home was without a couple of the things.’

  ‘—a collection of miniatures, a Peter Lely. Lots of other stuff.’

  Again he antlered his eyebrows at me. ‘Now where did you hear that?’

  I was evasive. ‘I can’t remember, really.’

  ‘Interesting. Because a significant number of the pictures – and other things, I may say – were removed after … when things … erm … fell apart.’ He paused. ‘I imagine Harry Redmayne disposed of some of them. Not suggesting any hanky-panky in that quarter, mind. Probably had a perfectly legal right … or a lien, or one of those things, some of it probably his in the first place. Look, if you’re interested in pictures, you ought to pop over and see my place. I’ve got some rather fine stuff m
yself. My late wife was something of a collector.’

  ‘Thank you very much. I’d like that.’ Quite apart from his genial charm, I could see the possibility of a business opportunity looming ahead.

  ‘Come for coffee tomorrow.’ He fiddled about in a pocket. ‘Let me write that down in m’diary so I don’t forget. Though I’ll probably forget to look.’

  ‘How do I get to you?’

  ‘Ask young David. He’ll tell you.’

  Before turning to the man on my other side, I stared round the big room. Glazed on three sides, it must once have been the orangery. A small fountain played in the middle, and goldfish swam beneath flat leaves. There were three tables of ten; white candles everywhere, each separate flame reflected in the tall windows. Beautiful. This is what it would have looked like when the Hon Clio and her husband gave the dinner party which I remembered Sabine describing in one of her letters.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said my new neighbour. He was thinning on top, and wore glasses, but was rather dashing, in a kilt with one of those Hamlet-sleeved shirts that tie at the neck with a leather thong.

  ‘Stunning,’ I said. ‘Have you ever been here before?’

  ‘Once.’ He sighed. ‘Yes, just the once. Years ago. And then only briefly. I–I knew someone who was spending Christmas here. Popped down from Edinburgh to visit her. And then …’ He stopped.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then life moved on. The way it does. Things happen, unexpected things, and you find yourself taking an entirely different path from the one you had planned to follow.’ There were long grooves on either side of his mouth.

  ‘That’s very true. So why did you come on this weekend?’

  ‘Partly for auld lang syne, I suppose.’ His accent deepened. ‘Or as the poet has it, Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!’

  ‘Sounds kind of sad.’

  He smiled at me, the grooves showing in his cheeks like elongated dimples. ‘Believe me, it was. Anyway, enough of that. One of my interests is orreries and such like, and there are three here in the grounds. Know what they are?’