Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  She slipped her arm into his. ‘Let’s.’

  Stanton watched them go before he, too, pushed his chair back.

  ‘Are you off, Arthur?’ asked Haldean.

  ‘I thought I might have a stroll by the river.’

  ‘I’ll tool along with you.’ Haldean winced as he stood up. ‘This wretched leg of mine is horribly stiff. I’ve been sitting for far too long.’

  Stanton didn’t answer. He didn’t, in fact, say anything until they had crossed the lawn to where a line of trees marked the course of the river. He was, apparently, completely absorbed in reaming out his pipe.

  Haldean, whose leg was really throbbing, found the pace Stanton was setting too much. ‘Hang on, Arthur. I’ll need my stick if you’re going to crack along at this rate.’

  Stanton stopped. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. Would you mind letting me go off by myself for a while? I don’t think I’m very good company at the moment.’ He looked across the lawn to where Smith-Fennimore and Isabelle were still in sight. ‘I don’t suppose I have to tell you why.’

  ‘Why . . .’ Haldean broke off as the pain in his leg flared.

  Stanton, his eyes fixed on Isabelle, took it as a question and flared. ‘Why? Hellfire, Jack, you know why.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘It’s bad enough listening to that unctuous creep Lyvenden making remarks about Tim without you asking why.’

  ‘I didn’t mean –’

  ‘To say nothing of having to watch that Fennimore character swipe the only girl I’ve ever given tuppence about before wrapping you round his little finger. I didn’t think you’d be interested in running with the Brooklands crowd but as soon as he mentioned flying, you were eating out of his hand.’

  ‘I wasn’t!’ said Haldean indignantly. ‘But when a man makes an offer like that, you don’t throw it back at him.’

  ‘No, you roll over when he says so.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get used to it, because it looks as if he’s going to be around Belle for a long time.’

  There was a charged silence. Haldean looked at Stanton’s white face and twisted inside. ‘Arthur . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’ He’d reached for and used a shameful weapon, deadly in effect. ‘It was a really rotten thing to say. That was below the belt. If you’ll accept an apology, I’m sorry.’

  Stanton breathed again. ‘It’s all right,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s only the truth, after all. And I’m sorry too, Jack. I went over the top there. I’m finding this all very difficult and my temper’s gone to pieces. I suppose part of it’s me being a bad loser but I’m unhappy at the thought of you getting in with that crowd, especially after what happened to Tim. I know damn well you haven’t the money to throw around that they have and I’d hate to see you get in over your head.’ He paused. ‘As I say, it’s . . . difficult.’

  Difficult? Yes, it was certainly that, thought Haldean, genuinely touched by Stanton’s concern for him. He hesitated before he spoke. ‘I’ll be all right, Arthur. I know only too well that I haven’t got money to burn. And I’m really sorry that things aren’t working out.’

  Stanton gave a humourless smile. ‘Not working out? That’s a bit of an understatement, isn’t it?’ He concentrated on his empty pipe once more. ‘I can’t blame Isabelle,’ he said distantly. ‘I can’t even blame Smith-Fennimore. Not much, anyway.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Now I can blame Lyvenden. I don’t think I’ve ever disliked anyone more.’

  ‘He’s putrid,’ said Haldean, delicately accepting the olive branch.

  ‘The funny thing is,’ added Stanton, clearly willing the wounded friendship back to full health, ‘I keep on thinking I should know something about Lyvenden. Something nasty, I mean.’

  ‘Something to do with Tim?’

  Stanton shook his head. ‘No. Something personal. And I can’t place what it is.’

  Chapter Four

  Haldean left Stanton and half climbed, half slid down the grassy bank to the river with a feeling of relief. He was consciously hunting for a retreat. There were some very messy emotions kicking around, his own included. He’d hardly ever had so much as a disagreement with Stanton before and the argument had shaken him more than he cared to admit. They had been really close friends and at times it still seemed as if they were, but it wasn’t like it used to be.

  He ducked under the leafy curtain of a weeping willow and found a gentle depression in the earth beside the massive trunk which could have been made for him. Here, with the sound of the river and where dappled sunlight flecked the water under the shade of the trees, was a place which soothed his spirit, a place where he could put things in their proper order.

  Stanton; what was it? It could be nothing more than that their paths had diverged. It could . . . But Haldean refused to follow his thoughts to their logical conclusion. Mind you, what with Isabelle on the one hand and Tim on the other, Stanton couldn’t be expected to behave like the resident ray of sunshine.

  He snuggled down with his back to the tree, and lit his pipe, the smoke curling bluely upwards. What about Tim? Yes, he could have been alone in Lyvenden’s room with a gun to hand and been overwhelmed by sudden despair. That really could be the answer. Neither Stanton nor Smith-Fennimore had guessed what he had guessed, which could mean that he had guessed wrong. Isabelle; he needed to talk to Isabelle. And he really wanted to talk to Superintendent Ashley.

  A flash of blue in the spotted, rippling shade brought a stab of unexpected delight as he realized it was a kingfisher. Halcyon days. That’s what the Greeks called the time when the kingfisher flew. Halcyon? He smiled cynically and yawned. Being so damn tired didn’t help. He hadn’t been able to sleep last night.

  The kingfisher flew unheeded, the languid drone of insects washed over his senses and the well-behaved river flowed placidly on. The pipe fell from his hand and he slumped, fast asleep.

  He awoke to the sound of voices very near by, aware that he had been hearing them for some time. The shadows were longer and he realized, with drowsy surprise, that he must have slept for a couple of hours. A woman laughed and he peered round the tree. His heart sank.

  Lord Lyvenden and Mrs Strachan were standing on the bank of the river, outside the veil of willow leaves, kissing each other. Haldean drew back against the ridged bark of the tree. Bloody hell! If Lord Lyvenden absolutely had to carry out a senile intrigue, why on earth did he have to do it here? The worst of it was, he was completely stuck until Lyvenden decided to move.

  ‘Now, now, Victor,’ giggled Mrs Strachan with ghastly coquettishness, slapping Lyvenden playfully. ‘Don’t be greedy.’

  Haldean dug his hands into the soft earth in frustration. Their voices on the other side of the curtain of willow were only too clear. If he tried to escape up the bank they’d be bound to see him.

  ‘I’m always greedy for you, little woman,’ said Lord Lyvenden with elephantine playfulness.

  This was simply revolting. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t escape, he simply had to endure this appalling pair and their antics. He couldn’t see them but he could hear every sound they made and Lyvenden’s breath was coming faster.

  ‘I think my precious Victor is being a wee bit naughty,’ cooed Mrs Strachan. Some of the most disagreeably suggestive sounds Haldean had ever heard indicated that Precious Victor was being naughty again.

  More than anything in the world he wanted to get away but even if he ducked under the far side of the tree out of their line of sight there was a solid clump of bulrushes in the way. In the marshy ground he’d sound like a herd of water buffalo.

  A wheezing breath indicated that Lord Lyvenden was coming up for air. ‘Let me come to your room tonight, Valerie. I haven’t been near you all weekend.’

  She giggled playfully. ‘It’s been difficult, darling.’ She gave a simpering laugh. ‘Stop it. No, Victor, no. Stop it. Perhaps you can visit me tonight but only if you’re good. And perhaps, Victor, you shouldn’t be so secretive. You’ve been keeping things from me, haven’t you? I do
n’t like secrets, Victor.’

  Now the words meant nothing but it was the sudden and startled hush which followed them that put Haldean on the alert.

  Very cautiously, he risked a glance through the leaves. Lord Lyvenden was holding Mrs Strachan tightly by the shoulders, his red, angry face close to hers.

  ‘What d’you mean by that, woman?’

  Mrs Strachan tried to get away. She looked frightened, so frightened that Haldean suddenly felt sorry for her. She wriggled helplessly under his large, strong hands. ‘You’re hurting me, Victor. Let me go.’

  ‘I’ll let you go when you tell me what you mean.’ His voice was very low and very threatening.

  She put her arm up against his chest, trying to force herself free. ‘Please, Victor. I don’t mean anything really. Let me go. It’s only those silly papers. I couldn’t help seeing them. You’d left them in your bedroom. They didn’t mean anything, it’s just that you made such a fuss about me not seeing them and I couldn’t help looking. That’s all.’

  For a moment Haldean thought Lyvenden was going to hit her.

  Mrs Strachan shrank away, her hand to her mouth. ‘I thought there was another woman. I thought it was something to do with me. Please, Victor, let me go! I know it’s nothing like that. I couldn’t understand them, I really couldn’t.’

  Lyvenden slackened his grip, still looking intently into her face. Then he stepped back and dropped his hands. ‘Papers?’ he said with a coarse chuckle. Mrs Strachan nodded timidly. Lyvenden rubbed his hands together with an unpleasant expression. ‘You’ve been snooping, my dear, into matters that don’t concern you. I don’t like that.’

  Out of that ferocious grip Mrs Strachan recovered some of her self-possession. ‘You haven’t been very generous lately,’ she said in a feeble attempt at her earlier manner.

  Lord Lyvenden slowly smiled. ‘And so you thought you’d see what you could find out, eh? That was very ill advised, Valerie. Blackmail’s not a game you should play. Now, if I came to your room tonight, I hope I can be sure of a welcome.’

  ‘If you could be a little more generous, Victor, we’ll say nothing about it.’

  Lyvenden took her by the shoulders once more, shaking her as he spoke. ‘You won’t say anything about it anyway, my dear, will you? That would be most unwise.’ Mrs Strachan looked terrified. The way he said the last word made Haldean feel cold. ‘I’ll be there, with enough to make sure that our little secret stays between just the two of us.’ He dragged her to him and kissed her. She broke away, her hand to her mouth. Lyvenden looked at her in satisfaction. ‘Don’t ever snoop in my things again.’ She shook her head slightly, unable, at a guess, to speak. ‘Now off you go, my little pet. It wouldn’t do for the two of us to leave here together.’

  She walked up the bank, her hand still to her mouth.

  Lyvenden took a deep breath and, taking out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette.

  Haldean, waiting for him to go, sighed in frustration as footsteps sounded on the river bank above. A low, penetrating voice broke the silence.

  ‘Victor? I know you’re there, Victor. I’ve just seen that bloody woman come up the bank.’ It was the well-bred but furious voice of Lady Harriet.

  Lord Lyvenden looked as if he had suddenly shrunk. ‘Harriet? How nice to see you.’ He held his cigarette with shaky fingers. ‘Which woman would that be?’

  Lady Harriet gave him a look that cut like a whip. ‘You know who I mean, Victor. Have you no sense of shame? Chorus girls in London are one thing but to bring that . . . that street walker into a decent house is going too far.’

  ‘Mrs Strachan is not a street walker!’

  ‘Maybe not,’ agreed Lady Harriet, icily. ‘I lack your vast experience in these matters. But I know she is your mistress and I know you pay her. That is an ugly combination with an ugly word to describe it.’

  Lord Lyvenden took a deep draught on his cigarette. ‘I never knew you cared so much,’ he said with a feeble attempt at insouciance. His voice cracked. ‘Perhaps if you were a little more accommodating I wouldn’t be tempted.’

  With narrowed eyes Lady Harriet stepped back and half drew a small pistol from her bag. With a shock Haldean recognized it as the twin of the one that had killed Tim. ‘If you dare to approach my room, Victor, I will shoot you with the greatest of pleasure.’

  Lord Lyvenden stepped back in alarm. ‘Put that thing away, Harriet! Damn it, woman, why shouldn’t I come to your room?’

  ‘You know exactly why not.’

  ‘But you’re my wife, aren’t you? Not that you’ve ever acted like one.’

  ‘You never wanted me to. Ever. You never even had the grace to pretend.’

  ‘I couldn’t pretend about the amount of money you cost me. That was real enough. What about that, eh? I wanted you enough to pay for you. Don’t you remember how generous I had to be to your father?’

  ‘And haven’t I earned it?’ asked Lady Harriet, passionately. ‘God knows, Victor, I’ve earned every penny. You didn’t want me, you wanted who I was. People received you because of who I was, you know that. In public, I have been the perfect wife. In private, I have endured your fatuities and your whoring, but I will not endure very much more.’ Her voice was very low and very urgent and Haldean had no doubt she meant every word she said. ‘I can make things so unpleasant for you, Victor, that you would be forced to give me a divorce. And that, let me remind you, would hurt you far more than it would hurt me. As long as you leave me alone, I am perfectly happy for things to continue as they are. But I will not stand for being made a fool of. If you dare to bring your mistress to a house party once more, I will arrange matters so you can never show your face in decent society again.’ Without another look at her husband she turned and walked away.

  Lord Lyvenden, breathing deeply, threw his cigarette in the river and followed her.

  Haldean gave Lord Lyvenden plenty of time to get away before he climbed back up the river bank. That had been an unpleasant little scene. Two unpleasant little scenes, he corrected himself. That Lady Harriet didn’t care for her husband was apparent but he’d had no idea of the depth of passion in that rigidly controlled woman. If Lyvenden did try anything on, he could very easily credit that Lady Harriet would indeed shoot him. He returned thoughtfully across the lawn to the house.

  As he walked through the open door to the hall, Stanton came out of the morning room. ‘Jack? There you are. We couldn’t think where you’d got to. We’ve been looking everywhere. There’s a policeman in the library taking statements from everybody. He needs to speak to you.’

  ‘It’s not Superintendent Ashley, is it?’ asked Haldean, hopefully.

  Stanton shook his head. ‘It’s not a Superintendent anyone. He’s a sergeant, I think. We’ve all spoken to him. He’s interviewing the servants now.’ He paused. ‘Look . . . about what I said earlier. I know I apologized but I’d like to do it again. I know I was wrong, but it’s difficult to keep on an even keel with all this going on.’ He shrugged. ‘All I can say is that I’m sorry.’

  So completely had Haldean been caught up with Lord Lyvenden and his affairs, it took him a moment to understand that Stanton was apologizing for their argument. He grasped his friend’s arm. ‘Forget it. I’d better go and face the Law, but I want to talk to you and I really want to talk to Isabelle about Tim.’

  Stanton gave a rueful smile. ‘Haven’t we talked enough? Isabelle’s in the garden with Smith-Fennimore. I suppose I could go and get them but I feel a bit awkward about butting in.’ He looked at his friend. ‘Okay. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thanks, Arthur,’ said Haldean. ‘I know this isn’t particularly easy for you but I’d be very grateful. Can you meet me here in about half an hour? I don’t think I’ll be much longer.’

  Leaving Stanton by the morning room, Haldean went along to the library where there was a little knot of servants outside the door, contentedly grumbling about this break from routine. Amongst them was Lady Harriet’s maid, Yvette, who was perfe
ctly happy to speak to Monsieur le Commandant ‘Aldean and tell him all about her emotions, her horror, her lacerated feelings on discovering that the crack she had heard from the room of milor’ was not, as she had supposed, a feu d’artifice, a how-do-you-say? – a firework, but that so-’andsome young man, Monsieur Preston, in the act of self-annihilation.

  Monsieur le Commandant went thoughtfully into the library to give his statement. As it was a purely factual account of Tim’s apparent suicide, it didn’t take long. He took the opportunity to ask when Ashley would return and was delighted to find out that he should be back on Tuesday. He had met Ashley, said Haldean, the previous year, and had promised to look him up again. Once established as the Superintendent’s friend, Haldean was able to learn one other thing. The gun used had been one of a pair. Lady Harriet had one and Lord Lyvenden the other.

  He walked back to the morning room where Stanton, Isabelle and Smith-Fennimore were waiting for him.

  Isabelle looked at him with a worried smile. ‘Hello, Jack. Arthur tells me you’ve got some notion that Tim didn’t shoot himself, and Malcolm said you’d all had a good look round Lord Lyvenden’s room this morning while we were at church. Are you sure? That it really isn’t suicide, I mean?’

  Haldean shut the door carefully behind him. ‘No, I’m not, Isabelle. I thought I was on the right lines but I’m not nearly so certain now.’ He draped himself across an armchair, stretched out his long legs, lit a cigarette and sighed. ‘How d’you feel about murder, Belle?’ he asked. ‘About the idea that Tim was murdered?’

  She wrinkled her nose in concentration. ‘To be honest I was shocked at first, but now I’ve got used to the idea I think it makes sense. You see, I couldn’t understand why Tim had done it. I saw quite a bit of him last night and he was really looking forward to all the things that he and Bubble were going to do next week, such as taking a picnic on the river, playing tennis and going dancing and so on.’ She looked at Smith-Fennimore beside her. ‘He talked about you, Malcolm, and the Isle of Man race, and Bubble said she’d come and watch the race and, well . . . it seemed so odd that with all that in mind he should suddenly decide to end it all. It just seemed so out of character, somehow.’