‘Just a minute, Haldean,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘You couldn’t simply tip gunpowder into the grate and put a fuse in it. The charge would have to be contained in something. An old cartridge case or a cigar tube would do the trick.’
Haldean looked at Stanton. ‘Was there anything in the grate? A container of any sort?’
‘Hang on a mo,’ said Stanton doubtfully, trying to remember. ‘There was a cigarette packet. It was all burnt and charred at one end. I think it was a packet of Goldflake. I assumed it had been tossed into the fire and got burnt.’
‘But the fire wasn’t lit. We don’t have fires at this time of year. So how did the cigarette packet get burnt?’ He felt in his pocket. ‘I’ve got my room key and I know it fits Lyvenden’s old room. Let’s go and have a look.’
All four went upstairs to Lord Lyvenden’s room where, after some coaxing with his key, Haldean opened the door. They lifted the fire screen to one side and looked in the grate. The soot was there but no cigarette packet.
Haldean felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. ‘Someone’s moved it. Look, you can see a patch where the packet was. Someone’s moved it who knew what it was used for. We’re on to something. It really is true. And unless someone can prove an alibi between half past nine and ten past ten, then it could be anyone. Anyone at all.’
There was a long pause. ‘There’s another possibility,’ said Smith-Feimimore, eventually. ‘It was something you said, Isabelle, about Lady Harriet looking daggers at Lord Lyvenden that’s made me think of it. Tim might not have been the intended victim after all. It was Lyvenden’s gun and Lyvenden’s room. Couldn’t Lyvenden have been the one who should have been killed? After all, the light was very dim and if someone came in and saw a figure sitting at the desk they might have assumed it was Lyvenden.’
‘If that’s the case, then it can’t have been originally intended to look like suicide, though,’ said Haldean, thoughtfully. ‘I mean, that would imply Lyvenden had dictated a suicide note to his secretary. That argues a remarkable degree of foresight, to say nothing of the lack of ordinary feeling on the supposed victim’s part.’
Smith-Fennimore shook his head. ‘Maybe when the murderer found they’d killed the wrong person, they found part of a business letter, as you said, and used that.’
Isabelle drew her breath in. ‘Malcolm, I wonder if that’s it. It seems so unlikely someone would kill Tim but I can easily imagine someone wanting to kill Lyvenden. It needn’t be Lady Harriet, though. Has he ever done someone down in business, say?’
‘He certainly has,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘He’s got a pretty ruthless reputation. He’s always been a good boy with the bank and I can’t question his expertise but there’s plenty of people who wouldn’t be sorry if our Mr Todd bought it. I only found out some of the things he’d done after he became a director. There’s been a few times I’ve regretted the fact that we did appoint him, but I haven’t any real grounds to suggest he moves on.’
Stanton gazed at Smith-Fennimore. ‘What? What did you say he was called?’
‘Victor Todd,’ repeated Smith-Fennimore, clearly puzzled by the intensity of Stanton’s voice. ‘It was his name before he got the peerage.’
Stanton stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Lyvenden’s Victor Todd?’ He turned urgently to Haldean. ‘You remember I said I knew something nasty about him, Jack? This is it. He ran the Colonial and Oriental Mining Conglomerate. It was nothing more than a fraud. They sold my father a pack of useless shares and when they crashed he lost nearly everything. The shock killed him. My mother had to sell up to make ends meet. She had a rotten time of it. My sisters and I did the best we could, but I was in the army and they were doing VAD work, so we had no money to help. She was so hard up and she missed my father so much she literally worried herself to death. My grandfather’s money was tied up in a trust and I couldn’t get hold of it until after she’d died. My God, when I think what he put us through . . .’ He drew a ragged, angry breath. ‘The absolute swine. There he is, strutting around calling himself Lord Lyvenden and all the time it’s my father’s money and other poor devils like him who paid for his precious title.’ He ran a trembling hand though his brown hair. ‘I don’t know if someone tried to kill him but he deserves it. I could throttle him myself.’ His white face left no doubt he meant what he said.
In all the time he’d known him, Haldean had never seen his friend so angry. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said quietly. ‘I knew your family had had a lousy time. To find Lyvenden was behind it must be unbelievable.’
Stanton shook his head, unable to reply.
‘Arthur,’ said Isabelle. Her voice was urgent. ‘Please don’t do anything rash. I know it’s awful but you can’t bring back your parents whatever you do. Please, Arthur, don’t do anything. I know it’s a lot to ask but please, if you can, don’t say anything, either. My mother was looking forward to her silver wedding and it’s been ruined. Don’t make it worse. Lyvenden’s staying until Friday morning. As soon as he’s gone I’ll tell my parents exactly what sort of man he is. He’ll never be invited here again.’
Stanton was silent for a few moments. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right, Isabelle. Don’t worry.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘After all, I suppose you could say it’s all water under the bridge. My father was always far too trusting. He didn’t have to buy the shares but he was so honest, he wouldn’t dream there were crooks like Victor Todd in the world.’ He bit his lip. ‘There’s one thing,’ he said, making an obvious effort to recover himself. ‘I think you’ve solved your mystery, Jack. Someone killed Tim in mistake for Lyvenden. Maybe one of these days he’ll get what’s coming to him.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Haldean, looking at Stanton’s strained face. ‘Perhaps.’
Chapter Five
It was a sober group who left Lord Lyvenden’s room. Isabelle walked down the stairs, sunk in thought. Jack had taken Arthur off for a whisky and soda in the billiard room and Malcolm had politely absented himself. She guessed that all of them, herself included, needed some time to think about what they’d discovered. The cigarette packet had been removed and the only person who would have moved it was, as Jack said, someone who was covering up murder. Had Tim been killed in mistake for Lord Lyvenden? There was no doubt that Arthur thought so.
Arthur; she’d always known there was some misfortune in his family’s past – her mother, who had known the Stantons as distant neighbours, always referred to ‘poor Jane Stanton’ without ever spelling out why Arthur’s mother should be commiserated with – but the depth of his feeling had shocked her.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking at the homely grandeur of the hall. The sun laid sharp-edged paths of light across the black-and-white marble floor, catching the pillared doorways and bringing out the warm richness of the oak panels. Above it all, the painted roof showed a sailing ship battered by a storm while an oddly smug Neptune, complete with trident and attendant goddesses, looked on from a becalmed and sunlit rock. She’d known this place all her life. She loved it; it was home. Arthur’s home had been wrenched from him by greed and she’d asked him to say nothing and do nothing to the man responsible. She didn’t know if she’d be capable of such self-control.
Arthur; she liked Arthur. He was attractive, with his obstinately curly hair, his shy, rather hesitant manner and his thoughtful hazel eyes. She could make him happy and, what’s more, she enjoyed making him happy. So why hadn’t she said yes last night when he asked her to marry him?
Because of Malcolm. When she had first met Malcolm he had struck her as ridiculously glamorous. Her first suspicion, that he was too handsome for words and knew it, simply wasn’t true. He wasn’t remotely vain. Instead he was serious, thoughtful and rather intense. She guessed he felt things far more deeply than it was fashionable to admit. And he was very good-looking.
She went out to the gardens with the idea of finding either Bubble or Squeak and, after a half-hearted and fruitless search, ended up wandering
down to the stables. Sixpence, the stable cat, had had kittens, and she spent quarter of an hour watching them chase each other on unsteady legs.
She was feeling much more cheerful when she heard footsteps. She looked up and saw Malcolm Smith-Fennimore.
His rather solemn face brightened at the sight of her. ‘Hello, what have you been doing? Playing with the kittens?’ He crouched down beside her. ‘Jolly little things, aren’t they?’ He screwed up a few wisps of straw into a ball, smiling as the kittens chased after it. ‘I’m going for a drive,’ he said, nodding towards the big green Bentley. Part of the stables had been converted into garages and the Bentley stood at one end. A kitten patted his hand and he flicked a piece of straw for it to play with. ‘Do you want to come? Last night at the ball I promised to teach you how to drive, remember?’
She hesitated. For some reason he made her feel slightly nervous. ‘I was going to try and find Bubble and Squeak. I haven’t seen them since lunch. Could they come with us?’
He stood up and gently took her arm, ushering her towards the car. ‘I’d rather they didn’t. It’s hard enough trying to cut you loose from your cousin and that Stanton chap, without bringing the Robiceuxs along. Four would very definitely be a crowd.’ He turned the engine over, climbed in beside her, and drove the car out into the sunshine. ‘I like driving,’ he said, negotiating the stable yard and bringing the car out on to the drive. ‘It helps me think.’
‘I wish I could stop thinking,’ said Isabelle.
‘Why?’ he asked, giving her a quick glance.
She sighed. ‘Because it all seems so incredible.’ She indicated the park with a wave of her hand. ‘Out here, in the sunshine, it’s hard to believe any of it really happened.’
‘It happened all right,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘And quite apart from Tim, there’s something damned funny going on. Who was that visitor your uncle had last night? Haldean told me about him and he sounded downright peculiar. And then there was that Russian who turned up this morning. I tell you, Isabelle, I don’t like it. I can smell danger. So much so, I picked up this from my room.’ He took one hand off the wheel and half pulled an automatic pistol from his jacket pocket. Her startled gasp made him glance round momentarily. His face softened at her expression. ‘Don’t look so scared. It’s my old navy Colt. It won’t go off by itself, you know.’
If Arthur had produced a gun and talked about smelling danger – or Jack, come to that – it would have seemed ridiculously melodramatic. She’d have probably laughed. She wasn’t in the least tempted to laugh at Malcolm. ‘Why have you got a gun?’
‘To protect . . . well, anyone who needs protecting. You, for instance.’
Isabelle looked at him. He meant it. ‘I’m not in any danger.’
‘And I intend to keep it that way,’ he said, with a rather grim smile. ‘It looks as if we’ve got a murderer among us. Haven’t you thought that he or she might not like us playing detectives? We might come too close.’
They turned out of the gates of Hesperus and up the road, away from the village. The lane took them between high hedges, flashing in and out of patches of sunlight where a gate gave on to open fields and on into the woods, where the road was a tunnel between the trees. The tall beeches and squat oaks met overhead in a rustling canopy, filtering the light on to the narrow road. Blinding shafts of white sun stabbed through the green shade. It gave Isabelle the oddest sensation that they were travelling along the bed of a river, with the tops of the trees breaking through like vast water plants to the surface. Down here, amongst the ivy-entwined trunks, was a place that was hidden, unexplored and alone. She rather liked the idea.
They came out of the trees to a crossroads. Smith-Fennimore chose a road at random and drove a short distance before pulling into the side and stopping. With the noise of the engine gone, silence flooded round them, followed by all the little Sunday in summer sounds. A train chugged far away, the noise taking on a musical note in the distance. It was the sole indication that they were not the only people in the world. Although they hadn’t driven far, it felt as if they’d come a long way from Hesperus. Isabelle found herself growing more light-hearted by the minute.
Smith-Fennimore climbed out of the car and opened Isabelle’s door. ‘Slide across. I need to get in. There’s no door on the driver’s side. This is the perfect spot. A longish straight road with no sharp bends. We can see anything coming in plenty of time.’ He grinned at her puzzled expression. ‘Well, if you’re going to have a crack at driving, you’ve got to sit behind the wheel. That’s what we’re here for.’
Isabelle slid across the front seat and tentatively held the huge, corded steering wheel, listening to his detailed explanations.
‘Have you got that?’ he finished.
‘I think so,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I’ll try, anyway.’
The first couple of attempts were not a success.
With admirable patience, Smith-Fennimore ran through the array of switches and levers on the dashboard and steering wheel once more. ‘It’s all quite simple, really. Retard the ignition – that’s the lever on the top of the steering column – and turn the throttle switch to the slow running position – that’s right – and then turn the mixture control to the rich position. Not too much, she’s already quite warm. The pressure feed on the tank looks about right. That’s about it. Now press in the twin magneto switches – that’s it – and press the self-starter firmly.’
‘This one that looks like a mushroom?’
‘That’s the one.’
Isabelle pressed down hard and was rewarded by a burbling thrum from the engine.
‘Now dab the accelerator with your foot.’ Isabelle yelped as the accelerator kicked back at her. ‘Try again, and if she kicks back, turn the ignition down until the engine fires in the right direction. There, you’ve done it. I told you you could. You’ve just got to be firm. She’s ticking over nicely. Now advance the ignition and dip the clutch – hard down – put her in first gear – that’s the lever beside your right leg – and release the handbrake – that’s the lever on the outside of the car – keep your foot on the clutch! – and press down on the accelerator as you bring your other foot slowly away.’
Malcolm Smith-Fennimore winced in almost physical pain as one thousand, three hundred and forty-two pounds’ worth of the most elegant machinery in the world kangarooed down the road. The engine screamed a protest, then stalled.
‘Oh dear,’ said Isabelle mournfully. ‘I hope I haven’t damaged the car.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Smith-Fennimore, with rather a forced smile. ‘It’s got a five-year guarantee.’
‘How do I change gear?’ she asked.
‘I think we’ll cover that later. Let’s try again.’
They tried again. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, after two more false starts, ‘you’d have a better idea if you knew what was happening under the bonnet when you started her up.’
Which was a very tactful way of saving his precious Bentley from her mistreatment, thought Isabelle. It might even be true.
Climbing out, Smith-Fennimore took his jacket off, rolled his sleeves up, and undid the leather straps over the long, aristocratic nose of the car. She stood beside him to peer into the mysterious depths of the engine bay. ‘Now, when you press the self-starter, the magnetos fire a spark which is amplified . . .’
Isabelle’s education had been varied and expensive, but weak on electricity and its application to the internal combustion engine. She summoned up a memory of Jack and her brother playing with magnets and copper wire in the barn long ago, and nodded intelligently.
‘This is the fly-wheel which conducts the power . . .’
She watched the muscles flex on his arms. She was suddenly intensely aware of his physical presence. Strong arms, with strong, capable hands. She swallowed. It was as if she’d developed another sense. He bent his head closer into the engine and she noticed how his fair hair swept back behind his ears. Fair hair on tanne
d skin . . .
‘And the distributor carries the current . . .’
She reached out to touch the shining magneto and he caught her hand.
‘Hey, don’t touch that. The engine’s hot.’ Still holding her hand he continued, ‘And then it goes to . . .’ He stumbled over his words and seemed to be finding it difficult to speak. She looked straight into his eyes, the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. He was an incredibly attractive man. Why not?
‘And then it goes to . . . goes to the spark plugs . . .’ He gulped, and reached out for her, gathering her blindly in his arms. He paused momentarily, then kissed her passionately, one hand round her waist. She arched her back under the pressure of his fingers and sensed his delight in her response. She leaned her head on his shoulder, feeling the hard muscle under his shirt, listening to his quick breathing.
‘I’ve been so unsure how you felt about me,’ he said in a whisper.
‘I love you, Malcolm,’ she said simply. She relaxed against him, totally happy as he kissed her forehead and her hair.
He held the palm of his hand to her face and gazed into her eyes. ‘You’re going to marry me, aren’t you? You will marry me? Soon. It has to be soon.’
She kissed his hand. ‘Of course I will.’
He held her tightly. ‘I’m going to love you until I die.’ He sounded oddly solemn and she shivered. ‘Here,’ he said gently. ‘You’re cold. Come and sit down in the sun.’
‘It’s not that,’ she protested, but let him lead her to the grassy bank at the side of the road. He spread his jacket out and sat beside her, leaning back on his elbow. He reached out and stroked her hair.
Isabelle looked up at him with a pensive smile. ‘Malcolm, tell me about yourself. There’s so much I don’t know.’
‘There’s not much to tell, really,’ he said with a smile. ‘All the usual things. School, Oxford. I spent my holidays in Russia. I loved it out there. I went to the Argentine for two years with the bank and learned a lot. When the war started I came back home and joined the navy. I’ve always been good with mechanical things and I fell in love with flying. After the war I took up racing.’
Mad About the Boy? Page 9
