Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Smith-Fennimore drew back. He suddenly looked very awake indeed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, naturally I hope you’ll be very happy. Isabelle means an awful lot to me, as you can imagine.’

  ‘She means an awful lot to me, too.’ Smith-Fennimore looked puzzled. ‘For heaven’s sake, Haldean, get to the point. What do you want to say?’

  This was it. ‘I had lunch with my godfather, Archie Wilde, yesterday. He said . . . well, he said it’s common knowledge you’ve been linked with a very beautiful woman. A Countess Drubetskaya.’

  Smith-Fennimore drew back abruptly. ‘And exactly what concern of yours is this common knowledge?’ he said icily.

  ‘Of mine personally, none whatever. Don’t think I’m enjoying having to ask you about this, because I’m not. What you do is your own affair. But don’t you see? Isabelle thinks the world of you and I care enormously about what happens to her. She’d be terribly cut up about it if there’s anyone else on the scene.’

  ‘I still don’t see why it’s your concern,’ Smith-Fennimore repeated.

  Haldean smacked his fist into the palm of his hand in frustration. ‘Because I’m the only one of the family who knows! Her brother’s in Malaya and I can hardly tell Uncle Philip. I certainly don’t want to tell Uncle Philip. I’ve got to ask you.’

  Smith-Fennimore thought about it for a long moment and then his frown cleared. Impulsively he thrust out his hand. ‘I suppose you did. The affair’s over.’

  Haldean took the outstretched hand with relief. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.’

  Smith-Fennimore half smiled. ‘No, I can see you wouldn’t be. Look, Haldean, I told Isabelle last night that the reason I didn’t want her around yesterday is because I wanted to buy the engagement ring. That was perfectly true. But the other reason I needed to be alone was that I had to see . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I had to see the lady in question. I wanted it finished and as quickly as possible. I didn’t want there to be any doubt, and you can take it from me that there isn’t. I could hardly tell Isabelle that’s what I was going to do, but it’s over.’ He paused and added in a softer tone. ‘I think an awful lot of your cousin, you know. I would never do anything to hurt her.’

  Haldean smiled. ‘Thanks for being so decent about it.’ He broke off suddenly as footsteps sounded on the stairs and became apparently transfixed by the portrait of Claudia, first Lady Rivers, which hung above their heads. Isabelle and Alfred Charnock joined them.

  ‘Whatever are you gazing at that picture so raptly for, Jack?’ asked Isabelle. ‘Hello, Malcolm.’

  ‘We were wondering if it was by anyone famous,’ said Haldean, mendaciously. ‘Reynolds or someone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Isabelle, frowning at the portrait. ‘It looks very ordinary to me.’

  Charnock looked at Claudia, first Lady Rivers, critically. ‘I think she should have been painted by Stubbs. She looks exactly like a horse. I suppose one can comprehend why she had her portrait painted, but one can’t possibly condone it.’

  Isabelle giggled. ‘You mustn’t be rude about her, Uncle.’

  Charnock raised an eyebrow. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘She was a terrific business woman. She’s why Hesperus is called Hesperus. She was married to Gregory Rivers who went off with Captain Cook to watch the transit of Venus across the face of the sun, and he was away for years.’

  ‘I can see why,’ said Charnock, softly.

  ‘And when he came back he built her this house, as an apology, I suppose, and they called it Hesperus – you know, Latin for Evening Star or Venus. Anyway, soon after they’d built it, he went off again and was drowned at sea so she flung herself into business and made lots of money and increased the estate no end.’

  ‘So,’ said Alfred Charnock. ‘A happy ending all round, eh?’

  The hail started to fill up. As if to avoid the crowd, Smith-Fennimore moved edgily to one side.

  Isabelle followed him. ‘Are you all right, Malcolm?’ she asked softly. ‘You don’t seem quite yourself, somehow. You’ve been off colour all morning.’

  He managed a smile. ‘I’m all right. I’m just feeling a bit stifled.’ He made an obvious effort. ‘The late night didn’t help but I think it’s the change in the weather. There’s a storm brewing. Have you seen the clouds racking up? I bet we have thunder this afternoon and it always gives me a headache.’

  Charnock glanced at Egerton, who, after looking at the grandfather clock, sounded the dinner gong with a practised crescendo. ‘I’m going out for lunch. I must be off. I’ve got an appointment in Brighton. Let me have your car, Jack. Philip always gets agitated when I use the Rolls.’

  Given the casual way in which Charnock drove, Haldean’s sympathies were entirely with his uncle, but he couldn’t think of a socially acceptable way to refuse. ‘I suppose so,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Careful with the clutch, though. It’s a bit sticky.’

  ‘Malcolm’s giving me driving lessons,’ said Isabelle, brightly.

  Haldean grinned. ‘Brave man. I wish someone had taught your Uncle Alfred,’ he added, watching Charnock’s departing back. ‘I know for a fact he’s wrecked at least one car.’

  ‘That was an accident.’

  ‘That was rotten careless driving. Talking of wrecks, it’s an odd thing, but I’d not heard that story about Hesperus before. I always associated it with that poem we used to be bullied into reciting as kids – you know, “The Wreck of the Hesperus”.’

  ‘It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea,’ quoted Isabelle. ‘It makes me giggle like mad, now. The captain comes to grief because he won’t believe there’s a storm on the way.’

  ‘I used to have to recite that too,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘Talking of captains, where’s Stanton?’

  Isabelle looked around the hall. ‘I don’t know. I hope he’s not going to be late again. I thought Dad was going to go pop this morning. Lord Lyvenden’s missing, too.’

  ‘I hope he’s changed out his golf things,’ said Haldean. ‘Lord Lyvenden, I mean. I’ve never seen more gruesome plus-fours.’

  ‘Horrible, weren’t they?’ said Isabelle. She looked at the clock impatiently. ‘I wish they’d hurry up. Arthur certainly knew what time lunch was. Dad gets so agitated when people are late for meals. Can you go and get them, Malcolm? They might not have heard the gong.’

  ‘Right-oh,’ said Smith-Fennimore obligingly. ‘You coming, Haldean?’ he said with a discreet jerk of his head. ‘You go in, Isabelle. We won’t be long. We’ll get Stanton first and then go on for Lord Lyvenden.’ Haldean and Smith-Fennimore walked up the stairs together. ‘I just wanted to repeat what I said earlier,’ said Smith-Fennimore in a low voice. ‘You really needn’t worry about Isabelle. And as for you tackling me about it, don’t worry about that, either. I see you had no choice.’

  ‘Thanks, Fennimore,’ said Haldean with a smile. ‘I wonder what the dickens is keeping Arthur?’ he added.

  ‘Whatever does keep him on these occasions. He’s a bit scatty, isn’t he? As far as I can tell he’s been late for virtually every meal.’

  ‘Yes. He’s between valets at the moment which is probably why. He’ll have lost his braces or something,’ said Haldean. ‘By the way, talking about losing things, d’you know that Russian who was here on Sunday? I wondered if you’d seen anything of the knife Mr Charnock took off him after their set-to. Apparently it’s gone missing. He was sounding off about it at breakfast.’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen it. It’s bound to turn up. He can’t lose a knife like that. Apart from anything else, it must be unique.’

  ‘Unique?’ Haldean shook his head. ‘Not really, although he said he’d put his initials on it. But you can get those big sheath knives anywhere.’

  ‘Can you?’ Smith-Fennimore shrugged. ‘I haven’t come across them. Mr Charnock must have left it lying around somewhere.’

  They knocked on the door of Stanton’s room and a
distracted voice shouted, ‘Come in!’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Jack,’ said Stanton as they entered. ‘And you, Smith-Fennimore,’ he added in slightly less welcoming tones. Although he had put on a fresh shirt and was wearing his braces, his collar was undone and he hadn’t put on either his jacket or tie. ‘Do you know, I still can’t find any of my cuff-links,’ he said in a distracted way. ‘It’s one thing playing golf, but I can’t go down to lunch with my sleeves flapping. They’re in a long brown leather box and I always keep them on my dressing table, but they’ve completely vanished. I can’t think where I’ve put them.’

  ‘Honestly, Arthur, you need a nurse maid,’ said Haldean indulgently, starting to move the clutter on the dressing table. ‘If you can’t find them, I’ll lend you a pair of mine. You’ll have to get a move on. I don’t suppose they’ve slipped into your top drawer, have they?’ He opened the drawer and, taking out a heap of socks, started to search.

  ‘Here they are,’ said Smith-Fennimore, stooping down beside the chest of drawers. ‘They must have got knocked off.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ said Stanton, taking the box and quickly doing up his cuffs. ‘I thought I’d looked there.’ He glanced at Haldean who had stopped dead, staring into the drawer. ‘What are you gazing at, Jack? I can’t think there’s anything so exciting in there. Put those socks back, will you? I don’t want to lose them as well.’

  Haldean reached into the drawer and took out a longbladed sheath knife. He held it up. ‘What’s this doing here? It’s Alfred Charnock’s knife.’ He turned it over in his hands. It was Alfred Charnock’s knife, all right. Scratched into the leather binding of the hilt were the initials A.C. and Sunday’s date.

  Stanton froze, cuff-link in hand. ‘How on earth did that get there?’

  ‘Let me see it,’ said Smith-Fennimore, holding out his hand.

  Haldean passed it across, handle first. Smith-Fennimore tested the blade on his thumb with a grimace. ‘It’s some weapon. How did you come by it, Stanton?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ protested Stanton. ‘Let me have a look at it.’

  As Smith-Fennimore passed it over, Stanton reached out for it. The knife fell and Smith-Fennimore reached out to catch it.

  The knife clattered to the floor. Smith-Fennimore drew his breath in sharply, looking at the line of blood across the palm of his hand. ‘That was pretty stupid of me,’ he said. He pressed his thumb into his palm. ‘Give me a handkerchief, someone,’ he said tightly.

  ‘Here, have one of mine,’ said Stanton, reaching into a drawer.

  They watched as the cloth turned red. ‘You’d better get some iodine on that,’ said Haldean. ‘It looks a nasty cut.’

  ‘It stings, that’s for sure,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘I won’t be able to use this hand for a bit. It’s my right one, worse luck.’ He drew a little jagged breath. ‘Look, Haldean, there’s no point in us all being late. I know what your uncle’s like. Stanton can help me put some sort of bandage on my hand. You get along and tell the others we’re coming.’

  ‘All right. Shall I collect Lord Lyvenden on the way?’

  ‘Leave him to us.’

  ‘All right. Good Lord, look at the time! Hurry up, won’t you, Arthur. My uncle really does hate people being late. Your tie’s on the back of the chair in case you didn’t see it and your jacket’s there as well.’

  He hurried through the door as Smith-Fennimore said, ‘Have you got another handkerchief, Stanton? I’ll need some help to tie the knot properly.’

  Lunch was past the soup stage and a dish of lamb cutlets was being served by the time Smith-Fennimore joined them with a makeshift bandage round his hand. ‘Sorry I’m late, Lady Rivers,’ he apologized, sitting down. ‘I had a bit of an accident.’

  ‘Jack told us,’ said Isabelle, adding sympathetically, ‘You look a bit shaken.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. It was my own fault.’

  Haldean helped himself to spinach from the dish Egerton was offering. ‘Where’s Arthur?’

  ‘He went to root out Lyvenden while I went to the bathroom. I hoped I’d find some iodine in the cupboard.’ He drank some water, wincing slightly as the movement hurt him. ‘I see we’re without Lady Harriet and Mrs Strachan as well.’

  ‘They’re both out for lunch,’ said Sir Philip. ‘As far as Mrs Strachan goes, I can’t say I’m sorry.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘That was a disgraceful scene last night, Alice. What on earth the silly woman was doing with all that cash in the first place, I don’t know.’

  ‘Whatever happened?’ asked Isabelle, all agog.

  ‘Mrs Strachan apparently had about fifty pounds in her bedroom,’ explained Sir Philip, ‘and, of course, she mislaid it. Instead of looking for it properly, she immediately accused Lady Harriet’s maid, that little French girl, of taking it. Pretty bit of a thing,’ he said absently, then caught his wife’s eye. ‘Not that that’s anything to do with it,’ he added hastily. ‘Anyway, they were screaming at each other, Lady Harriet joined in, Lyvenden tried to intervene and made matters much worse, the house was in an uproar and we eventually found the money tucked in a drawer. Mrs Strachan gave the girl five pounds to make up, the maid stopped screeching and everyone was happy. Apart from me. It was a shocking fuss. Where is Lyvenden? If the man’s not going to come to lunch, why doesn’t he say so?’

  At this point, Lawson, the footman, approached and said something quietly to Sir Philip who responded by flinging down his napkin and getting up from the table.

  ‘Apparently Lyvenden’s at it now,’ he announced to the whole table. ‘He’s kicking up a row, I mean. He’s having an argument in his room. God knows who with. I suppose it’s his valet or someone but I’d better go and sort it out. We can’t have this sort of thing going on.’

  Smith-Fennimore glanced up. ‘It’s not his valet. My man, Sotherby, has gone out with Lyvenden’s man for the afternoon.’ He paused and looked at Haldean. ‘You don’t think that Russian has come back, do you?’

  Haldean got to his feet. ‘I’ll go and find out.’ If the Russian had come back then the last thing he wanted was his uncle, in his present mood, to meet him.

  ‘You can come with me,’ said Sir Philip pugnaciously. ‘But my word, if that Russian’s here I’ll have a thing or two to say to him. And Lyvenden, come to that.’

  Haldean inclined his head towards Smith-Fennimore who pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

  Isabelle stood up too.

  ‘There’s no need for you to come, my girl,’ said her father.

  ‘Do let me, Dad. After all, I missed out on the fun last time.’

  Sir Philip would have normally argued the point but he was anxious to go. ‘Fun!’ he said in a way that left no one in any doubt about his feelings, and marched out of the room towards the garden suite. Both the Robiceuxs got up, determined to be in on the action. Sir Philip could hardly forbid them, but it didn’t improve his temper when he looked over his shoulder and saw his retinue.

  They heard the noise from the far end of the corridor. Although they couldn’t distinguish the words, they clearly heard shouts followed by a series of bangs, as if the furniture was being savagely kicked. Sir Philip increased his pace.

  ‘What’s going on? It sounds as if someone was being murdered in there,’ said Haldean to Smith-Fennimore. ‘I say . . .’

  Smith-Fennimore looked at him. ‘Come on.’

  The two men exchanged worried glances, and ran to catch up with Sir Philip, arriving slightly before him.

  Sir Philip banged on the door. ‘Open this door immediately!’ he shouted. There was sudden silence.

  Smith-Fennimore knelt down and put his eye to the keyhole. His injured hand caught on the handle and he winced away, falling sideways. Sprawled on the floor against the door, he looked up at Sir Philip anxiously. ‘I think we’d better break it down, sir.’ He hastily scrambled clear as Haldean prepared to charge.

  ‘Shoot the lock off, Malcolm!’ called Isabelle.

  All the
householder rose in Sir Philip. He caught hold of Haldean and looked in horror at the gun Smith-Fennimore was brandishing. ‘Put that thing away, man. You’ll kill someone with it. As for you, Jack, you can run at that door until you’re blue in the face. This door opens outwards, as you should well know.’

  ‘Oh, Sorry, Uncle. I say,’ said Haldean, his impetuous rush halted. ‘I suppose the door is locked, is it?’

  Sir Philip rattled the handle and the door swung open towards them. They all rapidly went in and then stopped short.

  In the middle of the room, huddled by the desk, his arms flung wide, lay the body of Lord Lyvenden. A dark and sinister lake surrounded him. The rich salty smell of blood hit them like a clenched fist. A long-bladed knife stuck out grotesquely from Lord Lyvenden’s chest and beside the body, his shirt stained and his hands covered in blood, knelt Arthur Stanton.

  Haldean looked from the sprawled body of Lord Lyvenden to his friend’s white, nervous face in horror. ‘Arthur? Arthur, what happened?’

  Stanton looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. ‘I didn’t do anything. Anything at all. I didn’t do it. I don’t know how it happened. Honestly, I didn’t do it.’

  He struggled to his feet and walked towards them. His hands were red and slimy with blood. Bubble Robiceux screamed and Stanton turned to her. ‘I tell you, I haven’t done anything.’ He glanced behind him at Lyvenden’s body. ‘I didn’t do it. I know what it looks like but I didn’t do it.’ He turned to Haldean, hands outstretched. ‘Tell them, Jack. You know I wouldn’t do it.’ Stanton put a bloodstained hand on Haldean’s arm. ‘You know I didn’t do it.’

  Haldean stared at his friend, then at the hand on his sleeve. ‘Arthur?’ he said in a whisper. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing!’ There was rising hysteria in Stanton’s voice. ‘Nothing!’

  ‘We’ll let the police decide that,’ said Smith-Fennimore curtly. He had his gun in his hand. ‘Back against the wall, man.’

  Stanton shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. I didn’t do it. I haven’t done anything.’