Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Haldean shifted uneasily. ‘Well, you know, Aunt Alice, she was fairly keen on old Arthur before Smith-Fennimore turned up. He was goofy about her.’

  Lady Rivers shuddered. ‘His feelings are immaterial. As for Isabelle, I hardly know what to say. Despite the fact that she was, apparently, fond of Arthur Stanton, she became formally engaged to another man. And now, now Captain Stanton has clearly gone off his head, committed a brutal crime and thrown us all into chaos, now she decides she prefers him?’

  ‘I don’t know that she does prefer him,’ said Haldean helplessly. ‘I think she’s sorry for him, that’s all. Smith-Fennimore’s been sort of caught up in the machinery. It’s a bit tough on him, I must say.’

  ‘A bit tough on him?’ repeated his aunt in a dazed voice. ‘Tough? It’s appalling for him, Jack. Simply because of some ridiculous feeling of totally unmerited pity, Isabelle is behaving like an idiot. She won’t talk to either your uncle or me and I gather she won’t talk to Commander Smith-Fennimore either.’

  ‘She bit my head off too.’

  Lady Rivers sighed dangerously. ‘Jack, go and talk to Isabelle. Find some way, some method, of pointing out the stupidity of what she is doing. I want a reconciliation between her and the Commander and I want it to happen soon. Naturally if, after reflection, she finds she has made a hasty decision and cannot marry Commander Smith-Fennimore, then I will support her. But this childish behaviour has to stop. Get her to see sense. Get her to speak to the Commander, for heaven’s sake. She obviously liked him well enough before. What’s made the difference?’

  Haldean shrugged. ‘You’ve got me there. Look, what if I suggest running down to Brighton or somewhere? If Belle agrees, then we could go out for the evening with Fennimore and Bubble and Squeak. Safety in numbers and all that. I don’t know why she won’t speak to the man, but maybe if we got away from here it would do her good. Things have been a bit intense, don’t you know? Perhaps she needs to step away from it all.’

  ‘I wish I could step away from it all,’ said Lady Rivers bitterly. ‘Brighton sounds like a very good idea. See if you can get her to agree, Jack, because I honestly cannot tolerate this situation.’ She stood up. ‘And now you’d better go and find Mr Ashley. You don’t want to keep him waiting longer than necessary.’

  ‘Right-ho. By the way,’ added Haldean, reaching for the door handle, ‘I know you tried to get in touch with Tim Preston’s uncle. Did you have any luck?’

  ‘We got a telegram this morning,’ said Lady River shortly. ‘Apparently his uncle, Mr Urqhart, is in India and won’t be back for at least six weeks. I’ve also heard from his sister, a Mrs Carhew, in Scotland. She won’t be able to attend the inquest either and, quite frankly, I’m not sorry. Things are complicated enough without having to see to yet more people. The inquest will have to go ahead without any of Mr Preston’s family in attendance, but that’s not really important.’ She gave him an exasperated look. ‘The important thing is to talk some sense into Isabelle.’

  ‘Okay, Aunt Alice,’ promised Haldean. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Ashley was waiting for him in the hall. ‘Is Lady Rivers all right?’ he asked as they walked along to the garden suite. ‘She seemed a bit put out about something.’

  Haldean grinned. ‘I think she’s a bit put out, to use that incredibly mild expression, that the house has filled up with corpses. Isabelle isn’t helping, either. Smith-Fennimore was the dickens of a catch and she used to go all wobbly at the sight of him, but he’s in the doghouse at the moment, and no mistake. God knows why.’

  ‘No, I can’t understand it either,’ agreed Ashley. ‘By the way, I spoke to Lady Harriet’s maid, Yvette Charbonneau, and Sotherby, Commander Smith-Fennimore’s valet. They were both in the servants’ hall from twelve o’clock on Tuesday and couldn’t tell me anything. I also spoke to Adamson, Lord Lyvenden’s man, and he was very helpful.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’s been through Lord Lyvenden’s room for me. He was also able to tell me what Lord Lyvenden was doing before lunch. Despite it being Adamson’s half-day, he was stuck in the room until after one. Apparently Lord Lyvenden was a bit shirty with clock-watchers. If he was getting dressed, he wanted his valet there, half-day or no half-day. Adamson says the Commander brought his master some papers in a large briefcase and they had a discussion in low voices. That, I may say, chimes in with Commander Smith-Fennimore’s own story. It was obviously something confidential. The Commander stayed for about five minutes or so before leaving the papers with Lord Lyvenden. Lord Lyvenden set to work and dismissed Adamson right away, much to his relief. Incidentally, he’s got very little strength in his left arm. He got a bullet through it in the war, and it’s affected the muscle. So not only can he not have done it, the only result, as far as I can see, is that he’s out of a perfectly good situation.’

  Ashley opened the door to what had been Lord Lyvenden’s room and stopped.

  Malcolm Smith-Fennimore was sitting at the desk, a stack of files in front of him. He looked up as they came in.

  ‘What are you doing in here, sir?’ asked Ashley politely. ‘I’d prefer this room to be left alone.’

  Smith-Fennimore stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Superintendent. I didn’t realize. The key was in the lock.’ He indicated the scattered papers on the desk. ‘There’s a document that Lyvenden signed – at least I hope he signed it – and I can’t find it anywhere.’

  ‘I would prefer that nothing was touched, sir.’

  ‘But it’s vital,’ said Smith-Fennimore wearily, rubbing his hand across his face. ‘There’s a whole raft of business in the Argentine depending on this one document and I can’t find it. Please let me look for it, Superintendent. If necessary you can examine it, but I simply have to find it.’

  ‘Well, what is it, sir?’

  Smith-Fennimore hesitated before replying. ‘It’s confidential. I know it sounds hard-hearted,’ he added, ‘but I could wish Lyvenden had kept this stuff in better order. It’s a single sheet on ordinary foolscap paper in my handwriting and headed Señor Ignacio Fauró: Argentine Railways and, quite frankly, it could be anywhere.’

  ‘And what’s it about, sir?’ asked Ashley, picking up some of the cardboard files.

  Smith-Fennimore lit a cigarette. ‘It’s about the bank not checking properly before we lend money. I could be ruined if this gets out.’

  ‘That sounds serious,’ said Haldean.

  Smith-Fennimore grimaced. ‘I mean it. Oh, I’d pull it back somehow, but it would be damned hard. I’ve got enough to cope with without saving Smith, Wilson and Fennimore from going under. You know how things are in the City. One hint that we’re not rock-solid and the gossip gets going, share prices tumble and the speculators move in.’

  ‘That sounds really serious,’ said Haldean. ‘Er . . . what’s the problem?’

  Smith-Fennimore pulled on his cigarette nervously, and came to a decision. ‘Not a word,’ he warned. ‘Last year we joined forces with this Ignacio Fauró. He imports rolling stock for the railways from Britain. Railways in the Argentine are booming and it seemed a solid proposition. However, I then found out, through our agents in Buenos Aires and Bahia Blanca, that Fauró has a string of other businesses and they’re all rotten. There’s an amber mine, some building projects and an electricity company. They’re all broke. The profits on the railway fell off and my suspicion – well founded as it turned out – was that our man was using our railway money to prop up his ailing interests.’

  Smith-Fennimore put his hands on the desk, leaning on his arms. ‘You see the problem? We had a gentlemen’s agreement which would be considered a Joint Venture. If the railway failed, then we would not only be liable for the railway’s debts, but lose the money lent, so to speak, to his other concerns. We’d invested so much I didn’t want to pull out. That way we’d lose the whole amount. I’ve been thinking about this all week. It was when we were playing golf, Haldean, that the solution came to me. If it wasn’t for everything el
se which has happened, with Tim and so on, I’d have worked it out before. If we put the railway into a Joint Stock Company, we’d limit our liabilities to that company alone. We’d hold fifty-one per cent of the shares, thereby turning the money Fauró borrowed, so to speak, into our shares. Fauró couldn’t refuse. We knew too much and I was going to make sure one of our agents acted as the manager to keep tabs on him. That’s what I had to discuss with Lord Lyvenden, I needed his signed consent before I could go ahead with getting a final agreement drawn up and it’s that signed consent I’ve been looking for. It has to be kept secret, though. If it ever got out that such a major investment had been so badly mishandled, it would really put the cat amongst the pigeons.’

  Haldean whistled. ‘I can see why you want it kept shtoom. But what happens now Lyvenden’s dead?’

  ‘To be quite honest, I don’t know. I don’t want to seem callous, but I’m hoping that Lyvenden signed my proposal before he died, otherwise I’ll have to go to old Wilson.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s about ninety and uses an ear-trumpet. He’s only still on the board because my two nephews bought it in the war. I’m the only one of the younger generation left. That’s why I needed Lyvenden in the first place. It’ll take Wilson weeks to appreciate what I’m talking about and we haven’t got the time.’ He looked at Haldean. ‘The bank’s going to be fine if we can keep it quiet, but there’s going to be so much work involved if Lyvenden didn’t sign that document.’ He looked at Ashley. ‘You see why I need it, Superintendent.’

  ‘I do, sir. I don’t want to harm your business interests. Shall we help you look?’

  Smith-Fennimore stood up straight. ‘Thanks. It could be anywhere. Lyvenden was hopelessly disorganized.’

  The three men hunted through the stack of files. ‘By the way, Fennimore,’ said Haldean, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve come across anything that could be these coded papers Tim talked about?’

  Smith-Fennimore shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t, but I’d like to know what it was all about, I must say. If they were that sensitive perhaps Lyvenden took them with him when he went up to London on Monday.’

  Haldean clicked his tongue. ‘D’you know, I bet he did. Damn. I was hoping to find them. Any sign of your Argentine paper yet?’

  ‘No.’ They searched for a few more minutes in silence, then Smith-Fennimore gave a sigh of relief. ‘I’ve found it. Thank goodness for that.’

  Haldean looked at the single sheet of paper Smith-Fennimore was holding. It was covered with small, neat writing and at the bottom was written Agreed, with Lord Lyvenden’s flamboyant signature followed by yesterday’s date.

  ‘Thank God he’s signed it,’ said Smith-Fennimore. He sat down and lit another cigarette. ‘That’s one problem out of the way, at all events. Haldean, have you talked to Isabelle?’

  ‘Not yet, but I intend to. I think she needs to get away from here. I did wonder if we ran down to Brighton or somewhere tonight – you, me, Isabelle and Bubble and Squeak – she might see sense. We can all go in my car.’

  Smith-Fennimore thought for a moment. ‘If she’ll agree, then it’s a good idea. I’d like the drive, if nothing else.’ He looked round the room and shuddered. ‘It’s hard to believe it’s only yesterday it all happened. Have you heard anything of Stanton?’

  Haldean glanced towards Ashley and received an almost imperceptible nod in reply. ‘He’s been seen twice. Once in Cranston and once between Melling Bridge and Caynor. It’s not that far from where he used to live.’

  ‘Well, I hope you catch him soon.’ He looked round the room once more, this time with a thoughtful frown. ‘Why do you want this room left alone? I mean, we all know what happened.’

  ‘It’s just procedure, sir,’ replied Ashley. ‘We have to make sure we’re not overlooking any clues.’

  Smith-Fennimore half smiled. ‘It looks a mess to me, with the windows boarded up. I suppose Sir Philip will be able to get those reglazed, will he?’

  ‘As soon as possible, sir. We don’t want to cause any more disruption than necessary.’

  Smith-Fennimore smiled again. ‘Yes, there’s been enough disruption to keep us all going for quite some time. What clues can there be, though? In the stories I read the murderer always seems to leave a glove or a handkerchief which gives the whole show away. I’ve never really followed that. I mean, look at all the things in here. How could you possibly say if the murderer dropped anything?’

  Haldean glanced at Ashley. ‘Was there anything here that shouldn’t have been?’

  Ashley shook his head. ‘I had Adamson, Lord Lyvenden’s valet, go through the room. He didn’t touch the papers, of course, but everything else belonged either to the house or to his master.’ Ashley paused. ‘There was something missing, though. I was going to ask round about it. Adamson can’t find Lord Lyvenden’s cigarette case. It was a gold one, apparently, with jewels on it.’

  ‘His cigarette case?’ repeated Smith-Fennimore. ‘I didn’t know that was missing. It’s pretty valuable, I would have thought.’

  Haldean grinned. ‘It’s pretty horrible, I would have thought. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a ditch with it. No, you won’t find that in here. Arthur ran off with it.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Smith-Fennimore in surprise. ‘Are you sure? I didn’t see that.’

  Haldean nodded. ‘It was when you were hovering over him with the gun. He walked backwards, stumbled, picked it up, waved it round a bit, then shoved it in his pocket.’

  ‘That’s worth knowing,’ said Ashley. ‘Thanks, Haldean.’ He looked towards Smith-Fennimore. ‘I don’t want to hurry you, sir, but I really must ask you to leave. And now,’ he said, when Smith-Fennimore had gone, ‘let’s have a look for that key to the french windows, shall we?’

  They didn’t find it.

  It was later that morning when Haldean ran Isabelle to earth in the summerhouse.

  She looked at him defensively. ‘Has my mother sent you?’

  He sat down beside her. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. She’s worried about you. I’m worried about you, if you must know. You seemed to react so . . . well, so oddly.’

  Isabelle sat upright, a spot of colour flaring in her cheeks. ‘I like that. This is Arthur we’re talking about – Arthur! You’re supposed to be his best friend. You must know he’s innocent. All you have to do is get at the truth and everything’ll be all right. You can do it, Jack, you know you can.’

  Haldean took out his pipe and penknife and cleaned the bowl out thoughtfully. ‘Why’ve you suddenly decided to loathe Smith-Fennimore? You must have a reason.’

  Isabelle drew her knees up on to the seat and clasped her arms round them. ‘He shot Arthur.’ She stared straight ahead, avoiding his eyes.

  It was as if she was closing herself off, thought Haldean. ‘Look at me, Isabelle,’ he said gently, taking her hand. ‘Fennimore says he was trying to stop him.’

  She shuddered. ‘He wasn’t. I know he wasn’t. I saw Malcolm’s face, Jack. It frightened me. Really frightened me, I mean.’ She paused. ‘Look, I know you think I’m being rotten to Malcolm, but I’d swear he was trying to kill Arthur. Once I’d seen that look on his face, I was scared to be near him.’

  Haldean sat back with his arms folded. ‘Don’t you think you might be mistaken?’ he said eventually, taking out his tobacco pouch. ‘After all, we were all pretty wound up and Fennimore’s hand must have been giving him hell. It’s easy to mistake an expression, particularly when we were as tense as we were yesterday. Fennimore really does care for you, you know. We’re going to run down to Brighton for the evening with Bubble and Squeak. If you come with us, you don’t have to be alone with him but I think you could be civil and hear his side of it. He’s wretched about all of this.’

  She looked at him with worried eyes. ‘Let me think about it. Jack, I’ve been wrong about lots of things, but I’m not wrong about Arthur, I know I’m not. I mean, look how he was with Tim. You told me how he gave Tim all that money. He’s a good man, Jack.’
>
  Haldean didn’t contradict her. He liked Arthur tremendously and had done for years. And Isabelle was right; Arthur was a good man. But . . . there was always a but. Granted that Arthur had knifed Lyvenden, it was because of what Lyvenden had done to his family. Was Arthur capable of nursing such resentment? He resents you, said a voice at the back of his mind.

  For the first time ever, he faced the matter squarely. He knew perfectly well that Arthur blamed him for taking him back to hospital after that incident in the Euston Road. It had been then their paths had diverged. When they’d had their flare-up on Sunday afternoon he’d known it was lurking beneath the surface. But what else could he have done? A car had backfired, Arthur had crumpled and the poor devil had been ill for months afterwards.

  They’d papered over the cracks but they’d never talked about it. It wasn’t something that could be talked about, but it had been there for years, an unspoken barrier between them. And it was so damned unfair. He’d devoted a whole precious Short Leave to meeting Arthur. It wasn’t his fault that it had all turned out so very badly.

  He shook himself. Arthur associated him with one of the ghastliest times in his life. That was all there was to it. The poor devil couldn’t help himself. Having said that, it still rankled.

  And there was another thing. Although Isabelle hadn’t doubted it, they only had Arthur’s word for it that he had given Tim the money. That’s rubbish, he told himself sternly. If Arthur said he’d shelled up, he had. You couldn’t analyse what a friend said as if it was evidence in a court of law where nothing could be believed unless it was backed up by a witness. Good God, what a state of affairs that would be. Arthur told the truth. It was as simple as that. If he said he helped Tim, he helped Tim. Tim . . .

  ‘I wouldn’t mind talking about Tim,’ he said, putting a match to his pipe. ‘Ashley listened to me, but it’s Lyvenden’s murder he’s concentrating on. I don’t think he’s convinced Tim was murdered, you know.’