Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman

by Tessa Arlen

  As Pansy launched herself bravely into a complicated and, to Clementine’s ear, only slightly muddled étude, she wandered over to Gertrude, who was sitting on a sofa as far away from the piano as she could get. She was again struck by how wan her friend looked despite the studied lack of concern on her pretty, slightly triangular catlike face.

  “Clemmy darling,” Gertrude greeted her friend as she turned her head for the footman to light her cigarette. “How are things? Everyone’s bearing up quite wonderfully, considering…” She laughed, as if Clementine’s stage murder for drawing room entertainment had perhaps been a little excessive. Clementine was grateful for Gertrude’s determined lightheartedness when all about her was gravity and gloom.

  Fortified by her dinner, the brandy she was now enjoying instead of coffee, and her absolute acceptance that her house was in complete chaos had had a singularly strengthening effect on Clementine. Her mind was now working quite nicely. She took comfort from Gertrude’s offhand remark, calculated to reassure her that all was not lost and that her friends were still gathered loyally around her. But she knew Gertrude well enough to understand that her friend was at her most elusive; Gertrude was signaling that she was off-limits. There were to be no revelations for Clementine—confided fears and trepidations were taboo.

  Gertrude’s greatest physical attraction lay in her lustrous pearly skin and her fine silver-gilt hair, giving her a rather opalescent quality, a lustrous sheen of sensual beauty. She gave the impression of complete immobility, and until one knew her well, it was easy to imagine her more at ease reclining in a drawing room, browsing through a book, or seated under a shady tree, contemplating the far horizon with detached indifference. But Clementine knew that Gertrude was a deceptively active woman, able to ride across country for hours and competently at ease on the most athletic horse. She had taken up tennis last summer, playing with powerful and wiry strength. Clementine did not forget that Gertrude was also adept at keeping her cards close; she rarely revealed her thoughts. Neither did she welcome other women’s close confidences, as she never wished to be the subject of theirs. The recounting of light, amusing gossip, however, was a skill, the pastime of drawing rooms and gentle strolls in the garden with friends, and a pastime practiced by Gertrude with adroit ease. “What an exhausting day it’s been.” Clementine matched her friend’s manner, fully conscious that Gertrude had been distant since her arrival in her house and had avoided any opportunity for private talk with her.

  “Mmm … can’t wait to bolt for my room, darling—in common with all of us, except that bloody Agatha.” Gertrude laughed and flicked ash. “Look at us: scared to death of what old Val is going to dig up and who he is going to talk to. Talk about a blunderer. Is he up to the job do you think, bit of an old fogey really isn’t he?”

  “I suppose so.”

  But Gertrude had made an important point. What would Valentine dig up? An image of the boathouse garden flew into Clementine’s mind and a horrid understanding began to assemble itself. The garden abutted the orchard, which ended abruptly at a corner by the back drive in front of the old carriage house.

  Any visiting chauffeur could have heard Harry’s loud, angry voice and taken a curious peek through the light screen of trees at the edge of the drive, to be rewarded with the sight of a violent quarrel between the two cousins. What would the police make of her son’s reason for his fight with Teddy?

  It was all she could do to keep her seat. She was half out of it, as if there were something she could do physically to prevent the catastrophe of Harry’s arrest for his cousin’s murder. Her escalating panic made her clumsy and she knocked over the heavy crystal glass on the table. “Oh, blast and damn.” She never swore.

  As John picked up pieces of broken glass and wiped spilled brandy, she made a decision.

  She would not let an incompetent police inquiry land her son as their favorite suspect. It simply would not happen.

  She looked up and saw Gertrude’s cool green eyes watching her. With supreme self-control she adopted her earlier lighthearted tone and returned to their conversation.

  “If you are to have a murder investigation going on in your house, Gertrude, better for it to be headed up by someone who understands the importance of good manners, rather than by some clod from Market Wingley who eats his peas with his knife.” They both laughed. “Anyway, Valentine is not really an old fogey, just trying not to step on too many toes.”

  “I am sure he won’t be cluttering your house up for long, Clemmy. You heard of course that there was some sort of stranger loitering about the village for the last couple of days?” Gertrude fixed a feline gaze on her friend’s face.

  Now this was more like it, Clementine thought. Here was something to hope for after this desperate day. She leaned toward her friend, and Gertrude laughed outright, acknowledging what a boon some wandering outsider would be for all of them.

  “Well exactly, looks like it won’t be such a big mystery after all.”

  Despite Gertrude’s laconic Belgravia drawl and her studied insouciance, a manner Clementine recognized of old and one always adopted by her friend when she was disconcerted, Clementine knew enough not to be fooled by her outward show of indifference. She looked for other signs that Gertrude was rattled: those pretty gooseberry-green eyes of hers were far too watchful, her lovely jawline far too tense. Why, she asked herself, does it matter to Gertrude that suspicion be cast outside the house?

  “Where did you get this information from?” Clementine asked, careful to keep her tone playful, as if she did not quite believe what she was hearing; there had been so much chitchat.

  “Well, I always make sure I spend any time with my maid profitably. She overheard the handsome Sergeant Hawkins giving some instructions to his constable. Seems like your gamekeeper saw someone and so did your gardener—a stranger to the area wandering around the village, apparently. Considering what a little thug young Teddy was, there were probably no end to his grubby involvements … possibilities are endless where that boy was concerned. So there you are, darling, probably all sewn up by tomorrow.”

  Clementine kept her reply noncommittal.

  “Well, that would be nice. Anything about Lucinda on the servants’ grapevine?” She knew it was expected of her to ask.

  Gertrude carefully blew a thin stream of smoke into the air, turned her head, and gave Clementine a tiny wink. “Ah Lucinda, now there’s a dark horse if ever I saw one. The Lambert-Lambert family are in for some suprises there, I think. Not the jolly nice little girls that we are, Clemmy, you can be sure of that.” Gertrude turned as John walked toward them with more coffee.

  “Want to come for a ride tomorrow morning?” Clementine hoped that perhaps after a nice long gallop Gertrude might relax enough to confide her own concerns, but she was to be disappointed.

  “Can’t, darling, got a half past ten with old Val, but Constance will, won’t you, darling?” she asked as Constance Ambrose plumped herself down on their sofa.

  Clementine nodded absentmindedly, beckoned to John, and told him to ask Mrs. Jackson to come straight up to her sitting room when they were finished with their coffee after dinner. There was a lot to plan for.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mrs. Jackson had learned over the years that although Lady Montfort possessed many strong qualities, the art of remaining detached in the midst of calamity was not one of them. She played a pretty good game, did Lady Montfort, but the appearance of self-possession did not fool Mrs. Jackson. Her ladyship was not, by nature or inclination, blessed with an inner tranquility and she was a consummate doer, some might even say an interferer. Lady Montfort’s response to the missing third housemaid had been evidence of that already. As she stood in Lady Montfort’s sitting room she carefully took in all the little telltale signs that her ladyship’s inner motor was positively racing. She was sitting bolt upright, for one thing, her back rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and she had that awfully bright, overattentive expression on her
face.

  “Jackson, what a terrible day. How is everyone coping?” To give her credit, Lady Montfort was certainly doing a good job of managing her inner turmoil. Her “everyone” of course referred to belowstairs.

  “In spite of it all, very well, m’lady.” Her response was cautious. After the harrowing interview with Lady Montfort that afternoon, she would hold on to the lifeline of business as usual until she managed to gauge which way the wind was blowing this evening.

  “Visiting servants not causing any problems? Gossip, that kind of thing?”

  She assured Lady Montfort that the visiting servants were old friends, respectful of the situation and doing everything they could to help out. She held in her hand menus for the next couple of days: beef consommé, followed by veal cutlets, dauphinoise potatoes, and garden peas, and then apple tart for tomorrow’s luncheon. She handed over a menu to Lady Montfort as she went on to explain that another storm was on the way, so Cook had planned something warming for dinner. She took a moment to go through the menu and when she had finished she looked inquiringly at Lady Montfort, who had barely glanced at the lists in her hand.

  So food was not what this meeting was about then, thought Mrs. Jackson, and sure enough, Lady Montfort asked about Violet. Was there any news?

  Mrs. Jackson had spent a good deal of thought on Violet’s disappearance and had prepared an answer for Lady Montfort that she hoped would go some way to mollifying her ladyship until she had the time to find out what Violet’s running off was really all about.

  “I believe that we … I … underestimated Violet, m’lady.” This cost Mrs. Jackson a good deal, as she was still very annoyed with herself for having made assumptions where Violet was concerned. “I thought she had settled into a comfortable routine in the house, well that was certainly my impression. Now it seems I was wrong. According to Mary, who shared a room with Violet, she was homesick. I feel entirely responsible for not being aware…” Here she stopped to allow Lady Montfort to take in this information.

  “But you said she was so willing, that she worked hard and got on with everyone.” The poor woman sounded almost plaintive. There was a slight wobble in her voice.

  “Yes, m’lady, but I was possibly mistaken in taking this to mean that all was well. Mr. Simkins is sending word to Ticksby, to his sister; he thinks that Violet has probably gone to her.”

  “Ticksby is miles away. How could she get there?”

  “By train, or the Blue Coach I expect, m’lady, or perhaps she got a lift with a carter. Her aunt will send to us when she turns up. It can be the only explanation…”

  She fully understood that it was out of the question for Lady Montfort to speak of her greatest fear, that Mr. Teddy’s murder might have involved either or both of the missing girls. Until the young women were found, one way or another, she knew there would be an undercurrent of suspicion, doubt, and fear throughout the coming days. The Talbots and their servants must not react or become overemotional. Good manners and self-discipline were all they had to fall back on at times like these. She hoped they would all prevail and not lose their heads. These valuable thoughts were not ones she presumed to share with Lady Montfort, however.

  “I simply don’t understand this generation at all, Jackson. Their behavior is outrageous. Lucinda Lambert-Lambert left my house this morning at some frightful hour … without a goodbye to either her mother or to me. What do you make of that?”

  If Mrs. Jackson was surprised that her opinion had been asked for, she didn’t show it as she answered that Miss Lucinda, always an independent young woman, was probably quite safe and off about her business.

  Mrs. Jackson could see that underneath her locked-down self-control Lady Montfort was beginning to unravel again and did what she could to bolster her. She reassured her that all would come clear in time, hoping that this would be enough to help her ladyship accept that before resolution there was often a state of flux.

  “Yes, of course you are right, Jackson, there is some simple explanation and we must not jump to conclusions, very right and sensible.

  “What have you heard about this stranger in the area? Another one of those village rumors do you think?” Lady Montfort was holding on to her handkerchief for dear life.

  This was the first Mrs. Jackson had heard of a stranger, but she was not surprised. She wondered who could have started this particular tale, and was informed immediately by Lady Montfort. Theo Cartwright and one of the gardeners had evidently seen a strange man hanging about the village yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Jackson agreed that it was possibly just a rumor.

  “You are doing the flowers again tomorrow, aren’t you, Jackson?” Lady Montfort had a way of shifting from one topic to another with lightning speed. Mrs. Jackson said that she was, and was completely unprepared for what followed.

  “Good, then please find out exactly which gardener saw this man and what he actually did see. I want the details.”

  Considerably taken aback, Mrs. Jackson was more than surprised at the impropriety of what Lady Montfort was asking her to do. It was completely out of character, and not only that, she thought, feeling quite trapped and resentful, it put her in an awful spot. Theo was employed by the Talbots, so why wouldn’t Lady Montfort ask him directly herself? But Mrs. Jackson was an astute judge of situation and character and knew very well that Lady Montfort must not break caste and go dredging through the servants’ hall and the estate for gossip, especially now. What was the expression Lady Montfort’s father, with his Indian background, had used? That’s right, a subedar: a noncommissioned officer in the Indian army who was above the other ranks. Lady Montfort needed a subedar, someone she could trust to sound out the troops and report back on morale and behavior. Mrs. Jackson was being asked to report on the lower servants, and the very thought of it was distasteful to her.

  A long silence settled between them. Mrs. Jackson decided it was up to Lady Montfort to continue. She had nothing to say at this point. She watched Lady Montfort ball up her handkerchief and toss it to one side. Minutes passed. Mrs. Jackson continued to stand quietly, her gaze fixed on the fine Persian carpet. How well she knew its pattern. Then Lady Montfort impatiently burst into speech.

  “Yes, you’re right, Jackson, it is not fair or right of me to ask, it’s just that you get on so well with Mr. Thrower.”

  A thought occurred to Mrs. Jackson and she lifted her eyes from the central medallion of the carpet and looked up at Lady Montfort as directly as she felt was acceptable, given the unusual circumstances of their conversation. “Is it his confirmation of the stranger’s whereabouts you need, or is there something else troubling you, m’lady?”

  Well of course there was, she thought as she watched Lady Montfort’s shoulders come down several inches, as she almost collapsed in on herself. It was probably too direct a question, and she was ready to be put in her place for asking it. But here again Lady Montfort surprised her.

  “Would you describe Harry as a needlessly violent boy, given to thrashings and beatings, and all of that?”

  Lord Haversham? What could the Talbots’ son and heir have to do with all this? She had known Lord Haversham since he was two and she had a soft spot for him. She remembered him as a sunny-tempered child growing up: loving and respectful to his mother, his sisters, and his nanny. He was to her mind a gentleman of the old school—a pearl, a gem. She was stirred to respond quite emphatically.

  “Never, m’lady, I have only seen him lose his temper once and that was with that awful boy who tried to push Lady Althea out of the treehouse when she was eight. If anyone deserved a thrashing, that Boswell boy most certainly did.”

  She watched Lady Montfort stand up and wander over to the window, looking out into the dark night, her drawn face clearly reflected in the glass.

  “Well, I have seen him lose his temper, Jackson, for the first time, and it was rather a shock.” Lady Montfort drew back from the window and closed the curtains. She then proceeded to unburden herself about what she h
ad seen by the boathouse, in what Mrs. Jackson saw as an act of courage and trust because what she revealed put Lord Haversham in a very bad position indeed. And then she went on to tell her about the awful business of Teddy and Harry’s dog.

  “Now what do you have to say to that?” Lady Montfort asked when she had related the whole story.

  “M’lady, I have known Lord Haversham for most of his life. He is a staunch supporter of the underdog, so to speak. Kindness itself to animals and the village children; cruelty of any kind upsets him. And he can’t abide a bully.”

  “Yes, Jackson, we all know this, of course we do. But the police don’t know Lord Haversham. Colonel Valentine only knows him slightly. And if this fight was seen or heard by any of the visiting servants, say the chauffeurs, and they related it to the police … do you get my drift?”

  Of course she did. If the police were told about the fight, Lord Haversham’s part in it could be thoroughly misinterpreted, since twelve hours later his cousin had been brutally killed. The sense of dread that had been with her all day intensified at the direction this conversation was taking, but she owed it to her ladyship to be straight.

  “Yes, m’lady, I understand. They could put a completely different interpretation on things.”

  “Yes, Jackson, and that would be bad. There is so much going on in this house, I can’t keep it all straight. And I must if I am to be of any use at all in the coming days. Have you seen or heard anything? Anything at all that is unusual…?”

  Mrs. Jackson did not answer for a moment. She sensed all sorts of dangers ahead, but Lord Haversham’s fight with Mr. Mallory reminded her of something else, and against her better judgment she made a cautious foray into no-man’s-land.

  “Miss Lucinda and Mr. Teddy apparently had an argument on the terrace before dinner last night. John saw it all; he said Miss Lucinda was quite angry.” What on earth was she thinking? She should never admit that the footman would presume to report on the family’s behavior. This is what happens, she told herself grimly, when you step out of line.