Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman

by Tessa Arlen

  Christina Mallory had lived on the Riviera ever since the death of King Edward and rarely came to England these days unless she had to. It was rumored that Christina, a member of the then Marlborough set, had been one of the old king’s favorite companions, perhaps not as popular as Mrs. Keppel, Clementine suspected, but nonetheless a woman of consequence in his circle of intimate friends and many mistresses. The last time Clementine had had to spend time with Christina’s set, they had still behaved as if the now-dead king had just left the room and would return at any moment. Their style was almost passé: champagne for breakfast; expensive, overbred racehorses; baccarat until dawn; twelve-course dinners; and, as the years wore on, wealthy businessmen advisers and compliant husbands who looked the other way. Yes, Clementine thought, Christina moved in a different sphere entirely to that of her elder brother.

  But a visit from Verity was another thing entirely. Clementine had hoped their daughter would accompany her aunt to Iyntwood and now she saw her arrival as a ray on the horizon. She wondered how long Verity would stay with them.

  Her husband broke into this pleasant daydream: “I saw Sergeant Hawkins just before I came upstairs. Please don’t mention this to anyone, but there were papers belonging to Teddy at Christ Church—Oscar Barclay had them, apparently—that clearly indicate he was involved in something other than his gambling club. Another dubious business venture I am quite sure, and no doubt illegal. No, please don’t ask me what, because I have no idea. But I am thinking that perhaps this whatever-it-is might have backfired on him and be a possible reason for his murder. Valentine will be returning tomorrow. I am hoping this business will resolve itself in a day or two. Thank God Valentine has things sewn up. Anything on Lucinda, by the way?”

  Clementine recalled the desperate afternoon that Gilbert and Harriet had spent shouting down the telephone. “No, nothing at all, and I think Gilbert and Harriet are at their wits’ end. They have heard nothing from any of their houses, from Lucinda’s friends, or from Girton. It’s quite awful.” She felt his hand close around hers and they were silent for a moment.

  “Yes, it is. The whole thing is awful,” he answered, and then finally he got to the part of his day that she knew had caused him so much distress.

  “I dropped in on Mr. Simkins at the end of the search to tell him we had not found her.”

  Clementine straightened up. Jim Simkins had been at the back of her mind all day. She knew the maid’s disappearance had sorely contributed to her husband’s belief that he had somehow failed in his responsibility to Violet and her father. Whatever had caused her to run, she had run from their house.

  “Poor Mr. Simkins. How is he?” she asked. She felt the same weight of guilt she suspected he felt, as she thought of Violet’s troubled and fearful father waiting for news of his daughter’s whereabouts.

  “He took the news with dignity, but of course he is much shaken. He looks desperately ill. I think the shock of Violet’s disappearance has brought him very low. I hope to God we find out where she has got to soon.”

  “I’ll telephone Dr. Carter first thing in the morning and ask him to go round to Mr. Simkins’s cottage.” Then, with one of her usual swift changes of tack: “Has anyone asked the stationmaster if he saw Violet?”

  “No one has seen her, Clemmy, no one in the village, Cryer’s Breach, or Little Buffenden. It’s as if she has just vanished.”

  “Like Lucinda,” Clementine added incautiously, and was immediately corrected.

  “No, I don’t think so at all. Lucinda decided to go and went. There’s a difference.” And there was a difference in her husband’s tone of voice, too. He disapproved of young women who were independent and unmannerly and Lucinda in his view was both. “We must sit tight and wait for Valentine to complete his investigation, and then we will see.” He stood up and put on his tailcoat, then reached out a hand to help his wife to her feet. When she was standing in front of him he put his arms carefully around her so as not to rumple Pettigrew’s efforts and gave her a kiss.

  “But, Ralph, I don’t want to sit tight and wait to see what Valentine turns up. This inactivity is so frustrating.” She knew she was overtired and that her voice was almost as petulant as that of Christina Mallory.

  “Now, Clemmy, please don’t be obstinate about this, and don’t interfere. There is a logical process and it has to be followed.”

  “I am logical!”

  “Yes, you are, of course you are, but you have a slight tendency to get too involved. It’s that wretchedly unconventional upbringing of yours. What a wayward and headstrong girl you are underneath your nice party manners. Please, tell me you are not going to interfere.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of interfering in Valentine’s business; to the contrary, I think he is a splendid man and he’s doing his very best.”

  Obedience did not come naturally to Clementine Talbot. Her pedigree, perhaps not as old as her husband’s but equally august, was Anglo-Indian: Clementine’s father, Sir Nigel Badham Thornhill, the governor general for Madras, and her mother were eccentric enough to have kept their only daughter with them in India when it was usual to send children back to England until they were older. As a result, her childhood had differed hugely from those of her cousins, reared in the prosaic Anglican safety of the British Isles.

  On her return to England with her mother when she was eighteen, Clementine was considered a bit of an oddity in a homeland completely alien to her. English society, always so reticent about someone they have not grown up with, rarely rushes to welcome outsiders with open arms, no matter how well connected. During her first, and only, season, she was the most observed debutante of the year. Society matrons reluctantly extended invitations, judging her to be independent and unbowed. Her contemporaries fell into two distinct groups: the young men who lined up to dance with her every night and found her enchanting and original, and her paler and plainer female companions who found her too outlandish and strange.

  She knew that society had found it surprising when the careful, prudent, and immensely rich Ralph Talbot, Earl of Montfort, the natural choice for ambitious mothers, had asked Clementine to marry him.

  “Well, she’s got some fitting-in to do,” they had probably said to one another as they shook their heads. And Clementine, if she had heard them, would have been the first to agree. Life in the county as the wife of a territorial peer was a far cry from the palaces and durbars of a distant and sadly missed subcontinent.

  Fortunately, Clementine was a sensitive girl. She was astute enough to understand how important it was at least to assume the patina of repressive decorum required by ladies of the English landed classes, and plucky enough to jump in and learn to swim in choppy seas. But there it ended. Assuming a veneer of compliance was one thing, but Clementine’s natural independence of spirit, accepted entirely by her husband, had emerged as the years of their marriage had passed and her popularity had become well established. At this moment, Clementine’s Indian childhood asserted itself, and instead of dread and anxiety, she felt a surge of energy and determination. Of course she would not run to Valentine with her ideas and interfere, as her husband had called it. There was no need for that at all. But she would take the opportunity to seek out Oscar and find out exactly what had happened up at Oxford and what papers he had given to Valentine. Then she would meet with Mrs. Jackson and between them they would have some information that would help them understand a little more than they had yesterday.

  * * *

  Evening set into night and a strong wind blew up from the southwest. As Clementine and her guests seated themselves to dinner, the storm that had been expected all day broke and rain beat against the windows, making everyone shiver, despite the heavy, drawn curtains. She was relieved that Valentine’s search for Teddy’s murderer now appeared to have moved from Oxford to London, it had had a pronounced effect on their friends’ morale for the better.

  Her cook had certainly rallied her efforts to the occasion and dinner was of the
usual high standard happily anticipated at Iyntwood. The pièce de résistance of the evening, and a perfect choice for such a cold, cheerless night, were exquisite little steak and kidney pies, a favorite of her husband’s. Tender glazed piecrust, molded with flowers and ivy leaves, covering succulent meat in dark, rich, wine-based gravy, thickened with beurre manie: each perfect little pie was placed before her guests. Accompanied by a galantine of potato and leek, and some of Lord Montfort’s best Château Lafite, the result was magic. For the first time since the night of the ball, Clementine found she had an appetite for her dinner. Looking down the table toward her husband, she saw him laughing quite flirtatiously with poor old Agatha Booth, and as her gaze traveled up the table she was pleased to see that good humor and a sense of well-being were almost restored.

  Good food always lifts the spirits, she thought as talk turned away from the present coal miners’ strike, the vicious tactics of the Labor Member of Parliament, Keir Hardie, and possible war with Germany, to lighter and more amusing topics.

  Course after course was presented, accompanied by more delectable wines. Although Clementine loved good food, she was not, unlike Agatha, a hearty eater. Nonetheless, she always followed the fashion set by the late king, who had been devoted to the delights of the table; eight courses were a necessity when one was entertaining, twelve when he had been a guest in the house. She took a little bite of a spectacular Charlotte russe and was not surprised as they ate their pudding that talk should turn to the Ballets Russes, which would open very shortly in London for its third season.

  Clementine and her friends were avid admirers of the superbly agile and athletic dancer who seemed to possess the gift of being able to fly—Vaslav Nijinsky. Jack Ambrose had met him two years ago, when he had first performed in London for the coronation. Nijinsky, who spoke little English and bad French, was undoubtedly a strange sort of individual, Jack was happy to inform them. Clementine leaned forward as Jack addressed the table at large.

  “More Gypsy than human, incredible athleticism, never seen anything like it. The man is immensely fit and fearfully strong, even for such a slight fella. He wears these ridiculous outfits when he dances, of course, makes you wonder really. I asked him how he achieved that kind of leap, it’s almost inhuman in its height and strength.” Jack put down his wineglass to better demonstrate with his right arm the speed, strength, and height with which Nijinsky had moved, and Clementine and her friends burst out laughing. Jack’s stories were emphatically told and often cruelly humorous.

  “Luckily Diaghilev was hovering around and translated for me,” Jack went on, pleased to have everyone’s attention. “Nijinsky apparently had said, ‘Well, I just jump and then stop in the air for a moment!’ You see, he believes he has a relationship with the air! Of course we don’t know how the cove really does it, but he is simply marvelous.” There was another ripple of laughter at Colonel Ambrose’s incredulity that he could actually enjoy ballet.

  “How wonderful!” Harriet came out of her inner preoccupation. “Gilbert, I insist we go this season.”

  “Can’t stand the ballet myself, all that mincing about in fluffy little skirts,” said Sir Hugo rather predictably. Clementine knew he despised culture and kept himself firmly fixed in the company of real men, devoted to country sport. “Give me Nellie Melba singing Wagner any day.”

  It was doubtful, thought Clementine, that Hugo had ever been to a ballet. His presence at the opera was hardly believable. He was a man of fields and woods, dogs and horses, in contrast to his cosmopolitan and sophisticated wife, who was welcomed everywhere and spent most of her time in London.

  “There isn’t a scrap of mincing to be seen anywhere in the Ballets Russes,” said Olive Shackleton. “I have not missed a season since the coronation. I went five times to L’après-midi d’un faune that year. It was a mesmerizing experience: the unbound, out-of-this-world glory of Nijinsky—he was like a pagan god.” Clementine noticed little smiles among them at Olive’s theatrical appreciation; they were all used to her rhapsodies. She remembered that Olive had told her that she was so swept away by elation and joy that she had almost been in tears during Nijinsky’s solo performances. Not surprising really, she thought, considering what a dried-up old fusspot Sir Wilfred was.

  Sir Hugo was still prepared to be unimpressed: “Friend of mine told me that Nijinsky is completely illiterate, spent his life as a Gypsy performing in a circus when Diaghilev discovered him. Actually he did more than just discover him; he’s his manager and his, you know…” Sir Hugo stopped eating to sip wine, his eyebrows raised to communicate that he was being risqué. “They don’t make any secret of it apparently, completely flagrant. It makes complete sense to me that a man who dances that effeminately should turn out to be a blasted pervert. They only get away with it because they are foreigners.”

  Everyone laughed, and Sir Hugo happily ate the last of his Charlotte russe and beamed around the table. Clementine was quick to note that his remark had shattered Lady Booth, who was sitting with her mouth in a small tight line, glaring in Sir Hugo’s direction. Clementine found his remark a little outré considering that Pansy and Blanche were present, but nonetheless she marveled at how perfidious society often was. Oscar Wilde had been imprisoned not so very long ago for a “certain type of friendship,” and now everyone in society was quite happy to have two men, who were not secretive about their relationship, sit down to dinner with them. Still laughing, she happened to glance down the table to where Oscar Barclay sat, quietly remote from all of them; he had barely taken a bite all evening and looked peaky and unwell. She had noticed his head whip around in Hugo’s direction at his last remark with a look of distress and embarrassment on his face. He quickly glanced at everyone at the table for reaction, before he lowered his gaze and began pushing his pudding around on his plate. His cheeks were flushed and he looked quite wretched.

  Oh dear, thought Clementine. Dear, innocent Oscar. I should check up on him, poor boy. And almost simultaneously she decided that a little talk with Mrs. Jackson would be a good idea, too. She turned to catch Hollyoak’s eye.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Clementine had discovered that her guests were more forthcoming at the end of the day, when they had eaten a decent dinner accompanied by the splendid offerings from Lord Montfort’s cellar, and she was not above taking advantage of that. When the men joined the women in the long drawing room after their port, Clementine made a detour from her usual round to Oscar who was sitting off in a corner reading a book. As she took a chair next to him she asked him how his day at Oxford had gone, as if he had run up for a day’s punting on the river with friends. She did not want to cause him to lose the tentative hold he seemed to have on himself. He smiled his bravest smile and told her things had gone better.

  “Good, Oscar, I’m glad to hear it. So, Valentine was pleased with the papers you gave him?”

  “Yes, he seemed to be,” he said and fell silent.

  Clementine remembered that Oscar had always been rather a sad sort, even before all this awfulness had happened. He was an only child; his mother had died when he was a baby and his father, rather disinterested in being a father in the first place, had turned Oscar over to a spinster sister, who had devoted endless stifling years to his upbringing, which had resulted in a restricted, forlorn childhood of the sort that only a pious Victorian spinster could be expected to provide.

  She noticed that he had a book in his hand. “What do you have there? Ah, Forster. I loved A Room with a View. What’s this one, Howards End … is it good?” She was making small talk and was not prepared for the considered thought that Oscar gave to her question.

  “Oh yes, it is a very good book indeed, the best Forster has written so far. I love the character of Mrs. Wilcox, at ease with who she is and accepting of those around her; transcending the vulgarity of her husband and children and their striving, narrow, unforgiving view of life. Mrs. Wilcox is at her happiest in the country in her old family house, Howards End.
To me she represents the old England: sadly destined to be swallowed up by our restless, rootless, modern world.” Catching her look of surprise and mistaking it, he went on to explain, “We are so preoccupied with progress, rushing forward to the future that I think we might lose our ability to connect with each other on the fundamental level of being simply human. But perhaps I’m feeling a bit gloomy this evening, that’s just my take on it.” He laughed, completely at ease with her.

  Oscar rarely presumed to take up one’s time with his opinions. This unsolicited critique of a writer he obviously admired struck Clementine as both earnest and sincere.

  “Then I will read it,” she said, quite enchanted by his description and by what he had revealed of himself. She wondered how a young man as sensitive and thoughtful as Oscar could have been close friends with someone like Teddy, who rarely connected with anyone on a simple, straightforward level unless it was to make things work to his advantage.

  There was a natural pause at this point, and since they could not be overheard, Clementine decided to ask him about his trip to Oxford. She was so unaffectedly forthright that Oscar did not appear to feel threatened by her questions.

  “Actually, Teddy kept some papers in my strongbox. I am not too sure what they were. Most of them were diagrams, or drawings, and I barely glanced at them. They looked rather like rough architectural drawings, not to scale, more in sketch form. They had symbols in some of the rectangles and squares: ticks, arrows, and numbers. It was all rather meaningless to me. But the colonel was pleased with them; he put them in his document case along with a bundle of old invitation cards Teddy had locked away in his desk. That was it really.”