A Bachelor Establishment

by Isabella Barclay

  Mrs Bascombe turned to Lord Ryde. ‘George is not dead, is he?’

  Even after everything that had happened, he noted, her first thoughts were still for George Bascombe.

  ‘If you disregard the false statements made by the Piries – and I think we can – then no, George Bascombe is not dead.’

  She bent her head over her plate. ‘But, we have no evidence that he is alive, do we?’

  He said carefully, ‘No, we have no knowledge of whether Mr Bascombe is alive or dead and, therefore, I beg you not to agitate yourself for no reason, Mrs Bascombe.’

  ‘No,’ she said, briskly, sitting up and squaring her shoulders. ‘In fact, we are in exactly the same position as we were last week. Nothing has changed in any way.’

  Lord Ryde, for whom everything had changed in the last seven days, refrained from comment.

  ‘So tell me about the events of last night,’ said Miss Fairburn to Mr Martin. ‘I presume you laid a trap for those men.’

  ‘We did indeed. On Lord Ryde’s instructions, Porlock locked up the house as usual, turned out the lights and we all retired to the library with the door ajar to await events. Roberts and Owen were concealed in the vast amounts of overgrown shrubbery with which, happily, Ryde House is so abundantly provided and Sir William and his men waited with the wagon.’

  He paused for a dramatic sip of coffee. Lord Ryde took a moment to admire his secretary’s storytelling abilities. The ladies all regarded him with bated breath. ‘And?’ demanded Mis Fairburn. ‘What happened? At what time did they appear? What did you do?’

  ‘I have to say, ma’am, that they were an extremely professional crew. We heard barely the faintest snick as they forced a latch. If we had not all been listening for such a sound, we might well have missed it. As it was, we crept forward across the darkened hall and surprised them in the very act.’

  He paused again and Porlock stepped forwards to refill his cup.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Elliot, breathlessly. ‘And what happened next?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, I cannot speak for my companions, but I was greatly taken aback by the number of intruders in the room and only the fact that Porlock was between me and the door prevented me from running from the room in terror.’

  Lady Elliott made a noise that could only have been copied from one of her younger sons. The company tactfully ignored it.

  ‘No, truthfully, ma’am. We were astonished that there were so many of them. Surely such a large gang cannot be normal?’

  He turned to Lord Ryde as he spoke, who put down his cup.

  ‘Why are you all looking at me? I am flattered at your apparent belief in my boundless knowledge of housebreaking, but I do assure you, my familiarity with this subject is very slight. Nevertheless, Charles is correct and had I had the faintest inkling of their numbers, I would never have undertaken such a venture and placed us all at such risk. I really must apologise and –’

  He paused. In the distance, the bell rattled another death-throe. Porlock moved regally towards the door, but before he could reach it, Munch ushered in another guest.

  ‘Sir William Elliott, my lord.’

  Lord Ryde rose. ‘Sir William, you are most welcome. I hope you have some information for us. Porlock, a chair and some breakfast for our guest, please.’

  Sir William, always punctilious, greeted his wife and enquired how she had slept. He seated himself beside her and addressed himself to the remains of the ham. Since he had obviously been up all night, the company was obliged to restrain their impatience while he ate his breakfast and drank two cups of coffee.

  Finally, he sat back and patted his mouth with his napkin.

  ‘Thank you, Ryde. I don’t know when a breakfast has been more welcome. Yes, another cup, please, Porlock.’

  ‘I do hope, Sir William, that you have some information for us. The ladies are agog, and we gentlemen barely less so. I gather that Major Pirie and his sister are all part of this strange affair?’

  Sir William allowed his coffee cup to be refilled again. ‘As a matter of fact, not brother and sister at all. Not even related. He’s Lionel Thorpe, an ex-military man, though not commissioned, and the lady rejoices in the name of Marjorie Bentwater. There’s no doubt they’ve recently journeyed from India, probably just one jump ahead of the authorities all the way, and I think we can conclude that they have met Mr Bascombe at some point in their travels. How long ago that might have been, we have been unable to determine.’

  Lord Ryde laid down his napkin. ‘But how did they hope to get away with this imposture, Sir William? Surely legal documents would have to be produced?’

  ‘Indeed they would and the reports I have of the efficiency Mrs Bascombe’s man of business lead me to assume they would be very carefully scrutinised. The deception could not possibly have been maintained for very long.’

  ‘So what was the point?’ said Mr Martin, bewildered. ‘If they had burgled Westfield, for instance, especially since half its inhabitants are here – well that makes sense. But Ryde House is positively bulging with occupants at this particular moment.’

  Heroically, Lord Ryde refrained from nodding in mournful agreement. In the distance, the bell rattled again and Porlock, determined not to be outmanoeuvred this time, trod from the room with rather more speed than usual.

  ‘Does this mean,’ demanded Mrs Bascombe, emerging from the deep thoughts in which she had been indulging, ‘that they did not mean to shoot me after all?’

  ‘I fear,’ said his lordship, gravely, ‘that your previous assumption is correct. It would seem that I was the target and you, Mrs Bascombe, were simply – in the way.’

  He raised his hand at the babble of protest from around the table.

  ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Bascombe, I quite understand your indignation. It is indeed very galling to be shot in mistake for someone else, but I am sure, when you have had time to consider this sensibly and rationally, you will be able to view these recent events with your usual sense of proportion.’

  Mrs Bascombe’s was not the only bosom swelling in wrath at this remark, but his lordship swept on.

  ‘The time has come, I think, to put these unfortunate events behind us. An attempt was made to burgle my home – an unsuccessful attempt, fortunately – and in order to facilitate this endeavour, an attempt was made on my life, which went wrong, and Mrs Bascombe was shot instead. Yes, I agree, Mrs Bascombe. Very reprehensible, but those responsible have been apprehended and we can all of us take comfort in the knowledge that the worst is over.’

  He was obliged to raise his voice for the latter part of this speech. Sounds of a disturbance could be heard in the hall. Several voices were raised. The company could make out the wheezy tones of Munch in counterpoint to the plummy tones of Porlock. There was the sound of a scuffle and of a table scraping across the floor.

  ‘Good God,’ cried Mr Martin. ‘Are they fighting?’

  He rose to his feet, but before he could move away from the table, the door flew open and the company was treated to the incredible sight of two elderly men locked in apparently mortal combat.

  ‘I’ll have you know, Mr Porlock, that this is my house and as such it is my place to announce his lordship’s visitors.’

  And I’ll have you know, Mr Munch, that since this visitor is for Mrs Bascombe, it is my place to …’

  At this point, both became simultaneously aware of the company regarding them in astonishment.

  It was Munch who found his voice first. Unfortunately, he squandered his opportunity by voicing his complaints concerning the encroaching ways of one whom he would not demean himself by naming, but was not standing too far away at that very moment and –

  Porlock, however, was made of sterner stuff and would in no way be deflected from the course of his duty. Straightening his clothing, he drew himself to his full height and although in the greatest state of perturbation anyone could ever remember seeing him, announced proudly, and in ringing tones:

  ‘Mr George Bascombe, ma�
�am.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  During the course of his travels, his lordship had seen many strange sights and heard many strange stories. One of these had concerned a woman of such supreme ugliness and evil that her very glance was enough to turn all those who encountered it to stone.

  It was very possible, reflected his lordship, looking around the room, that this lady had strolled through his dining room only seconds previously, so frozen in astonishment were its occupants.

  As for the recently announced Mr Bascombe, it was unlikely that he had expected cries of unbridled delight and surprise at his unexpected appearance. He may even have braced himself for horror and disbelief. What he obviously did not expect, however, was the stunned silence that greeted his entrance. Indeed, he could have been forgiven for believing he had mistakenly entered a room full of statues.

  Following hard on the heels of the two ancient, battle-locked retainers, he drew up short under the combined gaze of, including the servants, some ten people, all frozen in astonishment at this unexpected turn of events.

  Lord Ryde’s first thought was that there must have been some mistake. There could not possibly have been a greater contrast between his memory of big, thickset, untidy Ned Bascombe, with his dark eyes and brows; and the slim, precisely dressed man standing uncertainly before them all.

  He saw a slight figure, a little below average height, whose blond curls, bleached even lighter by the sun, were already receding from a high forehead. A deep suntan enhanced his blue eyes, which were, at present, urgently scanning the room. His lordship could guess why and deliberately took a slow, calming breath and released his grip on the arm of his chair.

  It did his temper no good at all to see that Mr Bascombe’s clothes, although travel-stained, bore every sign of quality and taste. He had, however, the look of a man who had come a long way in as short a time as humanly possible. He looked tired and to his lordship’s experienced eye, slightly feverish.

  For a long time, no one moved or spoke. The sound of a door opening and closing in some other part of the building and of Mrs Munch barking instructions to some hapless underling could be heard very clearly in the silence.

  It was Mrs Bascombe who broke the spell.

  ‘George!’

  Leaping to her feet and entirely ignoring her toppled chair, she ran to him with outstretched arms.

  ‘Elinor!’ He seized her hands.

  ‘Oh, Georgie – you’re not dead.’

  ‘No, dash it, Elinor, of course I’m not,’ he said somewhat unsteadily. ‘Not dead yet, although I’ve come close once or twice. And quite recently as well. But you? How do you do? You look so well, but they told me you were hurt. That you’d been shot. By God, Elinor, I got her as quickly as I could, but I’m too late and feared the worst when they told me at Westfield.’

  ‘I am well, George. Almost completely recovered. And much, much better now that you are here. But why are you here? I was never so pleased to see anyone in my life, but how do you come to arrive at such an opportune moment?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Bascombe,’ said Lord Ryde, breaking his long silence. He had not risen to greet his new guest. ‘Pray tell how you come to arrive at this more than opportune moment?’

  His tone of voice was not lost on Mr Bascombe, who put Elinor gently to one side and advanced up the room.

  ‘Lord Ryde, I assume?’

  ‘I congratulate you on your entirely accurate assumption and wait with some interest to hear on what grounds you could possibly consider yourself welcome in my house?’

  Elinor stood rooted to the dingy carpet with shock. Carried away in the joy of George’s return, she had quite naturally assumed that everyone else would be as pleased to see him as she was herself. This was not, however, the case. Glancing now at Lord Ryde, she noted the deepening lines around his mouth and heard the hard note in his voice. So had he looked on pulling himself out of his ditch, on the first day they met. Until this moment, she had not realised how far he had come.

  She was not the only one. Mr Martin was also familiar with the fortunately infrequent signs of his lordship’s anger. He flicked his gaze to Sir William, who nodded his understanding.

  Mr Bascombe pulled himself together with an effort. ‘I must apologise for bursting into your house so unexpectedly.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Bascombe. After all, bursting into Ryde House unexpectedly is something of a habit with you, is it not?’

  With true heroism, Porlock threw himself into the breach. ‘Perhaps, Mr Bascombe, sir, you would care to take a seat?’

  He was already righting Mrs Bascombe’s chair. Miss Fairburn thankfully moved further down the table to the safety of Mr Marin’s orbit. He smiled reassuringly at her, but a line deepened between his eyes.

  For a moment, it all hung in the balance. Lord Ryde sprawled in his chair, casually playing with his fork. Mr Bascombe stood nearby, a patch of angry red on each cheek.

  ‘If you please, Mr Bascombe,’ murmured Porlock and holding his lordship’s gaze, Mr Bascombe allowed himself to be seated next to Elinor, who grasped his hand.

  A sigh ran around the room as several people who had had not realised they were holding their breath, let it go in relief.

  The awkward silence was broken by Porlock requesting to know whether Mr Bascombe would prefer tea or coffee.

  ‘Tea, Porlock, if you would be so good.’

  Porlock ushered the extremely reluctant Margaret and Janet from the room and moved smoothly to comply.

  Elinor, not insensitive to the cross-currents running around the room, turned eagerly towards Mr Bascombe.

  ‘Georgie, please, you must tell me at once. Why are you here? Where have you been? Please, I feel as if my head will burst.’ And indeed, she had suddenly grown alarmingly pale. Lord Ryde signalled to Porlock.

  ‘Would you like a little brandy, Mrs Bascombe? Just a sip, ma’am?’

  Elinor could not help laughing.

  ‘Brandy, Lord Ryde? At breakfast?’

  ‘It is gone noon, Mrs Bascombe.’

  ‘The fact that breakfast is taking place at gone noon does not make it any more acceptable, sir.’

  ‘On the contrary, ma’am, I have frequently breakfasted on nothing else and the figure you see sitting before you is, I think, more than adequate testimony as to its efficacy.’

  She could not help laughing and some colour returned to her cheeks.

  Sir William, who had been watching all of this with close attention, turned an astonished gaze on his wife who blandly returned his stare with an expression of complete innocence.

  Resolving to exchange more than a few words with his life’s partner at her earliest convenience, he echoed Mrs Bascombe’s request for information. ‘For you must see, sir, that your appearance here today has caused the liveliest … curiosity. That you should arrive today of all days – after the events of last night …’

  Lord Ryde spoke again. ‘Sir William speaks for himself. I find myself regarding your appearance today with the liveliest suspicion, rather than curiosity. But then, that is what you do, is it not, Mr Bascombe? You make the dramatic appearance and then disappear mysteriously but not, of course, unprofitably, into the night?’

  A gasp ran around the table. Flushed with rage, Mr Bascombe tried to get to his feet but was restrained by Mrs Bascombe, herself conscious of anger and some other emotion. Deep disappointment, perhaps.

  ‘George, no, wait. Please. Lord Ryde was the victim of a housebreaking last night and …’

  ‘But that’s why I’m here,’ said Mr Bascombe, interrupting her without ceremony, ‘Although I regret that I appear to have arrived too late.’

  ‘Too late for what? To participate? To facilitate?’

  ‘By God, sir …’

  ‘Stop!’

  The single word rang around the room like a pistol shot. Sir William was on his feet.

  ‘Mr Bascombe, please be seated. Lord Ryde, I hesitate to command you in your own home, but I would remind all of
you that with the authority vested in me as Justice of the Peace, I am investigating the crime that has taken place here and I will get to the bottom of the events of last night. And possibly the events of some years ago as well.’

  Silence fell.

  ‘Thank you. Mr Bascombe, please be good enough to start at the beginning. Why are you here today? For what purpose have you returned?’

  Mr Bascombe appeared to make a huge effort to speak quietly. ‘I understand you have suffered from housebreakers?’

  ‘I have,’ said Lord Ryde, evenly. ‘We were seriously incommoded by a large gang last night, who appear to have been led by a respectable couple calling themselves Major Pirie and Mrs George Bascombe. Sir William has been trying to extract more information from them but with small success.’

  ‘Well, no need for that. I can tell him everything he needs to know about that precious pair.’

  ‘Indeed? Why am I unsurprised to find you on apparently intimate terms with this pair of fraudulent housebreakers?’

  Obviously keeping his temper with an effort, Mr Bascombe replied, ‘Because I met them on the Athena when I was returning from India.’

  ‘India,’ cried Mrs Bascombe. ‘So you have been living in India, after all?’

  ‘Well of course I have, Nell. Look at the colour of me.’

  ‘But how did you come to be in India?’

  ‘Mrs Bascombe,’ said Sir William, heavily.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. Continue, George.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Sir William, glancing at the faces around the table, ‘it might be best if you begin at the very beginning. I’m sorry, Mrs Bascombe, if this will cause you any distress. Perhaps,’ he added hopefully, ‘you would prefer to wait in your room?’