‘I don’t suppose I was thinking,’ said Daphne dully, the significance of his words not fully registering in her consciousness until a few moments later when she leapt up from her seat in barely concealed excitement. ‘So he did say something? Oh, I was afraid he wouldn’t. I thought she was just pretending to be kind, saying that she would ask him, but not really meaning to.’
‘Oh, he said something about it all right,’ said her brother, some of the colour returning to his cheeks. ‘And dashed embarrassing it was for the both of us, I can tell you. He knew full well it was none of his business. If he hadn’t promised his wife … well, never mind. All water under the bridge now. But I won’t have you discussing our affairs, Daphne, and certainly not with Lord and Lady Belvedere.’
‘I thought she’d understand,’ Daphne said, more to herself than to her brother. She had retreated again to the chair and seemed to curl up in its depths and looked as if she wished for nothing more than to go to sleep. ‘Lady Lavinia was very against their marriage, you see. She didn’t want her brother to marry beneath him. But now of course they are the best of friends.’
Major Spittlehouse remained quiet. In truth, he did not know quite what to say. He didn’t feel anger toward his sister, only a sense of sadness tinged with pity, though his cheeks still flushed with the embarrassment he had felt when the young earl had first raised the subject of Archie Mayhew.
‘First there was Bunny,’ Daphne continued, and gave a malicious little smile when she saw her brother wince, ‘and Father and Mother frightened him away. Did you know that he didn’t even bid me farewell? Then there was Harold. At least he had the decency to call off our engagement. I don’t know what you said to him, Linus, or rather I do. You may rest assured that I told Lady Belvedere all about it. And now Archie …’
Again she was up on her feet, her hands clenched. The listless, despondent pose had vanished to be replaced by a vibrant, agitated woman, who caught her brother by the lapel. ‘I won’t let you ruin everything, not this time. I won’t give him up, Linus, I won’t.’
She let go her grasp and turned away, shielding her face with her hand from her brother’s gaze. She wouldn’t look at him, but Major Spittlehouse looked at her. He wondered whether she was weeping or regretting her outburst. On closer examination, however, her posture now appeared composed, her manner resolute. He feared that behind her hand he would see not tears but a look of steely determination. He wondered how it was possible for one person’s emotions to fluctuate at such an alarming rate. It was one of the reasons he had never known quite how to handle her; one minute his sister could be in the pit of despair, the next filled with exuberance.
He stood there watching her, all the while praying that she would not make good her promise. Fear and honour; they were such conflicting emotions he thought. They could drive a man to do different things, the coward to run away, the brave man to stand his ground. In this particular case however, he thought, they were intertwined; the way forward was all too clear.
Chapter Eleven
The fifth of November dawned bright and sunny on Sedgwick, belying the fact that in keeping with the time of year it was cold and chilly outside. Edna, who had just drawn back the curtains, observed these facts.
‘But at least it’s not raining,’ she said, as much to herself as to anyone else.
Lady Belvedere, just returned from her morning bath, caught her words and stared out of the window, before making a show of looking at the clothes that Edna had laid out carefully on the bed for her to inspect.
‘I can’t abide it being wet on Bonfire Night,’ Edna was saying. ‘There’s nothing so miserable as standing around a bonfire that won’t light, your clothes all dripping wet and being cold to the bone. Something wicked it is, and no one thinks they can go home, not without seeing the bonfire blazing and the sky lit up with fireworks.’
‘Yes, it is wretched,’ agreed Rose with feeling, recalling many an occasion when she had experienced something similar. ‘But I don’t think that will trouble us this evening. It’ll just be a bit cold until the bonfire’s lit and then we can all huddle around it and get warm.’
‘And then we’ll be too hot and have the smoke blow in our faces and have to be careful of the sparks,’ laughed Edna. ‘I sometimes wonder why we still do it, when we’re all grown up, like, and should know better. Still, the children like it well enough and I suppose it’s tradition.’ She glanced at the clothes laid out on the bed. ‘Now then, m’lady,’ she said adopting her best voice, ‘I thought your blue tweed suit would do well enough worn under your wool crepe coat. That should keep you warm and cosy like; you don’t want to wear one of your furs, the smoke would cling to it something rotten; it would be the devil to get rid of the smell.’
‘You’re quite right,’ agreed Rose. ‘Tweed and wool should do very well.’
‘And you can wear your royal blue felt cloche, the one with the black ostrich feather,’ said Edna with satisfaction. ‘That will set it off something smashing.’
‘Oh, Edna,’ said Rose, feeling slightly giddy, ‘do you realise this is my first proper, official engagement as Lord Belvedere’s wife?’ She took a deep breath. ‘“The new countess judges the competition of effigies at the Sedgwick Bonfire festivities and gives out the prizes.”’ She laughed. ‘How very silly it all sounds, doesn’t it? But I will admit to being a little nervous. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you are here to help me with my wardrobe.’
‘I’m pleased to be here too, miss,’ said Edna shyly. ‘And I can’t tell you how good it is to have my arms up to the elbows in fine silks and satins instead of vegetable peelings and dirty water, to say nothing of not having to wear a mop cap. Ever so grand I feel, being what they call an upper servant and not one of those that’s holed up in the kitchen and expected to wait on the other staff.’
Rose laughed at the younger girl’s enthusiasm and an image came to her of the first time she had set eyes on Edna in the vegetable garden at Ashgrove House. She was reminded that Edna had then occupied the lowly position of scullery maid and had been crying her eyes out fearing the wrath of the cook.
‘A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since we first met one another,’ said Rose reflectively.
‘That it has, m’lady,’ said Edna, ‘though I always said as how you’d be a countess one day. And now here’s me your lady’s maid. And Miss Denning has arranged for me to go on a course next week. ‘The Art of Hairdressing’, it’s called. I’ll be able to do your hair ever so grand after.’
‘I am sure you will,’ said Rose, passing her fingers through her curls and fervently hoping that Edna would not insist in future on arranging her hair in too elaborate a style. ‘But today my hair will be mostly covered by my hat. And whatever our various misgivings about the weather and bonfires, I daresay we will enjoy this evening’s festivities.’
It was only later, looking back, that she wondered if there had been a break in the sunshine, whether a cloud had covered the sun for one brief moment as if to forewarn of the impending catastrophe.
Harold Whittaker took a deep breath and let his hand hover rather indecisively above the black Bakelite telephone perched on the edge of his desk. He permitted his fingers to flutter in the air for a moment, as if caught in a breeze, before he withdrew his hand, resting it on the desk before him. He closed his eyes and sighed, patently aware that he lacked the moral courage to ascertain the truth. Of course, he could quite easily argue that his reservations were natural and might be expected from anyone suddenly finding themselves in his rather delicate position. After all, Major Spittlehouse was a wealthy client, one that he had courted. It was, therefore, hardly surprising if he found the prospect of him becoming something close to a relative slightly daunting.
But that was not it, or at least not all, the solicitor admitted rather reluctantly to himself, though he might pretend it to be otherwise. What was the point of deluding himself, asserting that the cause of his recent sleepless nights and listle
ssness was anything other than doubt and panic in equal measure? Since the moment Archie had first announced that he intended to marry the Spittlehouse woman, the older man had found himself restless. No good could come of it, he had felt certain. And, if that was not enough, he questioned the very truthfulness of Archie’s assertion that he had the major’s endorsement. Yet the boy had uttered the words with such delightful sincerity and conviction that he had felt wretched in doubting him. Archie was a dear boy; no one could dispute that. Surely he was not some consummate liar? However, the engagement had not yet been given out, and the major had made no reference to it when they had chanced to meet at the cocktail party of a common acquaintance. What could have been more natural than that one or other of them might have alluded to it? Yet both had remained resolutely silent on the matter. It was only now, on reflection, that Harold Whittaker wondered whether both had felt awkward, embarrassed even. Was the major, he wondered, expecting him to raise the subject? Perhaps it was his duty to do so, for he was as good as Archie’s closest relative, if not by blood, then by the role that he had played in the boy’s life following his father’s death. He had almost convinced himself of the fact a few minutes ago when his fingers had reached out to grasp the telephone receiver. Yet in that final moment he had stayed his hand as doubt had again crept in.
Major Spittlehouse could not be in favour of Archie for a brother-in-law. It was not just the difference in their social positions that made the boy an unsuitable choice. In Harold Whittaker’s humble opinion, Daphne Spittlehouse had little to offer a young man other than material wealth. She lacked both beauty and personality, so much so that she had made so vague an impression on him that he had had to rack his brain to remember whether he had ever been formally introduced to her or not. Archie, with his charm, youth and good looks, could surely not be satisfied with such an insipid woman. Her appeal, if indeed she had any, lay purely in her purse.
He did not blame the young man for wishing to marry well in the financial sense, but to choose Daphne Spittlehouse for a bride! Did it not betray a cold ruthlessness or a shocking indifference? To marry a woman so much older than himself for monetary purposes, with whom he could have little in common and would soon become bored … Major Spittlehouse was very likely of the same opinion. He would certainly want to ensure his sister’s ongoing happiness and would dissuade an unsatisfactory suitor, whose motives for marriage were questionable. The marriage, if it went ahead, would be a failure. Both parties in time would become discontent and miserable. Goodness knows he didn’t want Archie to be unhappy, any more than he did the poor woman. Naturally, that wasn’t to say that the money she might bring in to the business would not be very welcome, because of course it would. And they might be able to attract a better class of clientele. The work the firm would be required to do might become more profitable and interesting. Really, he was thinking more of Archie’s future than his own …
It was then that fear had raised its ugly head. It might very well be tempting to encourage the union of these two people for purely business reasons, but Harold Whittaker acknowledged that, for his own very selfish personal motive, the marriage must not proceed. Major Spittlehouse should not be given an opportunity to invest in the firm, though the other partners, old Mr Gribble and sprightly Mr Hebborn, would undoubtedly welcome the gesture with open arms. But for Harold Whittaker it would spell disaster. He knew the major well enough to know that Major Spittlehouse would not permit his sister to enter into a business transaction without first having a thorough perusal of the books. And then of course the transgression, or what he himself termed the little irregularity, would come to light. It went without saying that he had meant to put the money back before now, really he had, but then there had been that business with the motor car being damaged beyond repair and his wife’s debts at bridge. He had given her quite a talking to; how could anyone owe so much playing such an innocuous little game as bridge? But of course the losses had to be repaid and promptly too because people did talk. A firm of solicitors, and one that was so much a part of the establishment of Bichester as Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker, could not countenance any scandal; it must be perceived as being beyond reproach. No, it would not do if people thought the Whittakers could not pay their dues. It would lower their social standing and adversely affect business, because who would want to employ a firm of solicitors which had the whiff of desperation or poverty associated with one of its partners?
Harold Whittaker gave an involuntary start. He might be accused of theft, when of course he had meant to do no such thing. Old Gribble would give him the benefit of the doubt, Hebborn might be swayed either way, but Major Spittlehouse he knew to be an upright man with sober integrity. If he detected something rotten in the state of Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker, he was certain to want to get to the bottom of it. He was likely as not to be as determinedly persistent at getting to the truth as a dog with a bone. Harold Whittaker gave a little shudder. He might be sent to prison, though surely it would not come to that. Gribble would want to keep things quiet, though Hebborn might be quite happy to sing it from the steeple tower; the man had never much liked being regarded by the others as the junior partner. At the very least, he would lose his position in the firm and in Bichester society. He would be disgraced and sneered at. And Archie … what would Archie think of him? And his wife of course. She would not want to stay and share in his humiliation. Likely as not she would go to her sister’s and not come back.
Harold Whittaker sniffed. It sounded suspiciously to his own ears as if he were trying to stifle a sob. He must pull himself together, for this would not do. Miss Simmons might any moment tap on his door and walk in; young Archie would not even pause to knock. He dabbed rather ineffectually at his eyes with his handkerchief and blew his nose. The act of doing something, however common place and mundane, rather than letting his thoughts run riot, helped lift his spirits sufficiently for him to regain his equanimity. It was no use worrying and speculating over something that had not yet come to pass; indeed, it might never come to fruition. Happen as not Archie had been exaggerating about his relationship with Miss Spittlehouse. Likely as not he had been teasing his uncle and seeking a reaction. It was very wrong of the boy, but then there was a sense of mischief about him that the solicitor and his wife had always found endearing. Either way, before he considered which course of action was open to him, it would be as well to find out the true lay of the land. On no account must he surrender to fear or panic, which of course was easier said than done, or all would be lost.
He scratched the side of his head absentmindedly, an outward sign that his brain was working relentlessly. If only he knew it, it was a mannerism which often reduced Archie to a fit of the giggles. Telephoning the major, Harold Whittaker decided on reflection, would not be a good idea. It was too formal and official and might draw attention to things that were best left well alone. He required another chance meeting, where he could raise the matter tentatively in conversation. Harold Whittaker stood up and began to pace the room. Now that he had made up his mind what to do, he was impatient, wishing it to be done and over with. He could not afford the luxury of waiting for a suitable occasion to arise. It might be weeks before it did and he felt he could not wait another hour to know his fate. He must orchestrate something. Now, how to go about it, that was the thing …
He was roused abruptly from his musings by a knock on his door.
‘Come in,’ he croaked in a voice that bore little resemblance to his own. Miss Simmons entered rather hesitantly he thought, as if she had bad news to impart or feared that she was disturbing him.
‘Mr Whittaker, I do hope you don’t mind my asking,’ she began rather quietly, ‘and it really isn’t something I’d usually do, but would you have any objection to our closing half an hour early this evening?’ She saw her employer’s look of surprise and hurried on. ‘What with it being Guy Fawke’s Night, I mean. One or two of the younger staff, and Mr Mayhew in particular, are anxious to go to the
bonfire festivities at Sedgwick. I have never been myself, but I understand they are rather grand, and apparently the roads to the village are not very good. Mr Mayhew tells me that the traffic will be something awful later on, to use his words, and, well … I thought I would ask …’
Miss Simmons’ sentence had faltered to an abrupt stop. She had meant to continue, to say something along the lines that she doubted very much any proper work would be lost and that she was certain that the gesture of goodwill would be appreciated by the staff. However, the expression on Mr Whittaker’s face was so peculiar, that the words had frozen on her tongue. She couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed at what he perceived to be her impertinence, or whether he considered the idea had merit.
The Bonfire Night festivities at Sedgwick! Harold Whittaker’s heart leapt. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It was the perfect opportunity. Major Spittlehouse had something to do with a committee that organised the event, didn’t he? Why, the man was always going on about it. Indeed, it was hard to keep him quiet once he had started on the subject and, while Harold Whittaker had only ever listened with half an ear so that he might nod politely in the appropriate places, the fact had stuck in his memory. Sedgwick had celebrated Bonfire Night for as long as he could remember. The event would follow familiar lines and was certain to run smoothly. Now, if he could just orchestrate it such that he snatched a word with the major at the very moment the man was congratulating himself for a job well done … why, he might even go so far as to make some ingratiating remark about the wonderful festivities. In his mind’s eye, he saw Major Spittlehouse beaming smugly and benevolently. And then what would be more natural than that their conversation should drift to talk of the close relations between their respective dependants? Yes, it would all be most satisfactory.
Murder on Bonfire Night Page 10
