A Fête Worse Than Death

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Haldean unlinked his arm. ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Just a little. Seen anyone you know? I’ve seen someone. Bloody surprising that was, all things considered. Bloody funny too, if you think about it. Give a man enough rope and he’ll hang himself.’ He started to laugh and Haldean and Rivers looked at him wearily.

  ‘Look, Boscombe, why don’t you go somewhere and sleep it off?’ asked Haldean with diminishing patience.

  Boscombe stopped laughing. ‘Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t need you any more, Major Haldean. You see that woman with Whitfield? She needs me.’ Boscombe gave a knowing wink. ‘Nice woman. We go way back.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Haldean with false cheerfulness. ‘Don’t let us keep you.’

  He shook off Boscombe’s groping hand and went into the tent, Rivers following. Boscombe was left swaying gently outside. ‘Little tick,’ said Haldean briefly and applied himself to a pint of shandy. ‘Who was the woman, by the way? The one Boscombe was being revoltingly suggestive about, I mean.’

  ‘That’s Mrs Verrity. I can’t see what she’d have to do with the likes of him.’

  ‘Me neither.’ There was a long and liquid pause. ‘Has he gone yet?’ asked Haldean, finishing his drink.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rivers, glancing outside. ‘All clear.’

  ‘Thank God. I want to see Mrs Griffin to talk about old times and I don’t want him around while I’m doing it. Let’s go and see if she’s free.’

  Mrs Griffin wasn’t busy; in fact she was standing outside the fortune teller’s booth, looking extremely hot in a long and artistically tattered skirt, brilliant red blouse and heavily beaded shawl. She greeted Haldean with delight. ‘Do excuse what I’m wearing, Master Jack, but I’ve got to look the part. I mean, everyone knows it’s me and when I’m just doing the tea-leaves at home I don’t bother dressing up, of course, but it’s different here. People like you to make an effort.’

  ‘Do you really tell fortunes then, Mrs Griffin? I mean, it’s not just something you make up?’

  Mrs Griffin looked shocked. ‘Oh no, Master Jack. T’wouldn’t be right, that. I could read your hand now easy as wink. Of course in the general way I don’t charge for it – I don’t want no trouble with the police – but I have a stall at the Stanmore Parry fête to oblige her Ladyship and she asked me ever so kindly if I’d do Breedenbrook as well, as the usual lady they had was laid up and Mrs Verrity couldn’t get no one. Well, I don’t mind. It’s not very far, not really, and I did wonder if I did Mrs Verrity a favour it might count for something when it came to the home-made cakes. Twelve years I’ve been doing cakes for this fair now, and nothing more than an Honourable Mention to show for it. Still, it’s not what you know, as I always say, it’s who you know that counts. Speaking of who you know, I think this gentleman’s looking for you.’

  With a feeling of ghastly inevitability Haldean turned and saw Boscombe walking towards them with Colonel Whitfield behind. ‘Oh, God damn it, not again!’

  Mrs Griffin sized up the situation and stepped forward. ‘Do you want me, my dear? Have your fortune told?’

  Boscombe gave a short laugh. ‘Why not? Although I know it already, why not, eh, Whitfield?’

  Colonel Whitfield shrugged. ‘Just as you like.’

  A small boy came hurrying through the crowd. ‘Mrs Griffin? You’ve got to come. They’re announcing the winners for the cakes and I’ve been told to come and fetch you.’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘Just as I was going to see this gentleman, too.’ She turned to Boscombe. ‘Why don’t you go and sit down inside my tent, my dear? I won’t be very long and you look as if a little rest might do you some good.’ Boscombe blinked at her. ‘You’ll be more comfortable in the shade,’ added Mrs Griffin, tactfully. ‘I think you might have a touch of the sun and no wonder in this heat and with all the noise there is too.’ She opened the flap of the tent. ‘In you go. Settle yourself down while I go and see about my cake.’

  ‘Cake?’ repeated Boscombe uncomprehendingly, but went in all the same.

  Mrs Griffin peered in after him. ‘There. He’s resting nicely now. Might even have a little nap, I dare say.’ She adjusted her headscarf and took the small boy by the hand. ‘Come on, Michael. I don’t want to miss this.’ Hitching up her inconveniently flowing robe, she set off across the field.

  Haldean looked at Colonel Whitfield. So this was the man Marguerite Vayle had fallen for. It was obvious why. He looked as if he should be on the front cover of a film magazine. Whitfield had melancholy sky-blue eyes, a sensitive mouth, broad shoulders and crisply curling blond hair. ‘I saw you in the horse trials this morning,’ said Haldean conversationally.

  Whitfield brightened. ‘Did you? Nice mare, that. She’s inclined to shy a bit so I thought I’d bring her out locally before trying any of the major events. I thought she was going to get a clear round but the noise from the trap-shooting startled her. I’m sorry,’ added Whitfield, ‘I know we’ve met before, but I can’t recall your name.’

  ‘Jack Haldean. You know Captain Rivers, of course.’

  ‘Indeed I do. Haldean . . . You’re Sir Philip’s nephew, aren’t you? And don’t you write or something? It sounds damn clever,’ he added dubiously. Obviously being clever was not an unalloyed compliment in Whitfield’s eyes.

  ‘It pays the bills,’ said Haldean, easily. ‘D’you know Boscombe well, Colonel?’

  ‘Not frightfully. I’ve had a couple of letters from him. Apparently he’s writing a book about the war for some reason and he was one of the men to come out of that Augier Ridge affair I was involved with. I hardly know him. Do you?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ The way Haldean said it made Whitfield smile. The smile made his whole face lighten. Haldean grinned. ‘He’s a bit much, isn’t he? He transferred to the Flying Corps and was in my squadron for a while.’

  ‘You poor beggar. I never had the dubious pleasure of serving with him.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  Whitfield laughed. ‘He’s a bit hard to take, isn’t he? Goodness knows what . . .’ He stopped as the vicar, Mr Steadman, approached.

  ‘Ah, Colonel, there you are. Excuse me butting in, gentlemen, but I have to leave soon and I was looking forward to a word with the Colonel. It’s about this pony I’m interested in for my son, Whitfield. I believe you have it here with you. Thomas is waiting by the loose-boxes at the moment and it seemed an ideal opportunity to let him try it out.’

  A shade of annoyance crossed Whitfield’s face. ‘Can’t it wait, Mr Steadman?’

  Mr Steadman looked annoyed in turn. ‘I’d rather see to it now. Thomas is off on a visit to a school friend’s on Monday and I’d like to get everything arranged before then.’

  Whitfield’s lips tightened, then he shrugged in resignation. ‘Very well. Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.’ He turned to Haldean and Rivers. ‘Nice to have met you again.’ He tipped his hat and walked off between the tents, the vicar by his side.

  ‘He is a bit old,’ said Haldean thoughtfully, accepting the cigarette that his friend was offering. ‘For Marguerite, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Rivers, striking a match. ‘Isabelle’s funny about him. She thinks he’s deadly dull, but that’s because he talks about horses and not about her. She’s so used to having blokes dance attendance that she can’t credit anyone simply doesn’t notice she’s around.’

  Haldean grinned. ‘Don’t tell me she’s jealous of Marguerite.’

  ‘Good grief, no. I mean really no. But Marguerite’s terribly intense about him and Isabelle finds it all a bit wearing.’

  They finished their cigarettes. The band, wearied of Gilbert and Sullivan, started on Jerome Kern. ‘And if I tell them . . .’ hummed Rivers. A series of renewed shrieks bit through the air. ‘Your little pal on the chair swings is kicking up a rumpus, isn’t she?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ agreed Haldean with a lazy smile. ‘Mind you, I don’t suppose she’s making that din all by herself.’ He
glanced at the tent behind them. ‘If Boscombe manages a nap in this racket he’s doing well. Is he asleep in there?’

  Rivers lifted the tent flap and peered inside. ‘Dead to the world,’ he announced briefly. ‘Hello, here’s Isabelle.’

  ‘Have you got your trumpets and drums handy?’ she asked. ‘Do give me a cigarette, Greg. I haven’t had one all afternoon. Thanks. Mrs Griffin won the cake competition and she’s making a sort of royal progress across the fair. Virtue rewarded and all of that.’ She sucked in the smoke gratefully. ‘Thank goodness, that’s better. I hoped to be able to slope off after the cake judging but Mother was there and although she wouldn’t actually say anything, she’d look, you know. She’s still got the idea that smoking is a thing that a lady does in private, so I went round the side of the cake tent and that was no better because Mrs Verrity and Colonel Whitfield were there and three was definitely a crowd.’

  ‘I say!’ said her brother. ‘They weren’t . . . were they?’

  ‘No, Greg, they weren’t. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if there was something going on. She’s still awfully good-looking in that preserved kind of way, even if she’s old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘No, she isn’t,’ countered her brother.

  ‘Well, she’s getting on a bit at any rate. And I wouldn’t put it past him,’ she added darkly. ‘No, they seemed to be having an argument. They stopped when they saw me, of course, but Mrs Verrity wasn’t happy. Unlike Mrs Griffin who’s on cloud nine. Jack? What is it?’ For her cousin had stopped listening to her and stepped forward. There was a small green blur and the little girl in the velveteen frock flung herself out of the crowd and into his arms, sobbing.

  Kneeling down, he patted her back and looked helplessly at Isabelle.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart? Tell us,’ she said.

  The arms tightened round Haldean’s neck. ‘It’s Daisy,’ she said between sobs. ‘My dolly She’s broken. I put her cot down all safely to go and play and when I got back someone had thrown Daisy out of her cot and stood on her.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Haldean soothingly.

  ‘And her cot’s all dirty and her pillow’s gone and it had roses on it. It did.’

  ‘Look,’ said Haldean, attempting to disentangle himself, ‘what if I win you another one? Would that make it better?’ The little girl stopped sobbing and nodded. ‘We’ll go and do that now, shall we? And perhaps a glass of lemonade would help too.’ He looked up as the flushed and happy Mrs Griffin came towards the tent with Mrs Verrity in approving attendance.

  ‘Master Jack? I won. I won the cakes. And Mrs Verrity here says I did it fair and square.’

  ‘You certainly did, Mrs Griffin,’ said Mrs Verrity. ‘I thought your entry was outstanding and said as much.’

  Haldean, still on his knees, glanced up in pleased surprise. Mrs Verrity was a remarkably good-looking woman with beautiful eyes, but it was her voice which captured his attention. It was low and clear with a zest of an accent. Italian? French? French, he decided, and lovely to hear.

  Mrs Griffin was beaming. ‘Why, thank you, mum.’ She looked at the little girl in Haldean’s arms. ‘Sally Mills? Whatever’s the matter with you?’

  ‘It’s my dolly. She got broked but this nice gypsy man’s going to get me another one.’

  ‘Don’t you call Major Haldean a gypsy, Sally. It’s not polite. I think that’s very nice of the Major and you should say so.’ Haldean rose gratefully to his feet as Sally haltingly thanked him. Mrs Griffin beamed once more. ‘That’s better,’ she continued. ‘Now wipe your face. Here’s a hanky. You’ve got sweety-stuff all over it.’ Mrs Griffin spat into a corner of her handkerchief and rubbed Sally’s face vigorously. ‘There. No harm done. Is my gentleman still waiting for me inside the tent, Master Jack?’

  ‘He certainly is, but . . .’

  ‘Then I’d better see to him right away.’ She disappeared inside, only to reappear seconds later, giggling. ‘I think you’d better come and have a look at this. Has he had a drink or two? Yes, I thought I could smell it. Talk about the Sleeping Beauty! We’ll have to wake him up. I can’t have him there if I’m going to do the fortunes.’

  Mrs Verrity raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Is Mr Boscombe the gentleman in question? He’ll have to move. Really, Mrs Griffin, this is too bad for you, after you were good enough to step in for us at the last moment.’ She looked at Haldean and Rivers. ‘Perhaps you would come in with me?’ She opened the tent and stepped inside, Rivers and Mrs Griffin close behind. Haldean was stopped by a small hot hand thrust into his.

  ‘I won’t be a minute,’ he said reassuringly, looking down at the tear-stained face. ‘You be a good girl, Sally, and wait with Miss Rivers. Belle, d’you think you could . . . Thanks, old thing.’ He walked into the tent to find Mrs Verrity bending over Boscombe, hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Mr Boscombe. Mr Boscombe . . .’ Mrs Verrity suddenly paused and stared, gazing down at the man sprawled out in the chair. She straightened up and looked at the little group by the door. Her eyes fixed on Haldean. ‘I think,’ she said, in a very controlled voice, ‘you’d better take Mrs Griffin out of here. And get that child away from the entrance.’

  Haldean started forward. ‘What . . .?’ he began but was stopped by a gesture.

  ‘Please do as I say. And afterwards I think you’d better get some help. Please.’ Her plea for understanding was compelling.

  Haldean dropped his eyes to the body and slowly nodded. ‘I see. Mrs Griffin, would you mind coming outside? It’s all for the best. That’s the ticket. Come on.’

  ‘But why, Master Jack?’ asked Mrs Griffin out in the open air once more. ‘What’s wrong? Has the gentleman had an accident?’

  Haldean steered her away from Sally Mills who was still clutching Isabelle’s hand. ‘I think you’ll find,’ he said as gently as possible, ‘that he’s dead.’

  Chapter Two

  Superintendent Edward Ashley closed his notebook. ‘I think those are all the questions I have for you now, sir. I may have to get back to you, of course.’

  Jack Haldean smiled. ‘Any time, Superintendent. Can we offer you a cup of coffee or do you have to make any further calls this evening?’

  Ashley considered the matter. He’d had a busy afternoon which had turned into an even busier evening, and he supposed he should get back to the station to start putting the information he’d gathered into an official report, but he was tired and Hesperus was the last place he had to visit.

  Through the open library window drifted the smells and sounds of a summer evening; the sleepy coo of wood pigeons, the rich perfume of stocks and roses and, from far away across the park, the faint lowing of a cow as it settled down for the night. It was peaceful here; a sight more peaceful than his last important case which had led him into the docks at Newhaven. There were two other considerations as well. The first was simple curiosity. He had heard of Hesperus, the ‘big house’ of Stanmore Parry, of course. He had occasionally been a guest at the same public dinners as Sir Philip Rivers and he had met Lady Rivers, who took a keen interest in local affairs, at the police charity ball in Lewes over a year ago. However, that was very different from being a guest, however fleeting, in Hesperus itself, and he had a hankering to see how the other half really did live. The second consideration he hardly expressed to himself, but it was nothing more than a desire to get to know this Major Haldean better. He didn’t know why, but he kept on feeling as if he should know something about him. Odd, that, and he was obviously friendly enough, so . . .

  ‘Thank you very much, sir. That’d be very welcome.’

  Haldean smiled – a slightly shy smile – and led the way into the drawing room.

  Lady Rivers was in the act of pouring coffee from an agreeably large pot.

  ‘I’ve asked Superintendent Ashley to join us, Aunt Alice,’ announced Haldean, walking over to the mantelpiece and propping himself against it.

  Ashley’s spirits drooped. The last time he’d
been in a room like this was on holiday when he and his wife, Elsie, had taken a charabanc trip to a Stately Home on Visitors’ Day and paid half a crown to get in. It was one thing interviewing witnesses in the library; he was Superintendent Ashley with the authority to ask any questions he pleased. It was a familiar situation and the library, with its mellow oak, leather-spined books, well-used chairs and cigar-scented comfort was not an intimidating room. The drawing room was, and Ashley envied Major Haldean’s complete ease. Why, the room must be nearly forty feet long and at least half as wide. His own neat semi-detached, the source of such pride to his wife, could fit between these four walls. The garden would make it a bit of a squash, he thought defiantly. No, you couldn’t fit his garden in here. Mind you, talk about gardens! Hesperus didn’t have a garden, it had grounds. Grounds that went with a house that had this sort of room, with its huge stone fireplace, ornamental pillars, rich Turkish rugs and a decoration – a frieze, was that the right word? – of Greek girls in floaty dresses waving tambourines and suchlike that ran right round the high ceiling.

  With a feeling of prickly defiance, Ashley became aware that Lady Rivers was speaking to him. Wondering what he was doing here, no doubt . . . And then he saw her smile. It was a totally unselfconscious, welcoming smile. She wanted him to feel at home and, by George, he was going to feel at home. He’d been invited, hadn’t he? Well then.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Superintendent?’ she said. ‘Milk, cream or black? I believe we’ve met before, haven’t we?’ She frowned slightly. ‘Now where was it?’

  ‘It was the police ball in Lewes, your Ladyship,’ said Ashley. She remembered him. Lady Rivers, a real lady who owned this house and these grounds, not only was perfectly happy to have him sitting in her drawing room but actually remembered him. That’d be something to tell Elsie. ‘Milk, please.’

  She handed him a cup. ‘That’s right. It was an awful crush, but it was a good cause, wasn’t it?’