A Fête Worse Than Death

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘We’ll leave the car on the verge,’ he said, cheerfully, trying by tone of voice alone to make everything as normal as he could. ‘I don’t fancy risking the suspension along that track. Are you sure Whitfield will be here?’ It was the first time that morning he had said Whitfield’s name to Marguerite. Funny how he’d skirled round it.

  ‘When I spoke to him on the phone earlier he said he’d be at the stables and that we could go riding together.’ Her voice was very controlled and she matched it by giving Haldean a consciously bright look. ‘We can walk round.’

  ‘Okay.’ Haldean switched off the engine and leaned across the car to undo the passenger door. ‘Out you hop. It’ll be all right,’ he added, trying an encouraging smile. ‘I really do think you’re doing the right thing, you know, and so does everyone else.’

  She got out of the car and, despite the warm sunshine, gave a little shudder. ‘I wish I didn’t have to tell him, Jack. If it wasn’t for Aunt Alice and Uncle Philip saying I must, I couldn’t go through with it.’ They started up the lane, Marguerite, hampered by her smooth-soled riding boots, picking her way carefully over the stones. ‘I know I must, though. It was horrible last night, having to tell everyone about my father and then having to own up to taking their things. That was dreadful but it was just like you’d said it would be. They were all so decent about it and so kind, I wanted to do something, especially for Aunt Alice. I wanted to show her that I do listen to what she says and I’m grateful for everything.’ She paused. ‘I . . . I didn’t really get a chance to thank you properly for paving the way for me last night.’

  ‘Juggins!’ said Haldean with a grin. ‘You must have said thank you about fifteen times. All part of the service.’

  She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Well, I was glad you were there. It was awfully difficult to admit what I’d done, but I felt better afterwards. The last few months have been horrible. I know I’ve let everyone down and Mr Lawrence looked so disappointed in me, even more than Aunt Alice did.’

  ‘Forget about it,’ said Haldean encouragingly.

  Marguerite gave another little shudder. ‘I wish I could. I’m glad you’re with me and not Mr Lawrence. He disapproves of Richard so much I can’t bear it. He wanted to come with us, you know, but I was afraid he was looking for a row. Do you think he was?’

  Haldean hesitated. ‘No. No, I can’t say that I do. I imagine he wanted to be around in case things went wrong, you know.’

  ‘To pick up the pieces, you mean?’ Her lips tightened. ‘I suppose Mr Lawrence means well, but he’s so silly about Richard. He knows next to nothing about him and yet he’s got this ridiculous prejudice. I know Richard’s older than me but he’s not old and it’s horrible of Mr Lawrence to even think he’s after my money. Richard couldn’t care less about that.’ She stopped as a groom came down the lane towards them.

  The groom, an elderly, whiskery man who clearly knew Marguerite, touched his cap. ‘Morning, miss. Morning, sir. You’ll be wanting the Colonel, will you? He’s in the top paddock. You’ll be riding this morning, miss? I’ll go and get Saverin saddled up for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Buckman.’

  With Buckman beside them, further private conversation was impossible until they stood by themselves once more at the gate to the paddock under the rustling shadow of an ancient oak tree. Across the field a great horse cantered with Whitfield on its back. Marguerite, her eyes fixed on the man, swallowed. Haldean squeezed her hand and she gave him a quick smile. ‘I really wish that Mr Lawrence could like him more. Mr Lawrence is such a dear and he’s making it so difficult. It’s awkward enough as it is.’ She waved her arm as Whitfield looked across to them. ‘He’s seen us now.’

  Whitfield brought the horse round the outside of the field, then turned in his heels as he approached a fallen elm trunk which served as a natural jump. In short, sharp thumps the horse’s hooves dug into the earth and Haldean heard the quick, snorting breath as the shoulder muscles corded, bunched and rippled, taking beast and rider over the jump in one graceful movement. Whitfield cantered towards them, reined in the horse and dismounted.

  ‘My word,’ said Haldean in involuntary admiration. ‘Are you going to run him?’

  Whitfield shook his head, patting the horse’s neck. ‘He’s too temperamental. He’ll go over a jump like that with a steam engine beside him one day, then he’ll shy at a piece of paper on the grass. I’ve come a downright mucker on him more than once.’ He looked at Marguerite with a cheerful grin. ‘You can bear me out, can’t you? I remember you picking me out of the mud.’

  ‘It was the second time we met, Richard. I thought you’d broken your neck. I was terrified.’

  ‘You were wonderful,’ said Whitfield, taking the horse’s bridle. ‘Lots of sympathy and no reproaches.’ He put an arm round her affectionately. ‘Just what a man needs when he’s made a fool of himself. I’d tried him at a jump I knew he didn’t like and got thrown for my pains.’ He laughed. ‘I felt an absolute idiot, I can tell you. My fault, really.’

  ‘It never crossed my mind that you were in the wrong,’ said Marguerite with anxious devotion.

  Haldean stole a look at Whitfield, wondering if he felt comfortable with such uncritical admiration, but Whitfield was totally at ease. He was either used to it or simply didn’t realize the depth of Marguerite’s feelings.

  Whitfield smiled at her again. ‘Have you seen Buckman? I told him you were coming over and to have Saverin ready. Were you thinking of joining us, Major Haldean?’ he added, glancing at Haldean’s unequestrian brogues.

  ‘Not me.’ He tapped his leg. ‘I’m not up to riding any more, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, really? Bad luck,’ said Whitfield, his face belying his voice. ‘Then it’s just us, Marguerite. Don’t feel you have to wait, Major. I’ll take Marguerite back to Hesperus.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Haldean glanced at his watch. ‘I do have some time to kill, though. I’m meeting Superintendent Ashley at the police station but that’s not until one o’clock. Would you mind if I had a look round? I rather like horses.’

  Whitfield hesitated. ‘Well . . . You can, of course you can. If I hadn’t promised to take Marguerite out this morning I’d show you round myself. It’s just that the place isn’t what it used to be, and that’s a fact. What with the war and investments not doing as they should, I haven’t been able to make the improvements I should have done.’

  Haldean nodded understandingly. ‘That’s a fairly familiar story.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t suppose I’m unique. Here’s Buckman with Saverin. He’ll take you round.’ The groom approached, leading a fine grey. ‘Show the Major the stables, will you, Buckman?’ he said. ‘Up you get, Marguerite.’ He lifted his cap slightly. ‘Nice meeting you again, Haldean. You’ll be at Mrs Verrity’s tonight? I’ll see you there.’

  They trotted off, leaving Haldean and Buckman together. Haldean had been prepared to radiate encouragement at Marguerite as she left, but it was obvious that Whitfield was absorbing all her attention. Well, he’d thought before that she was single-minded and he was right. Feeling slightly deflated, he turned to the groom. ‘What do you think of the Colonel’s horse?’ he asked, conversationally.

  ‘He’m too nervy,’ said Buckman. ‘Well called, he is. Satan by name and the devil do look after his own. The Colonel thought he might run the National but a horse has to be willing as well as able.’ He spat briefly. ‘Near trampled one of my lads but the Colonel wouldn’t hear of getting rid of him. We’ve got better than him in the stables, in temper if not in breeding, I’m glad to say. I don’t trust that horse, and that’s a fact.’ He shrugged dismissively and started to walk slowly back to the stables. ‘Was there anything special you wanted to see, sir?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Haldean, falling into step. ‘It’s just I’ve heard what a fine establishment Colonel Whitfield has.’

  ‘Had, maybe, sir. I don’t know so much about has, although there’s some as think it’s not my place to say so. B
ut I speak as I find.’ He shook his head sourly. ‘I wish you could have seen it when old Mr Whitfield was alive. There wasn’t a better stables in the county. Mind you, those were the days when you had men – and ladies too – that could ride, not a crowd of galloping tinkers, all money and no manners. But that was before the war.’ Haldean registered the familiar complaint in silence. ‘Still,’ continued Buckman, ‘I mustn’t grumble. We were lucky to have the Colonel spared to us. You know he won the VC? There’s not many as do that and live to tell the tale. I suppose you was in the war, sir?’

  ‘I was in the RFC.’

  ‘Airyplanes,’ said Buckman in deep disapproval. ‘T’aint natural to my way of thinking. Now here’s the old stables,’ he said, nodding towards the cobbled yard.

  Haldean felt his spirits fall. The yard was set in rolling downland and the rich, homely smell of horses mingled with the tang of the upland air should have been pleasant, but the buildings reeked of neglect. The whitewashed walls were flaking and stained with lichen and a moss-choked water pipe dripped dismally into a leaky water barrel. The stables on the left-hand side stood open and empty and the cobbles in front of them were rimmed with grass.

  ‘I remember when these were all used,’ said Buckman. ‘A grand sight, it were. But since the war first one horse went, then another, and they’m not been replaced.’

  ‘This right-hand block’s been used fairly recently though, hasn’t it?’ asked Haldean, nodding to where part of a wall had been repointed.

  ‘Not since the autumn, sir. That’s when we had to send two blood mares to Tattersall’s. Near broke my heart, that did, to part with Nym Queen and Nym Princess. But since the war things have gone from bad to worse. Still, it doesn’t do to brood, does it? But it’s not a good thing to think on, how we’ve had to sell our blood stock. There’s some right old screws in the yard now. Old Mr Whitfield would have been shamed to see them but they’re good enough for men who don’t know no better. Tinkers, that’s what we have to hire out horses to these days. Tinkers.’

  ‘That grey Miss Vayle was riding was rather nice,’ said Haldean in a desperate effort to break out of this slough of despond.

  ‘One of the few left,’ said Buckman, refusing to admit a bright side. ‘No, I reckon if things carry on as they are there won’t be no stables left in a couple of years.’ A shout came from across the yard. ‘Do you mind if I leave you, sir? That’s young Alfred calling for me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Haldean, easily. ‘I’ll just carry on poking around by myself. You carry on.’ Buckman touched his cap and stumped away. Haldean strolled over to the nearest half-open stable door and made a clicking noise to its occupant. He was rewarded by a velvety nose thrust over the door. He felt in his pocket and offered one of the sugar cubes he had far-sightedly purloined at breakfast. ‘Well,’ he said, taking in the horse’s lines, ‘you have seen better days, haven’t you, old thing? I wonder what your stable-mates are like?’

  He made a leisurely inspection of the rest of the stables then thoughtfully strolled back to the car. A few good horses and a collection of old nags, and this in what had been one of the county’s, leading stables. No wonder Buckman was so despondent.

  At the police station Haldean found Ashley sitting in his office surrounded by neat stacks of paper. He looked rather careworn. ‘The Chief called me in this morning,’ he announced. ‘He thinks the blackmail idea may very well be the right one.’

  ‘Good-oh,’ said Haldean, pulling up a chair.

  ‘He’s also very keen to get Colonel Whitfield involved.’ Haldean pulled a face. ‘I know, I know. I wasn’t very happy about it either, but the Chief’s convinced it’s the right way to go. As he says, the Colonel’s a JP and he did know Boscombe.’

  Haldean picked up a pencil from the desk and tapped it on the edge of the table, thinking. ‘I don’t suppose you can stop him,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘A pity, all the same. I can’t help feeling the fewer people who know, the better. All we can hope for is that Whitfield doesn’t blurt it out to half the county. Fine upstanding bloke, and all that, but he doesn’t strike me as particularly subtle.’

  Ashley sighed. ‘Me neither, and the last thing I want to do is put the wind up any possible suspects. Still, the Chief’s the Chief and what he says goes.’

  ‘What else did the Chief say?’

  Ashley gave an irritated sigh. ‘He wants suspects. To hear him talk you’d think I could pick them off blackberry bushes. It’s all very well, he said, having theories – fancy theories is what he actually said – but he’d be a lot happier if we were on the trail of a definite someone. I’ve been trying to figure out how we can go about tracing this child of Tyburn’s. It’s difficult to know where to start.’

  Haldean took out his pipe and started to fill it. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to this and it helped to have something to do. ‘As a matter of fact, you don’t have to. Start, I mean.’ He pushed his tobacco pouch across the desk. ‘Help yourself, by the way.’

  Ashley ignored the tobacco. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know who Tyburn’s daughter is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Marguerite Vayle.’

  Ashley stared at him. ‘Marguerite Vayle? But . . . When did you find out?’

  ‘Last night. Look, I’d better tell you everything that happened after I got back to Hesperus.’ He put a match to his pipe. ‘Help yourself. This might take some time.’

  Ashley listened, unlit pipe in hand, while Haldean briefly recounted Marguerite’s story. After it was over, he slowly shook his head. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. To be honest, I was impressed last night because I thought your theory made a lot of sense, but I wasn’t sure – deep down sure, I mean – that it would hold up in the cold light of day. To have it confirmed like this is stunning. Does she know you were going to talk to me about it?’

  Haldean nodded. ‘Yes. I can’t say she was any too happy, but I told her I had no choice. By that time she was so grateful to me for helping her out with what could have been a very nasty situation at home, what with Isabelle’s pendant and Uncle Philip’s cigarette case and everything, she more or less had to take it. And . . . And . . .’ He took his pipe out of his mouth and inspected the glowing bowl with meticulous care, avoiding Ashley’s eyes.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And I told her that it would be all right.’ He looked up, ill at ease. ‘She’s not guilty, Ashley. Obviously you’ll have to talk to her. I told her that you’d have to talk to her, but she’s not guilty.’

  ‘Have you told her she’s a murder suspect?’ said Ashley in a dangerous voice.

  ‘Of course I haven’t! Give me some credit. I didn’t say a damn thing about it.’

  Ashley relaxed. ‘Good for you. For a horrible moment I thought you’d warned her exactly what we had in mind.’

  ‘But I haven’t got it in mind,’ said Haldean plaintively. ‘Not now. She’s innocent, Ashley. Look, last night was awful. I’d convinced myself that Tyburn’s child was the one we were looking for and here was the child in question, popping up at me like the Demon King. She didn’t exactly say, “Yoo-hoo, it’s me,” but she might as well have done. And the more she talked the more obvious it became that she didn’t have a clue about the murders. She really didn’t, you know. Unless she’s a brilliant actress, I’d say she was innocent.’

  Ashley looked at him appraisingly. ‘Would you? Without any lingering doubts?’

  Haldean remained silent. He had been battling this thought since last night. Yes, Marguerite was innocent. That’s what he wanted to believe. However, there was a niggle of dissatisfaction that wouldn’t go away. She was single-minded. She was obsessive, to put it bluntly. Boscombe and Morton had threatened to come between her and Richard Whitfield, and Boscombe and Morton were dead. She was also, God help him, a traitor’s daughter. He was trying very hard not to let that count.

  Ashley nodded. ‘Yes, I thought tha
t was the size of it.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Marguerite Vayle, eh?’

  ‘She acted exactly as you’d expect an innocent person to act,’ said Haldean doggedly, forcing down his doubts.

  Ashley shrugged. ‘So she’s a brilliant actress. Why shouldn’t she be? Brilliant actresses do exist and they’re not all on stage. By her own admission she was being blackmailed by Boscombe. We were looking for someone who was being blackmailed by Boscombe, remember? She’s certainly a thief.’

  ‘She was a terrified girl. And she owned up.’

  ‘She says she was terrified. Brilliant actress, remember? And she didn’t actually own up until you accused her, did she?’

  ‘No,’ said Haldean unhappily.

  ‘What’s more, it was you who floated the idea of it being Tyburn’s child we were looking for.’ He gave Haldean a long look. ‘I’ll grant you that was before you knew who the child was. Does that really change things so much?’

  Haldean pushed his chair back and walked round the room impatiently, eventually pausing with one arm on a filing cabinet. ‘No.’ His voice was bitter. ‘No, as far as the evidence is concerned it doesn’t change a thing. And, to be honest, I don’t know why I’m so upset about it. I certainly haven’t got any tender feelings for her or anything like that.’ Marguerite was helpless. Hopeless, Isabelle would say. He felt she’d been trapped and he wanted to help. That was it. But an animal caught in a trap could bite . . . ‘Damn it, I don’t know.’ He clenched his fist, which was better than smacking it down on top of the cabinet. ‘It’s just that . . . Well, I think she’s had a rotten hard time of it, Ashley. Oh, I don’t mean she’s been ill treated or anything, but ever since the Vayles died she’s been farmed out from one place to another. She doesn’t belong anywhere and now, now that she’s looking forward to marriage and so on, with a home of her own, she felt it was all being taken away.’