Author's Note
Money values
At the period in which this story is set, money in Britain was worth approximately fifty-three times its value in the early 21st Century. So to get an idea of their present day equivalents, all sums mentioned should be multiplied by fifty-three. For example, £1,000 then would have had the purchasing power of £53,000 in the year 2001.
Those wishing to get an idea of the value of a sum in another currency, such as US dollars, have two choices:
They can convert using the rate of exchange as it was at the time of the events in the book. This will turn £1,000 into just under $5,000, and £53,000 into about $260,000.
Alternatively, they convert at the rate of exchange at a more recent time. In 2001, for instance, this would have made £53,000 the equivalent of only about $78,000.
The matter is further complicated by the fact that the inflation rate has been lower in the USA than in Britain, so that $5,000 then would have had the purchasing power of about $63,750 in 2001.
Readers who find all this as confusing as the author does should seek help from their friendly neighbourhood economist, or any good international currency dealer.
(Figures from Economic History Services website: http://eh.net/hmit)
Chapter One
'I want to make one thing absolutely plain,' said the Honourable Mrs Florence Saunders. 'After I'm dead, I will not come back.'
Jean Mackenzie, her companion, blinked. 'I don't quite . . .'
'You know perfectly well what I mean. I don't want you trying to get in touch with me at one of your séances. I'll have far more interesting things to do than potter around down here, spouting a lot of platitudes about peace and love. Understand?'
'Now, dear, you mustn't talk like this. It'll be many years yet—'
'Jean, don't talk nonsense. I'm ninety-six. It cannot possibly be many years. And I don't mind at all. My husband's dead. My only son is dead. I've had enough of this world now. I've repented of my sins and I'm ready to meet my Maker. So I want it made clear that there must be no long faces at my funeral. Let people enjoy themselves. I've taken one step in that direction already. Charlie Bradley has it in hand.' She chuckled richly.
Jean looked doubtful. She was a thin, nondescript woman of about fifty, invariably clad in a tweed skirt and twin-set. Mostly her face wore an expression of doubt, or sometimes of anxiety. Doubt was now dominant as she didn't know whether to take Florrie seriously. How could her solicitor ensure people enjoyed themselves at her funeral?
But then, Florrie had never been serious. Even the name. She should be called Florence, a properly dignified name for the widow of an Earl's son. Jean had never felt quite comfortable calling her by her first name at all. But from the time she had come to her, Mrs Saunders had been quite clear. 'Call me Florrie,' she had said. 'Everybody else does.'
It was her background, of course. Stage people were notoriously lax about such things. And although it must be seventy years since she had last trodden the boards, the music hall artiste, the old vaudevillian, was still there, struggling to get out.
Jean, though, wished she wouldn't talk about her death. For that made her think about what was going to happen to her when Florrie passed over. She had hardly any savings and it was many years before she would qualify for a small state pension. With no qualifications, she would have little chance of getting any job, except one as companion. And most paid companions were really no better than nurse and housemaid combined. But otherwise, what would she do? After twenty- three years in this lovely detached house, on the river, just outside London, it would be very hard to settle in some pokey bed-setter, even if she could afford the rent. Oh, if only she knew whether Florrie—
'Penny for 'em,' Florrie said suddenly.
Jean gave a slight start. 'I was just thinking what a remarkable life you've had,' she said, untruthfully. 'Tell me, would you change anything?'
Florrie shook her head firmly. 'I had a wonderful time on the halls. Never made the West End, but might have done, if I hadn't got married. And I certainly don't regret that. People thought I was just Bertie's little bit of fluff and I craftily trapped him into marriage. Not so. It was a love match, even though he was a good bit older than me. And I worked hard to make sure he'd never be ashamed of me. In a few months I could speak and dress so you wouldn't know the difference between me and a Duchess. And I gave him a son. John was the apple of his eye. May sound shocking, but I'm always grateful Bertie died when he did. He saw John happily married to a lovely girl like Emma, with two daughters of his own. Then he passed away, less than nine months later Emma died, eighteen months after that John remarried - and within a few months was killed himself. It was a - a terrible time.'
Her voice quavered and stopped. Jean wisely remained silent while Florrie collected herself. She had, of course, listened to all this many times before. Florrie would reminisce for hours. But it didn't bore Jean, who never tired of hearing about an early life so different from her own ultra-respectable middle-class upbringing.
Florrie was continuing now, talking almost to herself. 'Worst choice John ever made, marrying Clara. I can understand why he did it: he thought Agatha and Dorothy needed a mother. And Clara could really turn on the charm, when she needed to. I don't know why she cut herself and the girls off from me completely after John's death: jealousy, maybe, or snobbery. Yet I was always nice to her. I never let it show that she was a disappointment to me, after Emma. Then, when the girls are grown up, she suddenly realises I'm getting on, and she ought to make sure I don't get my own back by cutting them out of my will. So she brings them to see me, and fawns all over me, saying how fond she is of me. Lying cat. And Dorry just sits there, staring at the carpet and fiddling her thumbs, and Agatha is red in the face and fuming. Very painful. Only happened once, though.'
'Well, you did tell her you found three visitors rather tiring'
'I was hinting it would be nice to see the girls on their own. But she wouldn't have that.'
'Still, you do see Agatha regularly now. I was amazed later on when I answered the door one day and there she was, in jodhpurs and all her motor-cycling outfit.'
'Yes, she's one of a kind, is Agatha. But imagine having to come secretly, so her stepmother doesn't find out! And Dorry so cowed she never comes at all and from what Agatha says is not much more than an unpaid skivvy.'
'Agatha seems to have made an independent life for herself.'
'As far as she could. She ought to get out of that house. But, of course, she's got no money. What they get under my will is going to make a difference, though.'
Chapter Two
'You're not going to get away with it, you loathsome old woman,' said the voice on the phone.
Clara Saunders gasped and nearly dropped the receiver. She was about to slam it down, but some instinct stopped her. Managing with great self-control to keep her voice steady, she said coolly: 'Who is that?'
'Oh, this is nobody at all. Nobody of any importance.' The words were slightly slurred, the voice husky It could have been a man or a woman.
'Obviously true. Equally obviously you're drunk.'
'Oh yes, I'm drunk. And you know why? Because you've ruined my life.'
'You're insane.'
'Don't play the injured innocent. You sent that piece to the paper about me, you bitch.'
Clara drew her breath in sharply. But she wasn't going to take this sort of thing lying down. 'How dare you speak to me like that, you uncouth, insolent creature!'
'Insolent? How can one be insolent to a slimy toad like you?'
'I am not going to stand here and listen to insults from a contemptible, cowardly
drunk. And let me warn you that if you call again—'
'No, let me warn you, my fine lady, that you're not going to get away with it.' The voice got louder. 'You'll pay, yes, you'll pay. I'm going to get you. I'm—'
At this Clara did ring off. She stood quite still in the hall of the old, rambling house in Hampstead. Her heart was pounding and her legs felt weak. Never before had she been spoken to in that ghastly way. Old, indeed! She wasn't sixty yet. But she did feel she'd handled the person with considerable dignity.
Suddenly she needed to sit down. She turned, to make her way back into the drawing-room, then gave a jump. Standing just two feet from her was a young woman. Clara clasped her hand to her heart. 'Oh, Dorothy, don't creep up on me like that!'
'I didn't. I just came to answer the phone,' Dorothy Saunders said defensively. She was in her early thirties, painfully thin, with short, mousy brown hair, and a deathly pale complexion. She was wearing a drab brown dress, about ten years out of date, thick stockings and flat shoes. At the moment her eyes were big with alarm. 'Mother, who was that?'
'I don't know. Just some drunk.'
'He threatened you, didn't he?'
'Certainly not!'
'But I heard him say, "You'll pay, I'm going to get you." '
'He didn't know what he was saying. He was totally out of control.'
'It was terrible. It's the way A1 Capone and those other Chicago gangsters talk to their enemies.'
'I'm pleased to say, I wouldn't know. And I don't know how you do.'
'Only from the talkies. It was one of them, wasn't it?'
'A gangster? Don't be ridiculous!'
'No - one of those people you've told the papers about.'
'I tell you I don't know who it was.'
'Aggie's always said something like this would happen - that one of them would try and get revenge.'
'Your sister is absurdly melodramatic sometimes.'
'But he did threaten you. Mother, you must tell the police.'
'No. What could they do? Besides, it was only empty bluster.'
'It might not be. And at least if he rings again you could tell him the police had been notified. It might just frighten him off.'
'Well, I'll think about it, if it'll keep you quiet. Now I don't want to hear another word on the subject. Go and do something useful. Clean the bathroom.'
'I cleaned it this morning.'
'Well, clean something else!'
And Clara strode into the drawing-room and slammed the door behind her.
Chapter Three
'I wonder how many people will come to my funeral,' Florrie said reflectively.
Jean Mackenzie gave a tut. 'There you go again, dear. You really must not think about these things.'
'I like thinking about it. I want it to be a good one.'
'I'm sure it will be, if a funeral can ever be good. And no doubt there'll be lots of people there.'
'Hardly any family, though. All my generation long gone, and John's, too - all my nephews and nieces. Happened everywhere, of course. First the Great War, then the Spanish Flu.'
'But you've got lots of great nephews and nieces, and great- greats.'
'Four great nephews, one great niece and two great-great nieces. Yes, I expect they'll come. I think they're all in my will, aren't they? Let me have another look at it, will you, dear?'
Jean got to her feet and carefully navigated her way between the many stools, pouffes, chairs and occasional tables to the big Victorian bureau. She had no difficulty in locating the will, as this was a routine which was gone through at least once a week. Florrie knew quite well who was in her will and who would be coming to her funeral. But she enjoyed the little ritual, it helped pass the time and at her age such harmless whims could be indulged.
Jean glanced down at the envelope wistfully as she made her way back. If only she knew whether she was mentioned in it. She had never liked to ask; it would seem such bad form. And Florrie hadn't ever given the slightest hint. It would be so easy, she thought for the umpteenth time, just to come in one day, when Florrie was in bed, and look. But it wouldn't be right. The mere fact that Florrie gave her the opportunity would make it wrong to take advantage of it. Though it was such a temptation . . .
She handed the envelope to Florrie, who opened it.
'Now, let me see. Well, George and Lavinia will come. I'm sure of that. They've always kept in touch. Never any snobbery with the real aristocrats you know, the one's who've got aristocratic natures, not just a title.'
'Oh, I know. And that time we stayed at Alderley was so wonderful. I'll never forget it. Even now, when they visit, I can't believe I'm actually talking to the Earl and Countess of Burford. They treat me just as though I were, well, one of them.'
'That's precisely what I mean. And Geraldine's a lovely girl, such a live wire. So interesting, all she had to tell me about those terrible murders they had there. I do hope she'll be happy with that young man.' She gave a sigh. 'It must be lovely at Alderley now. I wonder what they're all doing at this moment. Keeping very busy I'm sure.'
* * *
The August sun beat upon the half-drawn curtains of the mellow, oak-panelled room. Through the open French windows wafted the smell of roses and the faint hum of bees. In a large, well-worn black leather easy chair an untidy-looking man with wispy grey hair, a pink complexion and a straggly moustache whistled softly and not unmusically as his chest rose and fell rhythmically. The Times crossword puzzle, half finished, was open on his lap. George Henry Aylwin Saunders, twelfth Earl of Burford, was enjoying his usual post-prandial snooze. It was a peaceful scene.
It did not long remain so, as the double doors were thrown open and a girl breezed into the room. She was in her mid-twenties, petite, red-haired, with a tip-tilted nose and deceptively innocent large hazel eyes. She seemed to ooze energy. 'Hello, Daddy,' she said loudly.
Lord Burford awoke suddenly and blinked pale blue eyes several times before focusing on the speaker. He gave a grunt. 'Oh. You've arrived.'
Lady Geraldine Saunders looked hurt. 'What happened to "My darling daughter! You're home at last! It's been so long!" '
'It seems about three hours. How's London?'
'Big. Noisy. But fun.'
'It's the noisiness - and the smelliness - that always strikes me most these days. Which is why I go up as little as possible. Is that Peepshow?' He pointed incredulously to a garishly coloured magazine she was holding.
'Yes. A little present for you.'
She held it out to him. Lord Burford took it gingerly and gazed at it with distaste. 'Why the deuce did you bring me this? It's an appallin' rag.'
'There's something in it that will interest you.'
The Earl read the caption to the picture on the cover: ' "Shirley Temple: America's Little Sweetheart." You surely don't— ?'
'No, no - page twelve.'
The Earl reluctantly flicked through the pages and opened the magazine out. Then his eyes bulged. 'Good gad!'
A banner headline, across two pages, read:
IS ALDERLEY CURSED?
The rest of the pages consisted mainly of photographs, but there was a small block of text. The Earl read it.
Twelve months ago this week two sensational murders were committed at Alderley, the 17th-Century Westshire home of the Earl and Countess of Burford. Amazingly, less than six months later, another, completely unconnected murder took place. Involving, among others, a government minister, film stars, American millionaires, European aristocracy, foreign diplomats and an Olympic athlete, with the murder weapons valuable firearms from Lord Burford's world-famous collection, these crimes have led many people to ask if an ancient gypsy's curse is still exerting its malign influence over the beautiful, stately home, and if this could lead to further tragedies. See the following pages for the full astounding story.
The Earl looked up. 'This - this is preposterous!'
'I know.'
'It's absolute nonsense! It's ridiculous! It's - it's—' He gro
ped for words.
'How about balderdash? That's a good strong word.'
'Claptrap,' said the Earl defiantly.
'Yes, claptrap's good, too.'
'This business about a curse, I mean. The eighth Earl turfed some gypsies off his land and one old woman swore at him a bit and told him he'd regret it.'
'And within twelve months he and his younger son were both dead.'
'The Earl had apoplexy - probably what they'd call a stroke today - and the boy most likely got pneumonia. There wasn't anything mysterious about it. Since then there's been nothin' out of the ordinary. Most of my ancestors died peacefully, usually at a ripe old age.'
'You don't have to convince me, Daddy. I'm not scared of any gypsy's curse.'
'And those murders didn't involve the family. The people just happened to be here. I shall complain to the editor.'
'I don't honestly think you've got any grounds. The story has appeared in a couple of books, after all.'
Lord Burford turned the page to reveal a page of text broken into many short paragraphs and headed THE ALDERLEY MURDERS: FULL STORY. 'You've read this?'
'Skimmed through it. Nothing that wasn't in the papers at the time. They seem to have got the facts right, and they don't libel anybody, so we'll just have to grin and bear it.'
'Bear it I may. Grin I will not.'
'The pictures aren't bad.'
'Didn't look at 'em.' He turned back the page. 'My word, they've really gone to town. That's your mother and me when she opened the County Show last month. Nice photo of you.'
'It's the one that was in The Tatler.'
'Oh yes. But they've put you in a line with all these other girls. "Beauties Involved in Murder." You, Jane Clifton, Anilese de la Roche, Laura Lorenzo, the little Dove - and Mabel Turner, for heaven's sake! This picture of her must be twenty years old, at least.'
3 The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks Page 1
