3 The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks

by James Anderson

  'I see. So you're going to the funeral?'

  'Gosh, yes, you couldn't keep me away. I've got two days off. A funeral's one thing they can't refuse it for. You?'

  'Yes, me and Daddy.'

  'And staying overnight?'

  'Yes. I've never been there, have you?'

  'Once, years ago. I'm really looking forward to it. I want to see where all the murders were committed.'

  'Don't! Those are the last places I want to see.'

  'They were the last places the people who were murdered wanted to see, but they were.' Tommy gave a subdued chortle.

  Penny giggled. 'Tommy, you are awful!'

  This had been so frequently said to Tommy that he had come to take it as a compliment. He smiled to himself.

  'Anyway,' she said, 'you will be on your best behaviour, won't you?'

  'What d'you mean?' he said indignantly.

  'Don't do anything Daddy would disapprove of.'

  He was about to say that that left very few things it was possible to do at all, but stopped himself in time.

  'Butter won't melt in my mouth, Pen.'

  'Good. So I'll see you there Wednesday, then.'

  'You bet.'

  'Bye, Tommy.'

  'Toodle-pip.'

  Penny rang off. She looked thoughtful. Surely, No. 47 buses didn't go past Tommy's flat.

  * * *

  'All right, all right,' Poppy muttered, as she hurried to answer the furiously ringing door bell. She opened the door with a cross expression on her face, which was instantly transformed when she saw the visitor.

  'Greggy, darling, what a lovely surprise!'

  Gregory cast a quick glance behind him before hurriedly stepping inside.

  'Sorry about the bell, but I haven't got my key and I could hear someone coming up the stairs.'

  'I didn't expect to see you today. You said you'd phone.'

  'I know, but I had to see you.' He threw his hat onto the couch, crossed to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a gin and tonic.

  'What about?'

  'Well, just to apologise, really. Fact is, I won't be able to see you for the next few days, after all.'

  'Oh, Greggy, you promised!'

  'I know and I'm frightfully sorry. But tomorrow I've got to go to a funeral. Old great aunt of mine just died, aged ninety- six.'

  'But that'll only take a couple of hours!'

  'No, it's down in Westshire, and I won't be back till Thursday.'

  'Oh Greggy, do you have to go?'

  'I want to.'

  'Want to? But she's only a great aunt!'

  'I know, but it seems I'm in her will.'

  'For a lot?'

  'I don't know. I don't even know how much she was worth. But I am hopeful. Anyway, they can't hold the reading until five o'clock for some reason, by which time the last train back will have left, so I'm going to have to stay overnight. The rest of Thursday I'll be catching up and then Friday evening Alex has invited a few quite important people round for drinks.'

  'But if you're staying in a hotel, couldn't I come with you? Nobody's likely to recognise you down there. I'd love a trip out of town - no matter where. I get so bored sometimes.'

  'I know, my sweet. But I'll be staying at Lord Burford's place.'

  Poppy's eyes grew large. 'Alderley?'

  'That's right. I told you he's a sort of cousin of mine.'

  'But that's where they had all those murders. There were dozens of pictures of it in the papers at the time. Alderley's absolutely divine. Oh, you are so lucky! I'd give anything to stay there. Do you think one day . . . ?'

  'My dear, when we're married I'll wangle an invitation for us both. That's a promise.' One, he thought, he could safely make. 'Anyway,' he went on, 'we've got this evening.'

  'Can we go out - do a West End show? You know, I've got this friend, who can always get tickets for anything.'

  'That would be lovely,' he said enthusiastically. Then he looked doubtful. 'But perhaps it would be better if we stayed in. Or maybe a local cinema, eh? If we slip in before the second feature's finished, there shouldn't be too many people around.'

  Poppy pouted.

  * * *

  Stella Simmons stared at her face in the mirror. She was quite pleased with what she saw. Not delighted. There was much room for improvement. But, on the whole, not bad. She looked, she thought, if not beautiful, at least attractive. And her training meant that she did know how to make the best of the face she had been born with. Her hair was good: thick, auburn, naturally curly and hanging loosely to her shoulders. Was that style a little too young now? Should she consider a more mature cut? Something to think about. Her brow and eyebrows were good, too, though the eyes were not as large or as deep as she would like - but eyes were something that you really could improve with make-up and false lashes. Her nose was on the large size, but at least straight; the mouth a trifle wide, but only a trifle, the jaw firm - but too square? No, on consideration, not really. She smiled mirthlessly at herself. Her teeth weren't absolutely straight and could do with a little cosmetic work, only she was such a coward when it came to dentists. And they were, at least, very white.

  Yes, generally speaking, she would pass.

  She got up from the dressing-table and looked at herself in a full-length mirror. She was wearing the smart black suit, which, together with a black straw hat, she had bought especially for the funeral. She was pleased with the cut and style. There was no reason why a funeral outfit had to be unfashionable. And, she, of all people, had to put on a good show: Florrie would have appreciated that.

  She started to take the outfit off, thinking deeply as she did so. She wished she had known Florrie better. How many times had she seen her since arriving from America? Six? Seven? She certainly couldn't have hoped for a warmer welcome. Florrie had been genuinely delighted to see her. And her own stories about New York, the fashion scene there, and the Broadway shows had been a real hit with the old girl.

  Everything Florrie had told her about the other relations had been useful, too, as they were, really, strangers to her. How would they receive her? The Earl and Countess and Geraldine sounded nice. She doubted there'd be any problems there. Clara, though, unless Florrie was exaggerating, which was possible, seemed to be a real witch.

  She hung the suit in the closet. Now, who else would there be? Well, Jean Mackenzie, of course; she knew her quite well. And then the other relations. The second cousins: Gregory, the politician, and Timothy, the attorney. Timothy's daughter. And Tommy. Would he recognise her, she wondered? He was the only comparatively close relative among them and in his early teens had had, she fancied, quite an intense admiration for his older first cousin.

  Anyway, this was a great chance to get to know them all. She had no close relatives, and kin were important, particularly to someone in her situation. After so many years in New York, she was making a fresh life for herself. Apart from a few colleagues on the magazine, she did not yet know many people in London. So it was going to be vital to create a good impression at Alderley. For some of these were important people and could be very useful to her, especially if she was to fulfil her ambition and break out from the fashion world into a wider sphere of journalism.

  In fact, it suddenly occurred to her, this funeral might in itself be a way to start. There had been the usual formal obituaries of Florrie in the more serious papers, but no human interest stuff at all. After all, the old biddy had had quite a life. And her funeral was taking place within a mile or two of a house now famous or notorious for a series of lurid murders. The host and hostess on that occasion would be among the principal mourners. There must be a chance that some magazine or paper would be interested in a short piece. And Florrie herself would surely have approved of her taking advantage of their relationship, if it gave her a leg up.

  The most important thing, though, was really to get to know these VIP relations.

  'Nepotism for ever,' Stella said out loud.

  Of course, it all de
pended on nobody in this country ever learning the real reason she had had to leave New York so suddenly. That would really be disastrous. But there was little danger of that.

  Was there?

  * * *

  'No,' Clara said fiercely. 'We've had this argument before. The house cannot be left empty. Burglars always prefer unoccupied premises. Mrs Hopkins would be bound to tell her husband we were all going away, and he has some very disreputable friends.'

  'If we had a maid or two, like everybody else I know, and didn't rely on just a cleaning woman, three times a week, the problem wouldn't arise,' said Agatha.

  'A maid - or two, as you so vaguely put it - would be a totally unnecessary expense.'

  'As long as you've got Dorry and me, you mean.'

  'This is irrelevant. We do not have a maid. We do have Mrs Hopkins. And Mrs Hopkins has Mr Hopkins, and Mr Hopkins has friends. Which means you must stay home. Dorothy can accompany me.'

  'I don't want to go,' Agatha said. 'I loathe funerals. In a way, I'll be very glad not to go. But it'll look most odd if I'm not there, especially considering that I am one of the beneficiaries.'

  'We're all beneficiaries. I'll explain that one of us always has to remain behind and that you volunteered.'

  'That's rich!'

  'It will show you in a better light than if I explain how you objected to doing this one thing for me, just to set my mind at rest.'

  'I've done it dozens of times for you - flitting around the house, turning lights on and off and playing gramophone records loudly until the early hours of the morning, but this is different.'

  'I don't know that 'flit' is quite an apt word to describe your movements.' Clara eyed her large and somewhat ungainly stepdaughter meaningfully.

  Agatha's already rather ruddy complexion took on an even deeper hue. 'That's damned unfair, Stepmother.'

  'Do not use that sort of language in this house, Agatha! I won't have it.'

  'Oh, please, don't quarrel!'

  Dorothy spoke pleadingly, her hands clasped together, as if in prayer. Her face wore an imploring expression.

  The words which had led to her speaking hardly merited the name quarrel, but to Dorothy even the slightest hint of what she always called "unpleasantness" was a major crisis, liable to lead to hysterics. Agatha immediately took a grip on herself and managed a forced smile. 'Don't worry, petal. No quarrel.'

  She turned back to Clara. 'Why, for once, can't you stay behind and the two of us go?'

  'I am not letting you take your sister away, even for one night. Heaven knows which of your godless and immoral ideas you might fill her head with.'

  'That is totally absurd. Why don't you admit the real reason: that you're not prepared to forgo several hours of potentially very profitable gossip and prying and pumping, among some of the cream of society?'

  This hit home and Clara could think of no better response than: 'That is unworthy of you, Agatha.'

  Dorothy said desperately: 'Look, Mother, I don't want to go either. I dread having to meet all those people. Couldn't I stay home and Aggie go with you?'

  'Wouldn't help,' said Agatha. 'It's the look of the thing I'm concerned about. We should both be there.'

  'Besides,' Clara said, 'you know you'd be far too nervous to stay here on your own. Suppose some villain did break in? You'd be totally useless. He might murder you in your bed.'

  'Whereas I'm expendable,' said Agatha.

  'You know I did not mean that. But you are more capable of taking care of yourself.'

  There was a sullen silence for a moment. It was broken by Agatha. 'You can't stop me going,' she said sullenly.

  'No, I cannot physically stop you. But you would be unwise to go against me in this. It is my house you're living in, remember.'

  'And you'd throw me out, just because I went to my grandmother's funeral?' Agatha sounded incredulous. 'This is unbelievable. I—'

  'Please!' This time Dorothy's voice was almost a scream. 'Aggie, darling, do what Mother wants. Just once more. Please - for me.'

  Agatha looked at her. She was plainly seething, but at last muttered: 'Oh, all right.'

  'Oh, thank you.'

  'That's more like it,' said Clara with a satisfied air. 'And if you like I'll tell everybody that you've got a bad cold or a sore throat or something. Would you prefer that?'

  Agatha took a deep breath. 'Tell them what you bloody well like,' she said. And she strode from the room.

  Clara gave a screech of horror.

  Chapter Twelve

  'I've worked it all out,' said Lord Burford.

  'What?' Gerry, sprawled inelegantly on the sofa, looked up from her copy of the new Edgar Wallace mystery.

  'The family relationships you asked about.' He brandished a sheet of paper, covered with handwriting.

  'Oh, you shouldn't have bothered. It wasn't all that important.'

  'You asked about it and you're going to hear it. Make room.'

  Gerry moved up about six inches and the Earl flopped down beside her. 'I've just concentrated on the people who are in the will and their immediate families, so this isn't complete, by any means.'

  'What a bitter disappointment.'

  'Just shut up and listen.' He cleared his throat. 'My great grandfather, the ninth Earl, had three boys and a girl. The eldest was Aylwin, my grandfather, who became the tenth Earl. You know all about him. The second son was Bertie and you also know about him.'

  'Yes, and about Florrie and John and Emma and Clara and Agatha and Dorothy and Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.'

  'Right. We can now proceed. The third brother, after Aylwin and Bertie, was Thomas. He had a daughter, Phyllis, and a son, Harry. Phyllis married a man called Carstairs and had a son, Gregory, and a daughter, whose name I've forgotten and who won't be here for the reading.'

  'I thought you were only bothering with the ones who will be here.'

  'Quite correct. My mistake. Forget Phyllis' daughter.'

  'And I was just getting fond of her.'

  'Gregory, an MP, is married to a woman called Alexandra but has no children. Harry had a son, Timothy, a KC, who is a widower and has one child, a daughter, Penelope, who will be here. Finally, Aylwin's, Bertie's and Thomas's younger sister, Margaret, married someone named Lambert and had a daughter, Henrietta, and a son, Philip. Henrietta married a Mr Simmons and had Stella, who lived a good number of years in America, working on some New York fashion magazine, but who's presumably home now. Philip had a son, Tommy. All those branches of the family tended to marry late, incidentally, which makes all the ages out of alignment with us; my father and I both married young, as you know. Is that all clear?'

  'Oh, absolutely.' Gerry picked up her book again.

  'Now,' said the Earl, deftly removing it from her hand and at the same time consulting his piece of paper, 'Bertie and Thomas being my great uncles, and Margaret my great aunt, means the following - I think I've got the terminology right: John, Phyllis, Harry, Henrietta and Philip were my first cousins once removed upwards, making their children, Agatha, Dorothy, Gregory, Timothy, Stella and Tommy my second cousins, and your second cousins once removed upwards, even though Tommy, at least, is probably a bit younger than you. Penelope is my second cousin once removed downwards, so of course your third cousin.'

  'I feel so close to her already.'

  'Clara, as will be obvious, being the second wife of my first cousin once removed upwards, is the second wife of your second cousin once removed upwards, or, in other words, your second cousin once removed upwards by marriage - meaning, I believe, that you can legitimately call her your second-cousin-once-removed-in-law.'

  'Gosh, can I really? How exciting!'

  He frowned. 'Or should that be twice removed? Anyway, as I said, there're lots of other relatives but they won't be here, so we can safely ignore them.'

  'It's so nice to feel safe. To summarise, then, we can say that the people who are going to be staying here are a bunch of distant relations.'

  'You could
put it like that.'

  'Rest assured, Daddy, that is how I shall think of them, now and always.'

  'You have no sense of family history,' said Lord Burford.

  He started to stand up, then froze in mid-movement. 'Oh, lor.'

  'What's the matter. Hurt your back?'

  'No.' He sank back down. 'Just remembered something. Gregory and Timothy aren't on speaking terms. They quarrelled years ago. They might have made it up, I suppose, but they're a stubborn couple of coves, so probably not.'

  'What did they quarrel about?'

  'Well, my memory's a bit shaky. It must have been shortly after Gregory first got into Parliament. Some little revolutionary magazine wrote something libellous about him: said he'd voted for a bill only because he stood to make money from it, or something like that. Gregory decided to sue them, and got Timothy to represent him. Stupid, really, much better to have simply ignored it. Anyway, the case had just started, when it fell apart. Gregory dropped the suit. I don't know exactly what happened, but I heard a rumour that Gregory had wanted Timothy to do something that Timothy thought unethical and after a big row refused to represent him any more.'

  'Do you believe it?'

  'I dunno. I don't say Gregory wouldn't do anything unethical; on the other hand, Timothy might well think something was unethical that nobody else would think was. He is a bit of a prig.'

  'It's not a problem for us, though, is it?'

  'No, but they ought to be kept apart. Rooms in different wings, so they don't keep running into each other, have to use the same bathroom, and so on.'

  As he was speaking Lady Burford had entered. 'Ah, Lavinia, I was just telling Gerry about Gregory and Timothy. They must—'

  'I heard, George, and it's all right. I remembered about the quarrel. Gregory is in the east corridor and Timothy the west. And they will be well apart at dinner.'

  'You think of everything, my dear,' said the Earl.

  Chapter Thirteen