The Wednesday of the funeral was a cloudless and bakingly hot day. 'Makes a change,' said the Earl. 'Practically always rains at the funerals I go to. Not the sort of day, though, you feel like getting togged out in a mornin' suit.' He ran a finger round inside his stiff wing collar.
Everything was ready for the guests, just nine rooms having eventually been prepared, after Bradley explained that he had friends living not far away, with whom he had arranged to spend the night. In the dining-room, the servants were busy laying out the buffet.
At eleven forty-five the Earl, the Countess and Geraldine set out in the Rolls on the short drive to the church, just the far side of the village. On the way they saw the smoke from the London train approaching in the distance. When Hawkins pulled up at the church, there were a number of cars already parked in the vicinity, together with eight taxis, brought in from the county town of Westchester by the efficient Harry Jenkins. The hearse, which had borne Florrie's coffin from London, was parked immediately outside the church. Twenty or so spectators, including a number of children, were standing around. For the sleepy village of Alderley, this ranked as quite a show. The village constable, P.C. Dobson, a stout, red-faced man whose uniform always seemed too small for him, self-importantly tried to appear to be keeping order.
They alighted from the Rolls. Some of the children cheered and Gerry gave them a cheery wave. Then she looked down the road in the direction of the station. 'Here they come,' she said.
Her parents followed her gaze. Quite a procession was approaching. All garbed totally in black, and looking, from a distance, like a disciplined army of beetles, they strode determinedly towards the church. As they drew closer, Lord Burford tried to count them. He made the number at least seventy. 'By Jove,' he muttered. 'Never thought there'd be so many.'
'There won't be enough taxis,' Gerry said.
'Then they'll just have to run a shuttle service.'
Fifteen minutes later everyone was seated in the little church, which had not been so full for many years, and the coffin had been brought in and placed in position. After the first hymn, 'Abide With Me,' and a prayer, the rector said: 'I did not have the pleasure of knowing the Honourable Mrs Florence Saunders, or Florrie, as I believe she insisted on being called by practically everybody, but I am assured that knowing her was indeed a pleasure. It is sad, though, if on occasions such as these, the priest has no recollections of the deceased, which can be passed on. I have, therefore, asked Mr Gregory Carstairs, MP, Mrs Saunders' great nephew, to deliver a eulogy.'
Lord Burford groaned under his breath. 'We'll be here for hours,' he muttered.
Gregory went forward and turned to face the congregation. 'Thank you, Mis—' he began, then quickly corrected it to 'Thank you, padre.'
Gerry stifled a giggle. 'He was just going to say 'Mr Speaker,' ' she whispered to her mother.
'Ssh!'
The Earl had misjudged Gregory. One thing the MP could justly claim was to be a fluent speaker, and, when there were no votes at stake, when he tended to portentousness, a witty and interesting one. It was an ability that had given him the edge over his opponents at four general elections, and frequently in the House of Commons. Now he spoke entertainingly and at times quite movingly about Florrie, recounting several amusing anecdotes and referring to numerous kindly acts of hers. He went on for just twelve minutes before sitting down. A barely audible murmur of approval went round the church. Only Timothy remained stony-faced.
After this, the service proceeded in the usual fashion, ending with the interment in the Burford family's section of the churchyard.
As soon as he could decently do so, Lord Burford went across to Hawkins, who had been placed in charge of the transport arrangements. 'Everything under control?' he asked.
'I think so, my lord.' The chauffeur touched his cap. 'Harry and I made a rough count as people were going in, and we think we can get everybody there in two trips per car. He has a couple of cars in the garage we can use, as well as the taxis. Some people will have to wait, though.'
'Oh well, it won't be for long.'
Lady Burford and Gerry had already reached the Rolls, which Gerry on this occasion was to drive. The Earl hurried to catch them up. They had to get home before the first of the guests arrived. Two of the church's sidesmen had been deputed to usher the mourners to the taxis and within minutes the process was under way.
The Countess and Gerry had barely time to remove their hats and gloves before the first of the taxis rolled up. In it were Clara, Dorothy, Timothy and Gregory. The Earl felt a stab of annoyance with himself; he had forgotten to give instructions that Timothy and Gregory should be sent in different taxis. He also noticed that there was no sign of Agatha. The four alighted from the taxi and the Earl and Countess greeted them in the porch. After expressing the usual commiserations to the two women, the Earl asked: 'Er, Agatha comin' in one of the other cars, is she?'
'She isn't here, er—' Clara had obviously forgotten how she used to address him, and settled finally on 'Cousin George.' She ostentatiously dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief as she spoke.
'Really? I didn't spot her at the church, but with so many people there . . . Anythin' wrong?'
'She woke up this morning with a severe sore throat. I suspect tonsillitis. We thought it would be highly unwise for her to attend. She is devastated, of course, isn't she Dorothy?'
'Yes.' Dorothy's eyes were cast down, her voice totally expressionless.
'So I should imagine. Poor girl.'
The occupants of the second taxi were approaching, so the Earl and Countess had time only to shake hands briefly with Gregory and Timothy, who had been standing side by side studiously avoiding looking at each other. A footman had carried in the small cases that the overnight guests had brought. The Countess beckoned him across, spoke quietly to him for a few seconds; he nodded and then conducted the four upstairs.
The second group to arrive included a tall, thin young man, a blond girl, clinging firmly to his arm, and Miss Mackenzie. Gerry, who was standing a little apart, watching everything with keen enjoyment, saw Timothy, halfway up the stairs, turn and eye the boy with an expression of clear disapproval - of which he, however, seemed quite unaware. Miss Mackenzie was genuinely red-eyed, and Lady Burford devoted more time to her than any of the others. A second footman was still in the act of taking the bags from the second taxi, and the young man and the blonde stood waiting, gazing round them, seeming somewhat in awe of their surroundings.
The next car contained four people totally unknown to the Burfords. One of them was a young woman in her mid-thirties, wearing an extremely chic suit and hat. After shaking hands with Lord and Lady Burford she moved on a few feet and stopped, looking a little lost. Gerry approached her.
'Would you be Stella Simmons, by any chance?'
The young woman looked surprised and pleased. 'Why, yes.'
'I'm Geraldine Saunders.' Gerry held out her hand.
Stella took it firmly. 'It's a real pleasure to meet you, Lady Geraldine. I've heard so much about you.' She had a very slight American accent.
'That sounds ominous.'
'How did you know who I was?'
'It was a guess. From your outfit. It's by far the smartest one here and I heard you were a fashion journalist.'
'Why, thank you. It's nice when someone notices. The magazine positively insists we always dress up to the nines when we're on public display. And it can be quite a bore. One day I swear I'm going to turn up at some do dressed like an old washerwoman.'
'I can imagine how you feel. But I'm glad you didn't do that today.'
'Oh, I couldn't do that at Alderley. Though I think Florrie might have liked the idea, don't you?'
'She probably would,' Gerry agreed.
'Stella?'
The tall young man had approached from behind her. She spun round and looked at him for a second or two, a puzzled expression on her face.
'Don't you know me, dear cousin?'
H
er face cleared. 'Tommy?'
'The very same.'
'Oh, Tommy, I am sorry. But you were just a school kid when I saw you last. And now look at you! You're so tall!'
'And skinny. I'd have known you anywhere, Stella. You haven't changed a bit.'
'I'm sure I have but I love you for saying it. Here, give your old cousin a kiss.'
Tommy was nothing loath. After disengaging himself, he suddenly remembered his manners. 'Oh, this is another cousin, Penny Saunders.' He drew the blond girl forward.
Penny, whose suspicions had been immediately re-aroused when she had first laid eyes on the 'old' Stella at the church, had been looking at her wearing exactly the same expression that her father had worn when looking at Tommy; and her greeting was far less effusive than Tommy's had been. She shook hands with very stiff fingers, saying formally: 'Pleased to meet you.'
However, Stella smiled with the utmost warmth. 'So at last I meet the famous society beauty,' she said.
'Oh.' Penny clearly did not quite know how to react. 'Oh no, not really, it's nice of you to say so but—'
'You know something, Penny? You should be a mannequin.'
Penny's eyes widened. 'Do you really think so?'
'I sure do. You've got everything: looks, figure, poise.'
'Oh my, I never thought . . . It would be just wonderful. But Daddy'd never let me.'
'Ah, he must be Timothy, the great lawyer, is that right?'
'He is a lawyer, yes.'
'I do want to get to know everybody,' Stella said. 'I'm so out of touch with the family after nearly eleven years. Whether they'll want to know me is another matter, of course.'
'I can't imagine there'll be any doubt about that,' said Tommy.
'Thank you darling. Oh, you both know our hostess, Lady Geraldine, do you?'
'Actually, no,' Tommy said. 'Though I think we did meet when we were very small, Lady Geraldine.'
Penny said: 'I've wanted to meet you for many years, Lady Geraldine.'
Gerry smiled. 'I know - please don't say it - you've heard so much about me.'
They all shook hands. 'Now, two things,' Gerry said. 'First, I'm not the hostess. That's my mama. I'm really just a hanger-on here. Second, it's Gerry, OK? Now, I'm sure you'd all like to freshen up, so if you'll follow William, he'll show you your rooms, and then you can come down and have some grub.'
Meanwhile, in the doorway people were now arriving in a rush, with a queue already forming outside. The taxis were positively tearing off the second their passengers had alighted. 'Hawkins has certainly got 'em moving,' Lord Burford whispered to his wife during a rare free moment.
What he did not know was that there was keen competition between the drivers. Harry Jenkins had started a book on which of them would be the quickest to get to the house, unload his passengers and return to the church, and was carefully timing the cars with several stopwatches. With each of the drivers having bet on himself, there was no likelihood of any of the second wave of passengers having to wait a moment longer than necessary.
After the first dozen or so arrivals, Lord Burford gave up all attempts to work out who they were. Earlier, there had been some discussion about the possibility of having Merryweather take people's names at the door and formally announce them, but the Countess had considered that this would give the proceedings more the atmosphere of some grand reception or ball and was hardly suitable for a funeral. The Earl, however, had begun to wish that they had gone ahead with the plan - though he had eventually to admit to himself that in most cases it would not have made a great deal of difference, as even when the guests introduced themselves, the names usually meant as little to him as the faces did.
Eventually the last of the guests had been delivered and the Earl and Countess followed them to the dining-room, where the magnificent cold buffet was waiting. The taxi drivers, who were to remain and later convey all but the beneficiaries to the station, were conducted by Hawkins to the servants' dining- room, where an equally good spread was to be served.
Among the guests, quite a party atmosphere was already developing, which, Lord Burford had often noted, was usually the way when people relaxed after the strain and solemnity of a funeral service. He and the Countess separated and moved around, at last beginning to learn the identity of some of the guests. Gerry introduced Tommy, Penny and Stella to her parents and then drew her father aside.
'Who are the old girls?' She indicated with her head.
Six ladies, all clothed in long black dresses and black hats, with veils covering the top halves of their faces, were gathered together in one corner of the room, appearing somewhat ill at ease. Apart from their sizes, which ranged from tiny to quite large, they looked practically identical.
'Haven't the foggiest.'
'You should go and have a word with them, Daddy.'
'Me? That's your mother's job.'
'Mummy's got her hands full. Anyway, I'm sure they'd much rather talk to a man. Probably all old maids or widows.'
'But if I don't know who they are, what shall I call them?'
'Don't call them anything. See what they call you. That may give you a clue as to who they are.'
'Oh, very well.' Lord Burford made his way across to the group. 'How good of you all to come,' he said. 'I know my great aunt would greatly have appreciated it.'
Gerry watched him engage them in conversation for a few seconds, then turned away to survey the room. She was surprised to see that Miss Mackenzie, a glass of wine in one hand and a smoked salmon sandwich in the other, was talking animatedly to Tommy, who was listening closely and nodding, as if fascinated by what she had to tell him. Then he smiled, but shook his head firmly, as if regretfully turning down a pressing invitation.
Five minutes later the Earl returned. 'Well?' Gerry asked.
'None the wiser. One of them called me "George", two "Lord Burford", two "my lord", and the last one didn't call me anything. I'm not sure they know who each other are. They don't seem to be together, just sort of flocked - you know, birds of a feather. Anyway, I've split them up now.'
'There are two old gentlemen, near the fireplace, also looking rather lost, so—'
'No,' interrupted her father. 'I don't want to know who they are. I don't care. Let somebody else take care of 'em.'
Chapter Fourteen
About fifteen minutes later, Lady Burford approached Geraldine. 'Have you noticed Dorothy?'
'She's almost unnoticeable,' Gerry replied. 'I've never seen anybody who is so close to not being anything.'
'She hasn't left Clara's side for a second. And she's not spoken to anybody. But she can't take her eyes off you.'
'Really? I hadn't noticed. What excellent taste she must have.'
'Have a word with the poor girl, will you? I'll distract Clara.'
'OK.'
Lady Burford moved towards Clara, who quickly saw her coming and turned to meet her.
She took the Countess' hand. 'Lavinia, how very, very good of you it is to lay on all this. To open up your beautiful home to so many strangers is a really gracious act. The girls and I are so grateful. Without you, I just don't know what would have happened.'
'It's kind of you to say so.'
'No, it's not kind at all. How could I say less? You and George are genuinely good people. I just wish there was some way we could repay you.'
In spite of herself, Lady Burford found herself softening. Clara was certainly capable of great charm. She told herself that it was flattery, of course - but remarkably effective flattery.
'Really, er, Clara' - she always found using her Christian name something of a struggle - there is really no need to think like that. We were very glad to do it. We were very fond of Florrie.'
'I know, and she was so fond of you and George and Geraldine. She always spoke of you with the utmost affection.'
The tactful thing to do would be return the compliment, but Lady Burford could not bring herself to utter this blatant lie. 'She spoke a lot of you, too,' she sai
d.
If Clara noted the significance of the form of words, she did not show it. 'Thank you, too, so much for allowing us to stay overnight. Dorothy is really quite excited about it.'
Lady Burford was on the brink of answering with a phrase she had heard her daughter use: 'You could have fooled me.' But fortunately at that moment Clara suddenly realised that Dorothy was not at her shoulder. 'Where is she?' she said sharply and started to turn round.
Hastily, Lady Burford put her hand on Clara's. 'And tell me, how are you keeping?' she asked earnestly.
* * *
Gerry approached Dorothy with a broad smile. 'Hello, I'm Gerry Saunders.'
For a moment Dorothy looked terrified. Apart from the merest smattering of powder her face was totally devoid of make-up, and she was wearing a dress that looked as though it could have belonged to her mother. Gerry suddenly felt very sorry for her.
Dorothy gulped. 'Y-Yes, I know. H-How do you do, Lady Geraldine?' She was gazing at her with something like awe.
'Oh, please call me Gerry, we are cousins of a sort, aren't we? And may I call you Dorothy - or is it Dorry? That's how Florrie always referred to you.'
'Well, Agatha calls me Dorry. Grandmamma must have picked it up from her. But nobody else does. Mother doesn't like it.'
'Then I'll call you Dorry, too, if I may. I think it's a very pretty name - much nicer than Dorothy.' Gerry actually had no strong feelings either way, but if Clara was anti-Dorry, then she was going to be for it.
'Really?' Dorothy's face showed its first sign of animation. 'Then I'll ask everybody to call me that in future.'
Gerry blinked. She had often thought it would be nice to live in a world where everybody instantly followed her lead and took her advice on all matters, but now she had met somebody who was, it seemed, prepared to do just that, she was not at all sure she liked it. But she smiled again and said: 'I was awfully sorry to hear about your grandmother's death. It must have been an awful blow for you.'
'Well, we knew she had to go sometime, of course, but it was a shock all the same. I - I just wish I'd known her better, but I didn't get to see her all that often.'
3 The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks Page 7
