Behold, a Mystery!

by Joan Smith

  “Cut that stand of oaks! Gregory, you must not think of it! They are the making of Hanshurst. The place would look desolate without them.”

  “I agree. It breaks my heart to do it, but I need five hundred pounds.”

  “Gambling debts, I suppose?”

  “If you want to call a business investment gambling,” he said, in an injured tone. “I was given every assurance that the company—”

  Horatio tugged at my elbow. “He’s bamming the old gel,” he said in a low voice. “He’s already cut those oaks. I noticed at Christmas when I was driving home to visit the folks. I happen to know he dropped a bundle at Mrs. Hennessey’s gaming hell. The old girl will fall for it and give him the five hundred.”

  “He can always bring her round his thumb,” I agreed.

  “I mean to have a go at her m’self. The roof at the Elms is full of holes.”

  “Horatio! I hope you have not fallen prey to this vice of gambling too!”

  “Nothing of the sort. I lent Cousin Ralph a few hundred. He got married at Christmas, you know, to that nice Jennie Huddlestone. I no sooner did it than the water took to gushing into the attic. Always the way, ain’t it?”

  “Could your papa not help you out?”

  “Don’t like to ask Papa. Cuts up stiff.”

  “What about Otto?” I was eager to bring Otto into the conversation, to hear how he was doing.

  “Bad time for poor Otto.”

  “Poor Otto? He must be rich as a nabob by now. One sees his journal everywhere.”

  “Lawsuit. The Clarion made some nasty comments about Prinney. Mean to say, what other sort could they make, and folks do like to read about him. The fellow’s costing the country a fortune.”

  “Was that what Otto wrote?”

  “Not this time. ‘Twas about Prinney’s new mistress, Lady Hertford. All to do with Prinney reneging on Catholic emancipation. Used to be for it, then he takes up with Hertford, and suddenly he changes his coat. Grey and Grenville was in on the attack in the Clarion. All Prinney’s old Whig friends are on the outs with him. They hoped to seize power, but of course old Perceval was brought back in. Prinney is claiming the story was next door to treason, and has set up a lawsuit for five thousand pounds.”

  “That much!”

  “It’ll kill the Clarion—and Otto. He ain’t foolish enough to hit Hettie up for the money. She would never spend a sou on a Whig cause, so he’ll play the thing up for all it’s worth, to rile her.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. There was a deal of mischief in Otto.

  “Putting her in a pelter won’t do me any good. My roof, that is to say.”

  It seemed unfair that Gregory could lie his way to five hundred pounds to throw away on cards or light-skirts while Horatio, whose only sin was generosity, would get nothing. I was more concerned for Otto, however. He had been a little wild before starting up the Clarion. Gambling, women—the usual vices of the aristocracy. But when he had instituted his newspaper three years before, he had thrown himself into it with such vigour that he had no time for dissipations. It had been his salvation, and if he lost his journal, he might revert to his old ways.

  Gregory suddenly rose. “My usual room, Auntie?” he said, with such a doting smile that I knew he had weaseled the money out of her. “I shall have a lie-down before dinner.”

  Felix immediately took up Gregory’s vacant seat beside Aunt Hettie. As Gregory was walking to the door, Felix called, “How is Mrs. Rampling, Gregory?”

  Gregory stopped dead in his tracks and turned around slowly. A pink flush crept up his neck and coloured his cheeks. There was murder in his eyes as he glared at his brother. “Very well, thank you, Felix. So kind of you to ask.”

  “Mrs. Rampling?” Hettie demanded at once. “And who, pray, is Mrs. Rampling?”

  “Why, she is Gregory’s new—er, friend,” Felix said, with an air of innocence. “I made sure that was what he was whispering in your ear, Auntie. So gay and lively. Quite the life of the town, one hears.”

  “A divorcee?” Hettie exclaimed, aghast. “Surely you are not seeing a divorcee, Gregory?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “Mrs. Rampling is a widow.”

  “Indeed she is,” Felix agreed. “Her late husband was recently shot in a duel defending her honour.”

  “Gregory! That is not the sort of lady—”

  “She is only a friend, Auntie,” Gregory said. “I helped her handle a little business when her husband died. We are just friends, nothing more.” He turned and resumed his departure, at a noticeably stiffer gait.

  “Shame on you, Felix, frightening me for nothing,” Aunt Hettie said. “But enough of that. Tell me all about your little book.”

  “Actually it is rather a large book. I have brought you a copy, Auntie. I left it with Juteclaw.” He drew a sheaf of reviews from his pocket, and for the next moments the air rang with a recitation from them, “ ‘A truly remarkable work, showing a breadth and depth of knowledge astonishing in one so young. It is helpful for each age to take its own look at the classics, and we have not had a good translation of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives for nearly half a century,’ " he read. “That is in the Edinburgh Review. And Coleridge says, ‘Mr. Chapman’s translation has the lively style of Sir Thomas North’s version, with the accuracy of the Langhornes’s.’ North and the Langhorne brothers were two earlier translators,” he explained. “And that, in nuce, was the conclusion of all the scholars. The work took five years of my life, but it was worth it.”

  “And what will you do next?” she asked.

  “Pro tempore, I shall concentrate on—”

  “Might I suggest you concentrate on learning English, Felix,” Hettie said. She never really cared for Felix, but when she saw his hangdog look, she softened. “You have done very well, my dear. We are all proud of you. Quite an ornament for the family tree.”

  “Actually there is some rumour of a knighthood,” Felix said. He got all the praise he could want from Hettie then. Gregory had not received a more doting welcome. Felix had lived too long amidst his books. He hadn’t sufficient experience with people to realize the glitter of knighthood meant more to Hettie than any scholastic achievement.

  “She likes that,” Horatio said aside to me. “Felix may get a leg up on Gregory now that he is on his way to fame.”

  “Is he really becoming famous?” I asked.

  “Rumour has it he will be offered a post at Oxford. A tad young for the Chair of Classics, but that will come in time. They say the book is a wonder. I never cared for Greeks and Romans m’self. A bloodthirsty lot.”

  There was a knock at the front door, and I felt a gush of excitement. Otto! But when Juteclaw appeared, he said, “A Mr. Weldon, for Mr. Felix Chapman.”

  “Weldon, my neighbour? How did he know you would be here, Felix?” Hettie asked.

  “He wrote to congratulate me on my book, and raised a few points he wishes to discuss. I wrote and arranged to meet him here. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “It is news to me that John Weldon is interested in anything but dogs and horseflesh.” Weldon bred and trained dogs. Hettie had got her Duke from him. “Are you sure you are not thinking of his papa? Doctor Weldon died two years ago. He used to tutor old Lord Handley’s lads. Handley had a high opinion of him.”

  “I realize Doctor Weldon is dead,” Felix said. “I considered him a friend. Do you not recall I attended his funeral, Auntie? I stayed with you.”

  “So you did. Bring Weldon in,” Auntie said to Juteclaw.

  “You will not be interested—” Felix said.

  Juteclaw took his orders from Hettie. He nodded and leaped out the door. In about ten seconds John Weldon was shown in. He had a Spanish look about him, with his swarthy complexion, black hair and eyes, and small, muscular build. I knew him slightly from the village and local assemblies. His reputation was such that my aunt did not encourage the acquaintance. And as I did not care for him, I did not make an issue of it.

  He behav
ed like a gentleman, however. He made his bows to the ladies and said “good day” to Felix and Horatio.

  Auntie quizzed him for a few moments about his farm and his mama, but when he proved taciturn, she suggested he and Felix remove to the study for their discussion. Felix was not slow to get away. I was surprised he did not use this visitor as an excuse to expand more on his magnum opus, but perhaps he realized Aunt Hettie was not really interested in it.

  “Five-thirty, and still no sign of Otto,” Hettie said. “What can be keeping him? When I extend an invitation to tea, I expect my company to be here for tea.”

  “It would be the Clarion that’s holding him up,” Horatio said, in an apologetic way. “Nothing else would keep him away.”

  That was typical of Horatio’s kind nature. Either Gregory or Felix would have taken advantage of the other’s tardiness to turn Hettie against the culprit. You would think brothers would be kinder to each other.

  Auntie said, “I shall go to my room to rest before dinner. We dine at seven, Horatio. City hours, for you city bucks.”

  Horatio assisted her from her chair and walked her to the door. As soon as she was gone, he poured us two glasses of sherry and we settled in for a good chat. As he refilled our glasses, he said, “Felix and Weldon would appreciate a gargle of this. Excellent stuff! I’ll take ‘em the bottle.”

  When he returned from the study he said, “They are hot at it. Don’t it beat the Dutch how scholars can come to cuffs over something written hundreds of years ago? Weldon had his notes with him, arguing till he was blue in the face about Pericles. Would he be the fellow who built the Parthenon?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted, and we spoke of more contemporary things until it was time to change for dinner.

  Mr. Weldon was just leaving as we entered the hall. “We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow, Mr. Chapman,” he said, with a challenge in his eyes.

  Felix replied placatingly, “I look forward to it, Mr. Weldon. I believe you have a point.”

  He bowed civilly; Weldon made a jerky bow, and left.

  We all went upstairs. And still Otto had not come.

  Chapter Three

  Mrs. Manner came to help me with my toilette for dinner. With her assistance, I had refashioned my deep-blue evening frock, ruching up the hem and adding velvet bows. She helped me tame my corkscrew curls to a more civilized do, and pulled two strands to the back, decorated with one of the left-over skirt bows, in what she called the corbeille.

  My room was a shambles when I was ready to descend. Auntie had not shuffled me off to any inferior cubby-hole when I came to her. I was given a fine bedchamber with lofty ceilings and elegant gold-coloured brocade window hangings to match the canopy on my bed.

  What I especially treasured was the vanity table with the mirror above it. I felt quite a lady of fashion when I sat there, using Mama’s chased silver brush and comb. I never had such a room when Mama was alive.

  It bothered me to see clothes strewn on the chairs and bed of my cherished room, but I had heard Otto’s voice echoing in the hallway, and wild horses could not have held me back. A last peek in my mirror showed a flush on my cheeks and a glow of excitement in my grey eyes.

  He, Otto, had once called my eyes stormy grey. We had been arguing at the time. I daresay he did not even mean it as a compliment, but I treasured the description. At least he had looked at me, and seen what he was looking at. Poor relations are so often looked past, rather than at. But then Otto was bound to look at any lady younger than forty, unless she was a positive antidote.

  “You look just lovely, dear,” Mrs. Manner assured me.

  “So do you,” I replied.

  She, too, had taken pains with her toilette. In Mrs. Manner’s case, taking pains means shifting from her grey cap to her ecru one with the blue satin ribbons, and puffing her grey hair in little buns over her ears. And of course wearing the pretty opal ring her late husband had given her. It is small, with chips of opal and seed pearls and rubies resting in an oval platform. She calls it “your ring,” meaning my ring, as she has left it, her dearest possession, to me in her will.

  “I hope we don’t all come down with this cold that is threatening, and destroy the yearly visit,” she worried.

  My scratchy throat no longer bothered me. The dryness in my mouth was due to pure anticipation of the evening ahead. “Take the cold medicine. Auntie says it is a preventive, as well as a cure.”

  “Aye, but it is the rum she likes.”

  Mrs. Manner does not usually make sly comments. I put it down to her excitement. We went together, nervous as a pair of debs, to the great staircase. It has a narrow brass banister worn silk-smooth by generations of fingers, and bronze fretwork below. The stairs are broad and shallow, with a great sweeping curve in the middle. A marvellous staircase for making a grand entrance to the rose marble floor below. I peered over the railing, and was disappointed that no one was waiting in the hall to admire our descent.

  A blending of polite voices issued from the saloon. We would make our grand entrance into the purple saloon instead. I stopped a moment at the doorway, revelling in the view that greeted my eyes. Four young gentlemen of fashion, wearing black evening suits; Auntie sitting in state by the grate; an unaccustomed number of lamps casting puddles of light in the gloomy chamber, and Juteclaw passing a tray of wine.

  No marvellous sight for most people, perhaps, but at Downsview it was something quite out of the ordinary, and my blood warmed even before Otto turned to welcome us. He was the first to spot us; my fond imagination decided he had been waiting impatiently for my arrival. Something in his smile suggested it—a look of long anticipation satisfied.

  To describe him is to become mired in cliché. He was tall, dark and handsome. But it was neither his height, his colouring, nor his well-formed face that lent him that particular air of distinction. It was his liveliness, and his charm. Half of London was running mad for him; how should a mere provincial miss not be bowled over? His dark eyes danced with pleasure as he came forward and placed a lingering kiss on my warm cheek.

  “You are one of the wonders of the world, Jess,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes. “You never change. Happy New Year.” Then he turned and said substantially the same thing to Mrs. Manner, only in different words. He cupped my elbow firmly in one hand, Mrs. Manner’s in the other, and led us into the saloon.

  “Let the party begin. The young ladies have arrived,” he announced. He handed us a glass of wine and saw us seated.

  I saw at a glance that Aunt Hettie was in the boughs about something. I thought at first she disliked Otto’s intimation that the party must wait for anyone but herself, but her next speech enlightened me.

  “Just what one might expect of you, Otto, to insult and humiliate the royal family. Upon my word, I think the Prince of Wales was kind not to throw you in the Tower. He will certainly win his lawsuit. All you have accomplished by this ill-bred piece of impertinence is to bankrupt yourself. Don’t look to me to pay the cost. I am ashamed to claim any kinship with you.”

  “We are not actually kin, but only connections. Kith, perhaps,” was Otto’s reply to her tirade.

  “Eh?” Horatio said. “Ah, kith and kin. Just so.”

  “Would you like me to leave, Auntie dearest?” Otto asked blandly. He had not taken a seat. He lounged by the fireplace in an attitude of casual ease.

  “I cannot turn my late husband’s nephew from the door. That is all that restrains me. I should not be at all surprised if this prevents Felix from winning his knighthood.”

  Otto turned to Felix, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “A knighthood! Well done, Felix. I have bought your book—as you failed to send a copy to the Clarion—and begun to look into it. From what I have read, it lives up to its reviews. That, in itself, is amazing. That is not a denigration of your work, by the by, but of critics’ taste—or veracity. As to my squib at Prinney lessening your chance of a knighthood, that is sheer nonsense. I doubt Prinney realizes
we are connected. I shall see that he is informed.”

  “Otto!” Hettie exclaimed.

  He raised a finger and shook it at her. “Honi soit qui mal y pense, ma chère tante. What could be a finer gesture of Prinney’s fair-mindedness than to bequeath honours on the kin—or even kith—of the man he is prosecuting? It would shout from the pinnacle of Carlton House that he is above petty considerations. I consider that knighthood as good as yours, Sir Felix.”

  I noticed Aunt Hettie was glancing at a journal she held in her lap. She began reading aloud from it. “This is monstrous, Otto. ‘It surprises no one that the Prince has traded in his Whig jacket for Tory blue; he is well known for his facility at turning his coat. What does cause surprise is that he is now sporting a petticoat in lieu of trousers. The donor, of course, is Lady H***, informally known to her host of detractors as The Old Lady of Manchester Square. Her opposition to Catholic emancipation is well known. We smell something fishy here.” She looked up, frowning.

  “Lady Hertford’s son, Lord Yarmouth,” Otto said, “is active on his mama’s behalf. It is not really the article that inppsensed Prinney so much as the cartoon. Cruikshank outdid himself. An amazing talent for caricature in one so young. Have you seen it, ladies?”

  He took the journal from Hettie and passed it along to Mrs. Manner and myself. The cartoon was a ridiculous drawing of the Prince of Wales wearing a voluminous petticoat and a baby’s bonnet. Lady Hertford wore the trousers. While she dandled the Prince on her knee like a baby, she was snatching from him a rattle bearing the words “Catholic Emancipation.”

  “It is very humorous to be sure, Otto, but is a laugh worth five thousand pounds?” Mrs. Manner asked.

  Otto considered it a moment, then said, “No joke is worth more than one thousand, but Catholic emancipation is worth any sum. What price can be put on freedom? Only see where the lack of it leads. I am referring, of course, to the revolution in France.”