The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks

by James Anderson

  By now Clara's long, narrow nose seemed to be almost visibly quivering. 'What voices?'

  'One was definitely the master, and the other a lady.'

  'Could you hear what they were saying?'

  'Just a few words. I heard the lady laughing, and then she gave a sort of little scream. And I heard her say: 'Terry, you're a wicked man, you know that?' And the master, he said: 'And you're absolutely wonderful, Marigold."

  'Marigold? Had you ever heard a mention of that name?'

  'No, madam. And nobody ever calls the master Terry.'

  'Go on.'

  'Well, I would have liked to have seen who the lady was, if she was the one in the car, but they might be in there some time, and when they did come out, it wouldn't be likely I'd see her face, 'cos I'd have to keep out of sight myself, and anyway, it was me afternoon off, and I knew my friend would be waiting for me, so I just went on up, got me purse and scarpered. The car were gone, though, when I got back that night.'

  'What did the lady in the car look like?'

  'Real glamorous. Very blond hair, lots of make-up.'

  Clara nodded to herself. 'Yes, it could be . . .' She fell silent for a few moments, then stood up. 'Well, thank you, Martha. You did quite right in coming to me.' The £5 note rapidly changed hands. 'Now, if at any time you have any further information, about this or any other matter, you know where to find me. And please pass the word among your friends.' She ushered the girl into the hall, opened the front door and practically shooed her out. Then she returned to the drawing- room.

  What was the name of that girl in the new review? Marigold Green - that was it. She was blond. Clara grabbed up a copy of the Evening News and turned to the theatre page. Yes, Keep Smiling at the Star Theatre. Curtain up at eight. It was just ten past seven, so Marigold Green ought to be there now. It was worth a try.

  She went into the hall, picked up the directory, found the Star Theatre's number and picked up the telephone receiver. As she did so the kitchen door opened and Dorothy came along the hall. Clara looked up irritably. 'Oh, go away, Dorothy. I told you I did not want to be disturbed.'

  Dorothy gave a nervous jump, like a frightened filly. 'I'm sorry, Mother. I heard the girl go, so I thought—'

  'Don't think so much. Just do as you're told. Go and do the ironing.'

  'I've finished it.'

  'Well, start getting the meal ready.'

  'The joint is in the oven.'

  'Are the potatoes done?'

  'No, not yet.'

  'Well, go and do them.'

  'Very well, Mother.'

  She started back to the kitchen. 'And scrape them, don't peel,' Clara called after her, and lifted the telephone receiver.

  'Star stage door,' a rough Cockney voice answered, when she got through.

  Clara adopted a gruff tone. 'Marigold Green, please.'

  'Who wants her?'

  'Terry.

  'Hang on.'

  For a minute or so Clara heard distant snatches of conversation, footsteps and various bumps and bangs. Then a female voice, slightly breathless, came on the line. 'Terry, darling, you're not supposed to call me here.'

  Clara rang off.

  Her thin lips formed into a smile. That settled it. If only it could always be so easy. She put through another call. It was answered quickly.

  'News of the Week.'

  'Saucy Snippets column, please.'

  A male voice spoke next. 'Saucy Snippets.'

  'This is C. S.'

  'Ah, dear lady, how nice to hear from you. It's been some time.' He had an exaggerated, plainly bogus upper-class accent.

  'I have something for you.'

  'Splendid.'

  'One of the country's leading writers - married - is having an affair with a well-known young review artiste.'

  'Excellent. What would we do without these people? Let me have the names.'

  'Just a moment. How much?'

  'Usual. Thirty.'

  'No, I want forty. He's a very big name indeed. I can tell you exactly when and where they last met and what his wife was doing at the time.'

  'Oo, I'm not sure about that.'

  'I can easily go somewhere else. I came to you first.'

  There was a pause before he said: 'Well, OK - provided he is as big as you say.'

  Clara hesitated for a moment, remembering that awful phone call she had received. Suppose . . . But forty pounds was forty pounds. 'Terence Leigh,' she said.

  There was a whistle.

  'Big enough for you?'

  'All right, it's a deal. Let's have the rest.'

  'The girl is Marigold Green, who's in Keep Smiling at the Star.' She gave a summary of what Martha had told her.

  'Is this one hundred per cent reliable?'

  'Absolutely. If you want to confirm it yourself, find out what sort of car Marigold Green drives. I guarantee it's a big red and white American one. It was seen parked outside his house on Wednesday afternoon, by someone who couldn't possibly have known Marigold Green's car.'

  'Sounds good. OK, if that checks out, I don't see any problems. You'll be paid within a few days.'

  Clara rang off.

  * * *

  'And that's just about all my family' said Florrie. 'All the ones who matter, anyway.' She looked suddenly wistful. 'I do wish I could be there for the funeral. And for the reading of the will. There are going to be some surprises when it's read. I'd love to see the reactions.' She seemed to brighten. 'Perhaps I will. Perhaps, after all, I will come back, just to see my funeral and what happens after. And it wouldn't be because one of your mediums tries to conjure me, or whatever you call it. But because I choose to. I might even be able to cause a bit of a rumpus.'

  Chapter Eight

  The public hall was dingy, dusty and ill-lit. Nevertheless, the hundred or so seats were each occupied. The atmosphere was intense and all eyes were fixed on the man standing on a dais at the front. On the face of Jean Mackenzie, sitting in the third row, was an expression close to awe. Mr Hawthorne really was wonderful.

  There was nothing in the appearance of the speaker to account for the effect he was having. He was insignificant- looking, with a receding chin and a few sparse hairs carefully spread across his scalp, and was wearing an ill-fitting suit. When he spoke it was with a pronounced London suburban accent. He was standing now with his eyes closed, making small clutching movements in the air with his hands.

  'Now, I have a spirit here who wants to pass a message to a lady whose first name begins with - with, er, J. Jane? Joan?'

  There was no response.

  'Or perhaps Jean. Is there a Jean in the audience?'

  Miss Mackenzie's heart missed a beat. She timidly raised her hand. 'My name is Jean.'

  'The spirit is a woman who passed over at the age of about forty. Does that mean anything to you?'

  'It could be my sister. She was forty-eight. Her name was Marion.'

  'Marion, yes. I'm definitely getting the name Marion. Marion sends her love to you, Jean, and she has an important message for you. She says that you're going to be given a great opportunity. A chance that is vouchsafed to few. You must seize the moment when it comes. Be resolute. Do not be afraid.'

  'I'm sorry, I don't understand. What sort of opportunity?'

  'I cannot say. You will know when the time comes.'

  'When will this be?'

  'Soon. Very soon.'

  'Will it be to do with the Message? The Work?'

  'I'm sorry, the Spirit is fading. There is no more. Another appears. A man. He wishes to pass on a message to his daughter. Her name I think begins with S.'

  But for once Jean Mackenzie was not listening. A message actually for her. It was thrilling. But what did Marion mean? 'A great opportunity.' It could mean so many things. And 'do not be afraid.' Afraid of what? It sounded rather frightening. She was not at all resolute, as Marion had very well known. It, whatever 'it' was, was going to be soon. How soon? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month?

&nbs
p; Oh, dear, it was worrying. She almost wished Marion hadn't send her a message. But no, she shouldn't think that. She had been greatly privileged. So many others in the hall would be envying her. During the tea and biscuits afterwards she would be a centre of attention. A very unusual occurrence. She could at least make the most of that, while it lasted, before getting back to Florrie. With only Mrs Thomas, the housekeeper, for company, she would be getting bored and ready for a long chat. Probably about her funeral and her will again—

  Then it suddenly hit Jean. Oh no. Surely Marion couldn't have meant that. Surely not.

  Chapter Nine

  Dorothy Saunders was engaged in her perennial task of scraping potatoes, when she heard the front door open and close. She hurried out to the hall. The young woman who had entered was tall and sturdily built and had a brown, weather- beaten face and untidy, short-cropped hair. She was wearing a fur-lined leather jacket and jodhpurs and carrying a motorcycling helmet and goggles. She saw Dorothy and mouthed the words: 'Where is she?'

  Dorothy pointed towards the drawing-room, then went back to the kitchen. The other followed her in and closed the door.

  'Did you see Grandmamma, Aggie?' Dorothy asked, with as much eagerness as she ever showed about anything.

  Agatha Saunders nodded. 'Yes, she seemed jolly bucked to see me, too.'

  'How is she?'

  'Well, frail, of course, but still got all her wits about her. She sent her love. And Mackenzie sent her regards.'

  'Did Grandmamma like the chocolates?'

  'Yes, she said they were her favourites. She was sorry she didn't have anything in return, but she said that both you and I can look forward to receiving something from her in the not too distant future.' She hoisted herself onto the table and lit a cigarette.

  Dorothy frowned. 'What did she mean?' She started scraping potatoes again.

  'That we're remembered in her will, I think.'

  'Oh, we are, then. That's nice. Though I hope it's not for years yet, of course. I wonder how much.'

  'Well, I shouldn't expect too much, petal. I doubt if she's all that well off. Anyway, it might be just things: ornaments, jewellery, paintings, stuff like that.'

  'All the same, it's nice that she doesn't hold it against us that we didn't see her for all those years.'

  'Well, I blame myself that I didn't think to go and see her long before ever Mother suddenly got it into her head that we should all go. I told Grandmamma that. She understood. 'It's water under the bridge,' she said. Anyway, I've kept in touch pretty regularly since then.'

  'I haven't, though. Oh, Aggie, you're so lucky just to be able to jump on your motor-cycle and go all that way, whenever you feel like it.'

  'I'll take you one day, I promise.'

  'Did Grandmamma tell you anything more about Mummy and Daddy?'

  'A bit, including a few things about Daddy when he was a boy. I'll tell you all about it later.'

  'Oh, lovely. I'll come to your room tonight, when Mother's asleep.'

  'What's she been doing today?'

  'Well, there's been another girl here.'

  Agatha gave a groan. 'Somebody's maid?'

  'Looked like it.'

  'Another little fool throwing her job away for a few quid, I suppose. That's two this week!' She banged on the table with her fist. 'It's not right, Dorry! How would she like it if her secrets were being offered for sale to the highest bidder?'

  'She hasn't got any secrets.'

  'She must have. Everybody has. You know that. She's never talked about her family. I've often thought there must be something there she's ashamed of.'

  'Well, if there is, nobody knows it but her.'

  'She couldn't be absolutely sure of that, though, could she?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'It ought to be possible to hint that one knew something. She just might give something away. Be fun to try, at least.'

  'Oh, Aggie, don't cause any unpleasantness.'

  'There's enough unpleasantness around as it is; a little more won't make any difference.'

  She got down off the table and moved toward the door. 'I think I'll make a start now.'

  'She may not have finished.'

  'Too bad.'

  'Aggie, the cigarette!'

  'Oh.' Agatha turned, expertly flicked the stub into the sink and went out.

  Clara was writing busily when Agatha entered the room. She looked up crossly, then said: 'Oh, it's you. Where have you been?'

  'Just riding.'

  'You'll be getting yourself killed one of these days, careering round on that machine.'

  'Which will solve a few problems for you, won't it, Stepmother?'

  'Why do you call me that?' Clara asked sharply.

  'I've decided to call you that in future. Because that's what you are. Dorry can call you Mother. I'll call you Mother in company. But my real mother is dead and I don't want ever to forget that.'

  'I've been more of a mother to you than she ever was.'

  'Only because she died,' Agatha shouted in a sudden temper.

  'Keep your voice down!'

  'Sorry.' Agatha looked abashed, but only for a second. 'I hear you've had another little visitor.'

  'Er, yes. I did not invite her. She just showed up.'

  'Seeking your advice, I suppose?'

  'In a way.'

  'And you told her just to dish the dirt to Auntie Clara and everything would be all right.'

  'What a horrible expression!'

  'Accurate, though. And which of your seedy journalistic friends did you peddle it to this time?'

  'They are not my friends. Just people I do business with.'

  'Some business. Breaking up marriages, ruining people's reputations, humiliating others, losing silly little maidservants their jobs.'

  'I have never revealed a source. People sometimes guess who's been talking about their affairs, and they dismiss them. But if these servants are too stupid to foresee that possibility, it's not my fault. I only ever report the truth.'

  'And that makes everything all right?'

  'I have to supplement my income some way. Your father did not leave—'

  'Don't blame Daddy for this. He'd turn in his grave if he knew what you were doing.'

  'He did not leave us well off, Agatha.'

  'That's what you always say. But you'll never tell us how much he actually left. And because there was no will ever found, we can't check up.'

  'That is a private matter. But I assure you, financially it's been a very hard struggle.'

  'Well, if you'd allowed Dorry and me to get jobs it wouldn't have been so hard. We could both have trained for something properly if you hadn't put your foot down. Just because you wanted a couple of unpaid housemaids.'

  Clara sneered. 'And just what would you have trained for, my girl? Nursery governess?'

  'Women are doing all sorts of jobs these days they've never done before - lawyers, doctors, even. I don't say I could have done that, but at least I could have gone to secretarial college and become a shorthand-typist.'

  'People of our class do not become shorthand-typists.'

  'Our class? What do you mean our class? Dorry and I are the great granddaughters of an Earl. What was your great grandfather? You always keep very quiet about that. And that's not the only thing you keep quiet about, is it?'

  'What do you mean?' The question came just a bit too quickly.

  'I think you know quite well what I mean.'

  'I have absolutely no idea.'

  'I see. Well, then, let's just leave it at that, shall we? For the moment.'

  'You're a spiteful, ungrateful girl. Well, if you so despise me, you can leave any time you like.'

  'You know I can't do that. I'm thirty-three and I've never had a job. Who'd employ me? Besides, this house was bought by my mother and father. I was born here. Why should I have to leave?'

  'You don't have to. You're welcome to live here as long as you like. But while you do, I expect proper respect. Why c
an't you be more like your sister? Whatever her failings, she is always polite and obedient.'

  'Because she's scared to death of you, that's why.'

  'Nonsense.'

  At that moment Dorothy put her head round the door. Clara rounded on her. 'Is the meal ready?'

  'Not quite, but—'

  'Don't come in here again until it is! Now go and finish.'

  'Yes, Mother.' And Dorothy's head disappeared.

  'I'll come and help, Dorry,' Agatha called. She walked to the door. Just inside it she turned and made a clumsy curtsy before going out.

  A hit, a palpable hit, she thought with satisfaction.

  Chapter Ten

  It was a few days after Gerry's return, and she and her parents were at breakfast when Merryweather, Alderley's august and imperturbable butler, entered the room bearing a silver salver. He crossed to the Earl. 'A telegram, my lord,' he murmured.

  Ah.' Lord Burford swallowed a mouthful of bacon, laid down his knife and fork, tore open the envelope and read the enclosed message. 'Oh, dear,' he said. 'Oh, dear, dear.'

  'What's the matter, George?' asked the Countess.

  'Great Aunt Florrie's dead.'

  'No? Oh, I am sorry. When?'

  The Earl read from the telegram. '"Deeply regret inform you the Hon. Mrs Florence Saunders passed away peacefully in her sleep during night." Signed Mackenzie.'

  'Miss Mackenzie will be terribly upset. She must have been with her for about twenty years.'

  'At least that, Lavinia. Glad now we went to see her, back in the spring. And had 'em both to stay for a couple of weeks a few years ago. Probably the last time Florrie went away anywhere. I think Miss Mackenzie enjoyed it even more.' He looked at Gerry. 'And you said you went out to see her quite recently?'