The Plain Old Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “My God, you don’t mean Charlie’s dead?” Frederick stared at Sebastian for a second or two, then went and got himself an even darker drink.

  Ridpath Wale came up beside Sebastian, shaking his head and making the right noises. “When you think we were all here together just twenty-four hours ago, having a fine time. Charlie looked great then. Didn’t you think so, Sarah?”

  Yes, Sarah had thought so.

  Ridpath finished his drink and slammed the empty glass down on the buffet table. “Well, the show must go on. Charlie wouldn’t have wanted us to stand around with long faces. Eat, drink, and be gay. Banish all worry and sorrow. Laugh gaily today, weep (if you’re sorry) tomorrow.”

  His full baritone rose easily above the conversation. Others picked up the chorus. The show was going on. Only Emma Kelling was not singing.

  “That’s all very well,” she snapped, “but what are we going to do for a Notary? Two nights before opening, and no time to rehearse. And Charlie gone.” She faltered, then threw up her head somewhat in the manner of Boadicea facing the Roman legions. “Frederick, you’ll have to take Charlie’s part.”

  “Me?” Her cousin choked on his drink. “Emma, you’re out of your mind.”

  “I am no such thing. You’ll manage splendidly. By the way, Frederick Kelling, I hope you haven’t forgotten who got you off the hook that time you got drunk on bathtub gin and wound up engaged to Cousin Mabel.”

  “For God’s sake, Emma! That was in June of 1929.”

  “It was 1928. And the statute of limitations hasn’t run out as far as I’m concerned. Frederick, you owe me. Furthermore, if you don’t come across, I’ll tell Mabel precisely how the disengagement was effected.”

  “Emma, you wouldn’t.”

  “Frederick, I would. I’m a desperate woman.”

  She glared him down. At last Frederick sighed, shrugged, took a mighty swig from his glass, and muttered, “All right, Emma. What do I have to do?”

  “Not a great deal, actually. You only have a few lines, and we can write them down on a habeas corpus or something for you to carry around with you. Come along, everybody. Finish your suppers and let’s get started.”

  Thus ended the period of mourning. Emma was clearly heartsick over losing her devoted swain of more than half a century, but she was a trouper first and last. As for the others, Sarah suspected most of them were simply relieved. One person’s tragedy, she knew from too much experience, tends to be another’s social embarrassment. The younger members of the cast had barely known Charlie Daventer, since he’d had to miss so many rehearsals. The older ones were perhaps finding his sudden death too uncomfortable a reminder that such things could happen to anybody, any time, but were more likely to happen to people in their age bracket.

  Whatever their motivations, they all acted glad of the excuse to tuck Charlie’s demise under the carpet for the time being. Telling each other they’d be working off the calories, they helped themselves recklessly from the buffet and the bar. Talk grew louder, more excited. Members of the chorus gathered to practice their footwork on the smooth tile floor. Featured performers made polite suggestions to their fellows about not hogging the footlights. The orchestra members, seasoned veterans that they were, concentrated on the refreshments.

  Sarah concentrated on the company. Her aunt had hissed to her, “Make them eat. Don’t let anybody get tight, for goodness’ sake,” so she darted around to trouble spots with plates of sandwiches and kept a wary eye on the bar. As soon as she could decently assume they’d had enough, she started herding the players into the drawing room.

  The first to allow herself to be herded was Martha Tippleton, their Dame Partlett. Hers is a small supporting role, like the Notary’s, but she does carry the distinction of having the first spoken lines in the show. Martha appeared to be finding this a ponderous responsibility, but then Martha often looked to be oppressed by one thing or another. Living with Jack Tippleton, Sarah thought, she naturally would.

  Martha must have been absolutely stunning when she was young. She was still lovely in a middle-aged way, with huge, sad gray eyes in a pale, thin-boned face, and tiny hands that tended to flutter. She was not, perhaps, the ideal type for a pew opener, but Emma had determined her friend was not to be shunted into the chorus and there was no other part for a woman her age except Lady Sangazure. Martha hadn’t the physique or the voice for that robust role, even if Emma could have borne to step aside and let her take a whack at it:

  What was going to happen to the Pirates of Pleasaunce once their prima donna assoluta hung up her bustle? Sarah had a feeling that without Emma thundering across the boards, the company would fall apart almost at once. This might not be only Emma’s swan song, but the whole company’s. Just now, it didn’t seem so unreasonable that Emma chose to put her production before her stolen portrait.

  At least Ernestina’s absence wasn’t causing an uncomfortable stir. Sarah’s life-sized caricature of Lady Sangazure had been noticed and the air was full of “Too clever for words” and an “Utterly killing” that Sarah could have done nicely without now that she’d been presented with the uncomfortable coincidence of Charlie Daventer’s death on the same night his liege lady’s Romney disappeared. She could also have dispensed with Ridpath Wale’s comment about Emma’s having changed her mind rather suddenly, hadn’t she?

  “What about?” Sarah asked him, all innocence.

  “About having the Romney cleaned. She told us last night she wasn’t going to bother until after the show.”

  “Who said she’s bothering? This is just a joke Frederick and I cooked up with the Heatherstones’ help. I’d got so carried away with scene painting that I couldn’t stop. Do put on Ruddigore next year so I can do the family portraits. You’d be divine as Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd. Whatever is Gillian Bruges doing over there? Oughtn’t she to be rehearsing with Cousin Frederick? Excuse me.”

  Gillian wasn’t doing anything out of the way, but that was beside the point. Sarah only wanted to escape before Ridpath Wale asked her anything more about Ernestina. She didn’t know if he was just making conversation, or fishing to see what line the household was taking over a theft he wasn’t supposed to know anything about. She did know this was no time to explode another bombshell among the cast. Charlie’s death had already aggravated their preopening jitters. Dame Partlett was in a real state, from the look of her. Aline kept having fits of the giggles that sounded altogether too much like hysterics. Sir Marmaduke seemed to be hunting an excuse to throw a temperament.

  Others were nervy, too, but the Tippletons were the worst. It must be more than Charlie Daventer that was bothering them. A full-scale family row just before they left home was a likely explanation. Sarah hoped they weren’t going to start it up again here. She was wondering how she might safely pour some oil on the waters when, to her amazement, Cousin Frederick hurled himself into the breach.

  “Come here, Martha. It appears you get stuck with me at the end, so you may as well get used to me now. Show me what I’m supposed to do.”

  “I’d love to, Fred, but not just yet. I’m on as soon as the chorus finishes the opening number. Stand by and give me moral support. You don’t appear till almost the end of the act.”

  Frederick took Martha’s arm and held it till she had to participate in the short recitative that leads to her stage daughter’s first solo. Sarah noted with amusement that Jack Tippleton tried to get close to Gillian and that Emma headed him off, backing him into a corner with Peter and Sebastian to await their upcoming cue.

  The moral support Martha was getting from Frederick must be doing the trick. She was more relaxed now, projecting motherly concern in a sweet, true alto. Then Gillian began her mournful confession of unrequited adoration. Sarah could have smacked her for keeping her eyes fixed on Jack Tippleton instead of the kind and reverend rector as she lamented that his love alone could give her aching heart release. Nevertheless, Sarah had to admit Aunt Emma had been lucky to get so good a voice.
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  Gillian knew how to project to an audience, too. She ought to, Sarah thought nastily, she practiced on everybody who came handy. She was into her second stanza now, and giving young Parker Pence the treatment. Ridpath Wale, whom Sarah had hoped she’d shaken, was still there and much amused.

  “Can’t she make up her mind which one she’s after?” he muttered.

  “Neither,” Sarah murmured back. “She’s only trying to make you jealous.”

  Maybe she was. Ridpath was no ladykiller like Jack but he was personable enough, some years younger, and a good deal richer according to Dolph Kelling, who always knew these things. Ridpath was also, at the moment, single. If Gillian simply wanted a man, why didn’t she look where the picking was better?

  Unless she didn’t really want one at all. Perhaps all she cared for was the thrill of the chase. As did Jack Tippleton, according to Aunt Emma and a number of disgruntled Tessas and Gianettas. Well, good luck to them both.

  Gillian finished her number and got her applause. Martha went back to stand beside Frederick, who reached over to pat her shoulder and let his hand rest there. Sarah wished Jack Tippleton would notice, but he was still eying Gillian like a cat after a canary. He moved again to escape, but Emma forestalled him. Dr. Daly was beginning his solo.

  “Time was when love and I were well acquainted. Time was when we walked ever hand in hand.”

  Sarah wasn’t buying that. She doubted that Sebastian Frostedd had ever given two hoots and a holler for anybody except himself. As for his having been a saintly youth with worldly thoughts untainted, one could but smile and shrug. Sebastian did project the aura of the pulpit to perfection, though, his rubicund face bland and gentle in the warm glow from Emma Kelling’s handsome brass and crystal girandoles.

  Whatever his own feelings or lack of them, one could credit the possibility that time had been when ladies of the noblest station, forsaking even military men, could have gazed upon him rapt in adoration. A few might even be doing so now, though Sarah couldn’t see any indication of it. Any woman would have to be a fool to take Sebastian Frostedd seriously, but at least he didn’t have a wife and daughter in tow, and he’d probably be more fun on a date than Jack Tippleton.

  Chacun à son gout. Here came Sir Marmaduke, out of his corner at last with the brave Alexis in tow. There went Dr. Daly to offer them his best, his very best congratulations. Sarah decided the show could go on without her.

  She wandered back out to the sun parlor and began checking the window fastenings. They were good, heavy, competent solid brass locks, showing no sign of having been tampered with. Sarah inspected them all nevertheless, heard the chorus shrieking that with heart and with voice they were welcoming this meeting, and refrained from going back into the drawing room. She herself wouldn’t welcome any meeting just now. This was the first chance she’d had all day to be alone and get her thoughts together.

  As far as losing Ernestine was concerned, Sarah personally didn’t much care. The big Romney was not a painting she’d want to inherit. From what her aunt had said, Emma Kelling wasn’t going to pine away for Ernestina and her dove, either. Family heirlooms abounded in the Kelling family, and they were more apt to be nuisances and bones of contention than unalloyed joys. Still, Ernestina belonged. It was the wanton, deliberate action of thievery that couldn’t be tolerated. If only Max were here.

  But he wasn’t and he wouldn’t be, not yet. She’d had a note from him this morning, scribbled at breakneck speed on hotel stationery from Lièges, saying he missed her like hell and had bought her a little souvenir. His last little souvenir had been a dainty gold filigree necklace set with chaste pearls and a few small diamonds, bought wholesale from a jeweler in Amsterdam who owed Max a favor. She’d love matching earrings, or some wonderful Finnish textiles for the new house they might some day build. Mainly, though, she wanted her husband.

  She’d just have to want, though she hoped not for long. In the meantime she couldn’t sit around watching a trail go cold even if she wasn’t allowed to take the proper measures. She wished she could think of something more constructive than checking the windows, but she couldn’t, so she went on.

  Emma Kelling had two dining rooms in her house; more properly a formal large dining room and a breakfast room she preferred to use for small, informal meals whatever the hour. The latter was more convenient for the Heatherstones, being next to the butler’s pantry. It was also far cozier, with its pale green walls and rosy chintzes. This was where Emma kept her luscious little Renoir and her wholesome Anders Zorn of a pink-cheeked girl eating a red-cheeked apple. This was where they’d eaten breakfast this morning and dinner last night. An ideal situation for drugging the Slepe-o-tite jug, Sarah thought. Only how could that have been managed without her knowing?

  She shook her head and went on to the big dining room, a skating rink dominated by a vast black-walnut table and buffet, with matching chairs and side pieces enough to accommodate the whole Kelling clan, should it ever be possible to get them all sitting down in peace and amity. Sarah had had her own ups and downs with the relatives, but she’d always been on friendly terms with Aunt Emma’s dining-room furniture, because of the lions.

  The buffet had a shaggy lion’s head in high relief roaring out of its towering back, and bas-reliefs of a whole pride decorating the cabinet doors. The table had great, flaring legs like a lion’s haunches, ending in paws with the toes and talons meticulously defined. The ponderous apron was about a foot deep, ribbed and swirled and curlicued all over to suggest a lion’s mane. Slipping in here alone to chat with the lions had been one of her childhood delights.

  Tonight, though, Sarah found the lions standoffish and the deep wine-colored velvet hangings oppressive. Emma never bothered to replace them with lighter ones for the summer. Any large-scale entertaining she did during the hot weather was more apt to be an alfresco affair with many small tables dotted about the lawn and the sun parlor. The tables and their matching chairs would be rented, but Sarah knew the buffet held a stack of pink tablecloths laundered and ready for the summer’s first lawn party. She gave the roaring lion a pat for auld lang syne and went back across the hall to the library.

  This had been Uncle Bed’s favorite room. Sarah could recall sitting on his knee and being allowed to cut the tip off his cigar with an elegant silver snipper. The cigar had smelled lovely when she sniffed its smooth, warm brown wrapper, less so when Uncle Bed put a match to the big end and puffed.

  Emma must cherish her memories here, too. She often sat in the library, alone or with old friends like Charlie Daventer. This was where she kept the big silver-framed photograph of Uncle Bed looking stiff-upper-lippish as Kellings were wont to do when having their pictures taken by professional photographers. He’d have been thinking about how much the sitting was going to cost, and wondering why a snapshot from somebody’s old box Brownie wouldn’t have done as well.

  There were other photographs: graduation portraits of her cousins Young Bed and Walter Alexander, and of their wives and their children, and a very grand one of Emma herself in evening dress and a great many pearls. It was a wonderful room. Sarah felt as if it had been desecrated when she looked up from Uncle Bed’s desk and saw what was pinned to the screen outside the window.

  Chapter 6

  HERE IT WAS, THE note she’d been expecting but hadn’t really believed would come. The words weren’t cut out of newspapers, they were printed with a calligraphy pen, not very well but strictly by the book. The message was short and clear. “We want $5,000.”

  Sarah was flabbergasted. Five thousand dollars for Ernestina? It was an insult to Romney. Then again, five thousand could seem like a lot of money when you didn’t have it. Sarah knew that as well as anybody. Maybe this was some misguided crew who simply needed five thousand dollars and didn’t think it quite nice to ask for more. More likely, they had no idea what the painting was worth and assumed five thousand dollars was a sum Emma Kelling could be pried loose from without too much fuss. Or else t
his was just a prelude to a larger demand.

  Whatever it was, it couldn’t stay here. Sooner or later, some member of the cast would be dropping into the library for a respite from the hubbub and a nip from Uncle Bed’s cellaret, which Aunt Emma kept filled with whiskey and gin for sentimental reasons. Sarah tried to raise the screen, but it was the old-fashioned wooden kind that had to be got at from outside the house. She let herself out one of the side doors and ran around to the library windows.

  It was an exercise in futility. She might have remembered she wouldn’t be able to reach that note from the ground; the house sat too high on its foundation. How had it been pinned there in the first place? She looked around the lawn for footprints, but there were none to be seen. The lawn was too well-kept to take them. Sarah did find a broken twig on one of the arborvitae that masked the foundation, but that didn’t tell her anything except that the window must have been got at by somebody climbing up from the ground. Thus ruling out stilts and levitation, she supposed, for whatever that might be worth.

  Back when there’d been a gardener, he’d kept his ladders in the potting shed, a red-brick octagon with a silly domed roof, set off by itself at the bottom of the garden. She supposed they must still be there, found on investigation that they were, and lugged the most portable of them back up to the house. She felt awfully conspicuous propping it against the window in this burglar-conscious neighborhood but at least she belonged to the household. What about the person who’d climbed up here to attach the note to the screen? It must have been done sometime today, in broad daylight. Otherwise Heatherstone would have found it when he drew the curtain this morning.

  Sarah mounted the ladder, wondering what sort of story she could make sound halfway plausible if some member of the group inside happened to spot her. (Jetting the note off the screen was no problem, anyway. It had merely been hung there by means of two paper clips linked together, one attached to the small sheet of paper, one bent to form a hook with its free end poked through the mesh. Carefully, she noted. It hadn’t made a hole.