“Would you? I really must circulate among the throng.”
Lavinia reached out and touched Kat’s forearm. “Some of the people here? I don’t even know their names! But invite one from a certain set and you have to invite them all!”
Harry – about to make a run to the downstairs, where mayhem must be reigning in the kitchen – said, “You okay here, Kat? Just a minute or two. On your own?”
“Sure,” Kat said. “I’ll be fine. After all, I’m a courtesan.”
She saw both Harry and his aunt grin at this before hurrying away. She stood there, champagne flute in hand.
All alone.
Though here at Mydworth Manor she felt – in a way – that she was at home too.
She put down her plate and headed in the direction of the ballroom where the band was belting out one of her favourite Cole Porter numbers, What Is This Thing Called Love.
*
Harry threaded his way through the guests who filled the main corridor leading to the hallway, nearly bumping into a hooded monk who scurried past and headed up the stairs to the bedrooms.
Must be one of the London guests, staying over, thought Harry, as he watched the monk disappear along the landing above.
He turned down the corridor that led behind the staircase, dodging incoming footmen and maids, all madly bustling, and then headed down the stone steps to the kitchens.
Years ago, growing up here at Mydworth Manor, these subterranean corridors were his special haunts. The old cook (now long passed) had always been happy to find him a treat, or a mug of cocoa, or a warm corner by the stoves on a freezing winter’s day.
All that… helped him get through things.
He tipped his mask up – at least the regular staff would recognise him now and not be upset at the unannounced arrival of someone from “above stairs”.
Everywhere he looked there was furious activity: trays of food heading one way, great crates of dirty plates going the other for the kitchen porters to wash.
He sidestepped a pair of footmen carrying an impressive cold salmon on a silver salver, and peered through into the busy kitchen – just as a young man in an ill-fitting footman’s uniform bearing a massive bowl of oysters slipped on the wet floor… and fell badly, the bowl flying from his hands and smashing on the hard stone kitchen floor.
For a second there was utter silence. It was that loud! Then from every side, Harry saw kitchen staff race to the disaster – some to clear, some to clean.
One figure – the fearsome cook McLeod – picked up the young lad by the shoulder and dragged him to one side, an unintelligible stream of curses echoing around the kitchen.
“What’s the bloody point of you, laddie! I’ll kick your arse back to that boat you came off—”
Harry stepped forward and McLeod spun round, surprised to see Lady Lavinia’s nephew here in the kitchens.
“Sir Harry—”
“Sorry to interrupt, McLeod. But Lady Lavinia was wondering how the lobster hors-d’oeuvres were coming along.”
With a reluctant shake, McLeod let go of the footman and he sank back to the floor like an unwanted item of clothing.
“Aye, Sir Harry, should be ready. I’ll just away and see,” he said, leaving Harry and the young man together.
Harry lifted him up.
“You surviving?” said Harry, noting how nervous the lad seemed. Harry’s words brought a smile.
“Just about, sir.”
“Bark’s worse than his bite. You new?”
“Temporary, sir. Just for tonight. For the party.”
“Well, not to worry about that little accident. Happens all the time, night like this. Be forgotten before you know it. Probably already is. Though – I’d not recommend a repeat.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“McLeod will probably want to dock your pay – best give me your name, I’ll see you right tomorrow if he does.”
The young man frowned, seeming reluctant to answer.
Strange, thought Harry. Maybe moonlighting, nervous of getting caught?
“Come on now, lad. Won’t go any further,” he said.
“Um… Todd, sir. Charlie Todd.”
Harry saw Todd glance anxiously down at the floor – where a clasp knife poked out from beneath a cupboard.
“That yours?” said Harry.
Todd nodded, then reached down, picked it up and pocketed it quickly.
“Must have slipped out. When I fell.”
“All right, Todd,” said Harry, wondering why a kitchen porter found it necessary to carry a pocket knife.
Maybe for his work on a boat? That might fit. Still…
“Well, as you were.”
Harry nodded, and watched Todd return to the kitchen, a nervous glance back in Harry’s direction before he disappeared.
Strange, thought Harry. But then, everything’s a little strange tonight.
He turned and headed back to the party.
3. Dance the Night Away
Kat stood in the corner of the ballroom watching the jazz band – and the amazing singer.
The woman was dressed in a sleek red, low-cut evening gown, white silk gloves above her elbows, her whole performance sultry and slick.
Whoever she was, she was clearly a star, and as she sang she moved sinuously in front of the band. Kat could sense not only every man’s eye in the room upon her, but every woman’s as well.
Totally compelling.
As Kat watched, a tall man in the menacing black costume of – what? An undertaker? Executioner? – came up with the direct stride of someone who had been maybe waiting for just the right opportunity.
His mask was a hard white shell, formed into long cheeks and a grotesque hooked nose.
“Ah,” the man said beneath the mask, “you must be… the American girl, hmm?”
Kat saw the man’s dark eyes, but the rubbery protrusion completely covered the rest of his face. He could be anybody, but some instinct told her, he was not anyone she had met before.
She started to answer, finding the term he used repellent on a number of fronts.
“Oh, excuse my manners,” he said, leaning closer. “I meant… the new Lady Mortimer.”
He then gave a short bow that – in his sombre outfit – looked like it could have been sarcastic.
“And I have the pleasure of talking to… not a clown, I guess?” she said.
The man produced a small laugh.
“No. Not this evening. In fact, The Plague Doctor, at your service.”
“Remind me never to catch the plague,” said Kat.
The man laughed again, and raised his mask slightly: “Touché. Cyril Palmer, MP.” Then as if the “American girl” had just arrived on these shores, “Member of Parliament. In the cabinet actually. All such very dreary stuff to talk about, especially at a lively affair like this one.”
She wanted to inform the man that she wasn’t the one that brought up the subject of the cabinet and his role therein.
“Enjoying the band?” he said, looking across the ballroom at them.
“Extraordinary singer.”
“Isn’t she? Celine Dubois. Taking London’s theatres by storm this summer. Such a charming young thing. And that voice? Remarkable.”
“You know her?”
“As an MP,” he said with a shrug, “one tends to know anyone who’s anyone.”
“I’m sure,” said Kat, thinking about making her escape from this self-important boor.
“And your husband? Sir Harry? Old boy gone missing, has he? How very careless of him.”
Kat managed a polite smile.
“Just checking on the waves of seafood set to arrive.”
“Ah. Bit understaffed tonight, hmm? I always say, that if you deign to throw a ‘do’ such as this, you’d better—”
Then like a rescue boat arriving in the nick of time, shark circling, Harry – her pirate – reappeared.
“Sir Harry?” said Palmer.
Kat waited to
see if Harry knew this man.
“Why, yes. And you? With the mask and all—”
And at that, Kat saw Cyril Palmer, MP, tilt up his bizarre mask with its lengthy curved nose.
“Ah. Palmer.” Harry stuck out a hand to shake.
“Been a while, eh, Sir Harry? Heard you were doing quite a bit of travelling. Acquiring the odd treasure, here and there, I imagine.”
And without Harry saying a word, she could tell, yes, Harry knew the man.
And didn’t particularly like him.
He managed a grin.
“Doing my best to keep the empire intact. So far-flung, you know? Perhaps you people in the government should look into consolidating the damn thing.”
Kat didn’t see a matching smile on Palmer’s face. She guessed: jokes about the “empire” were not everyone’s cup of tea.
“I was just telling your lovely um… Lady Mortimer here, about my work in parliament. Busy, busy, as they say.”
Harry fired a look at Kat.
“I heard your star is in ascent. Rumblings of a run for prime minister?”
“Oh, don’t believe everything you hear. Though with the way things are being messed up these days, no doubt a hand like mine at the tiller could—”
“Oh, so sorry—” Harry said, cutting him off. “I see some old friends. Been a lifetime. Must catch up, introduce them to Lady Mortimer.”
“Why, yes, of course.”
And without allowing the now stumbling Cyril Palmer to continue, Harry guided her away.
*
“Sorry, about that, Kat. Parties like this, you can never tell what piece of flotsam or jetsam you might bump into.”
“Got the feeling he waited until I was alone.”
“Really? Now why ever would a man like that wait till the most beautiful woman in the room was alone to make his move?”
Kat laughed and affected the accent of a southern belle. “Why I do declare, Sir Harry.”
“Now whatever is that supposed to mean!” he said, laughing as – with a tray soaring by – he scooped up two more glasses of champagne.
“Chin-chin,” he said as they toasted. “I’m not sure what that means either.”
Kat’s eye had been drifting to the fireplace.
It was the Henry VIII that she’d noticed in the garden, and next to him – Kat guessed from her days attending mass at St Brendan’s – was a Venetian altar boy.
The masked monarch was gesturing, pointing at the people standing by him, who all listened intently as if his words were important.
“Harry. Don’t turn and look right now. But you see Henry VIII over there, holding court?”
And she saw Harry slowly turn, a quick look, and then back to Kat.
“Him? Oh yes, very important man. Horatio Forsyth. Publishes one of London’s biggest papers, The Record.”
“And the choirboy?”
“Ha, anything but. Name’s Quiller – gossip columnist. Exposés, and all that. Scourge of half the people in this room.”
“Nasty,” said Kat.
“Very, so I hear.”
“Quite a crowd around them though?”
“Well, with a newspaper empire behind you, people tend to listen even if what you say is complete nonsense!”
Kat took another sip of champagne, enjoying this game of observations.
As she again scanned the room, she saw Celine Dubois at the centre of another group, smoking a cigarette in a holder.
“What do you think of our singer? Striking outfit, and seems to have a real fan following. Least with the men.”
“Hmm… let me see,” said Harry. “Ah, yes! The beautiful Celine Sawyer.”
“Not Dubois?”
“Think that’s her stage name. Maiden name, probably. She’s married to the cinema actor—?”
“Nick Sawyer? Really? I’ve seen his films. Robin Hood, yes?”
“Yes, that’s the one, ever the swashbuckler. In fact, I do believe that’s him, over there by the drinks.”
Kat looked across to the long table of champagne glasses, staffed by busy footmen.
A slender and rather handsome man – dressed as Valentino in a bullfighter’s cape – was leaning precariously against the table, knocking back a glass of champagne.
“Said star looks rather wobbly,” said Kat. “Hope he doesn’t try and swing on the chandeliers.”
“Indeed,” said Harry. “Word is he’s hit a bit of a rough patch. What with the advent of the talkies. I’ll take you over, introduce you, if you fancy an autograph.”
“Lady Mortimer, Sir Harry—”
Kat turned to see Benton, Lady Fitzhenry’s butler, holding a tray, a role she knew he must find beneath him.
“Ah yes. You see, Kat, when I went downstairs old McLeod had things well under control. And these, Benton, are-?”
“Lobster cheese canapés, Sir Harry,” said Benton, trying and failing to hide his discomfort.
“Really?” Then to Kat. “Shall we?”
And she reached up and with one bite she thought, Lavinia’s cook may be a gruff no-nonsense Scot, but if he can whip up dainties like this, well he is some chef.
Benton sailed away to other guests.
“Harry, does Benton ever break that façade? I’m getting the feeing it’s been quite a while since that man has actually smiled.”
“Smile? Well – ha – we tend to frown on people in service doing such things. Do wish he’d return with some more of those lobster things though. Quite tasty, and I’m sure my eating’s not keeping up with my drinking.”
Just then the band struck up again.
“Oh, Harry! Let’s dance, shall we? It’s been ages.”
“Love to,” said Harry, putting down his glass.
And Kat took Harry’s arm and led him to the ballroom.
4. Death in Venice
Two hours later, Harry and Kat spilled out of the ballroom into one of the lounges, laughing and exhausted.
“Say – let’s find somewhere quiet for a minute,” said Harry, and they wandered down the corridor. “You’ve worn me out.”
As they passed the billiard room, Kat glanced in. A group of men were playing billiards. Others stood and smoked cigars, watching.
She recognised Palmer, mask now off, standing, chalking a cue. He nodded recognition to her, then crouched to play a shot.
Harry carried on, and she caught up, past other drifting guests, and entered one of the big lounges.
Kat saw the room was nearly empty – most of the guests still dancing to the amazing band. Outside was now dark, apart from the tall flickering flares that lined the edge of the terrace.
“The look on those generals’ faces on the dance floor,” said Harry, picking up a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses and steering Kat towards an empty sofa. “That was something close to real fear.”
“The Black Bottom,” said Kat, leaning on him while she slipped her shoes back on. “My speciality.”
“Don’t know how I kept up with you – but always great fun trying. You must—”
But then the French windows flew open, banging against the wall like a gunshot. And though in the ballroom the band played on, the whole crowd singing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”, here in this room, the bubbly air of the party quickly changed.
As two people, one wearing a cavalier hat and a black cape, holding the hand of a lithe woman in an orange gown, appeared in the doorway. They took a breathless moment, before yelling, as loud as they could, for all to hear:
“Someone’s down at the lake! Not moving!”
For a moment, the other guests in the lounge just gazed at the couple as if they didn’t quite understand the words. Kat understood the implication straight away.
Harry turned to her.
“We’d better go look,” he said, his voice suddenly coloured by alarm.
To which Kat answered faster than he could dash away, “Come on.”
*
Together, they ran down the sloping
lawn towards the ornamental lake.
Harry saw the gondolas were all now moored by the flare-lit jetty, those flares the only light down here, away from the house, apart from a half-moon above.
Even in the light from that moon, he could see the shape of a man lying face down on the grass by the grotto, itself on the very edge of the water.
He and Kat reached the man together, Kat as ever taking over, crouching down, checking for pulse, breathing – any signs of life.
A year on the Western Front as a nursing assistant, the making of her, he knew.
He helped her to flip the man over.
“Anything?” he said.
He saw her shake her head and sit back on her haunches.
“Who is it?” she said.
Harry gently lifted the man’s head so he could see.
Clearly a guest – in monk’s dark robes and sandals. But no mask.
A tall man, in his late sixties perhaps.
“I don’t know,” said Harry. “Though I think I spotted him at the party.”
“Me too,” said Kat. “He was having an argument with Henry VIII.”
“Whoever he is – he’s dead.”
*
Harry had – at Sergeant Timms’s request – asked all the guests who had filtered down to the lakeside, right near the stone grotto that Harry loved as a child, to return to Mydworth Manor.
Until the only people near the body were his Aunt Lavinia, Kat, Timms and Constable Thomas.
And Cyril Palmer.
Because the man on the ground, mask nowhere to be seen, and monk’s cowl removed, was – as Palmer muttered, his voice shaken – one Wilfred Carmody.
Palmer’s long-time assistant and secretary, having loyally worked for him for decades.
Dr Creighton Bedell, the town’s lone doctor for as long as Harry could remember, had crouched down close, stethoscope out.
The venerable doctor leaving no stone unturned.
Then that fateful shake of his head confirming what Harry thought was clearly obvious.
“The man is, I am afraid, dead.”
Kat gave Harry’s hand a squeeze. With her shoulders exposed, and the night air turning chilly, Harry took off his pirate’s cape and wrapped it around her.
“Thanks,” Kat said quietly.
Mydworth Mysteries--Murder wore a Mask Page 2
