The response was negative all round.
“I gather she’s an actress, sir,” said Holdfast.
“Presumably invited at Jerry Gribble’s suggestion,” added Bullivant.
“I doubt it,” said Marcus Pelham. “My sister is perfectly capable of drawing up a guest list that pleases all concerned. She takes a particular pride in keeping au fait with the latest liaisons.”
There were some raised eyebrows at that last comment. Bullivant fingered the tip of his moustache. “There’s food for thought, gentlemen.” His brown eyes glittered. “I wonder . . .”
“You wonder what?” said Holdfast.
“I wonder which of us has prior claim on our lady of the Amazon.”
“Who is that?”
“You know who I mean—the intrepid explorer, Miss Dundas. Which of us is to be the lucky man? What’s the matter—are we all too shy to speak up? Well, in the absence of any other offer she’s welcome to beat a path to my . . .” Bullivant’s words trailed away as some awful possibility occurred to him. He coughed, glanced towards me and said, “Joking, of course, sir.”
I let him squirm for a moment. Then I said, “If it makes any difference whatsoever, Claude, Miss Dundas is completely unknown to me. I never met her before this evening.”
He gave a high-pitched giggle of relief.
Young Pelham told us, “The lady is a guest in her own right.”
I turned back to Bullivant. “There’s a thought to conjure with, Claude: Are you a guest in your own right?”
Even the Chaplain joined in the laughter.
Considerately, we got up to join the ladies after one cigar and a glass of port. Left to their own devices after some upsetting occurrence, the fair sex can easily work themselves up into a lather.
Oddly enough, they appeared unruffled. I won’t say that anyone made light of what had happened to Miss Chimes, but between us we kept the conversation flowing agreeably. Indeed, I’m sure it would have flowed all evening if only Lady Holdfast had not come up with her paralyzingly stupid suggestion.
“Why don’t we have a recitation?”
“Do you mean poetry?” I asked, trying to make clear my distaste for such things.
“Certainly, Your Royal Highness. After all, we are fortunate in having a published poet among us. I’m sure we’re all dying to hear Mr. Osgot-Edge’s work,” she plowed on. “I must admit, to my shame, that I, for one, haven’t read a line that he’s written, and I want to remedy the deficiency at the first opportunity.”
Osgot-Edge was even more alarmed than I at this development. He turned crimson and started making incoherent noises.
“It seems he didn’t bring his poems with him,” I said thankfully.
“That’s all right, sir. I have a copy,” said Amelia, making her first gaffe of the week. She was disastrously eager to please. “I’ll fetch it.”
“Before you do . . .” I tossed in another difficulty. “Who will read them?”
Osgot-Edge, poor fellow, said, “I f-fear I c- c-”
I was just beginning to think I’d scuppered the suggestion when Amelia spoke up again.
“Humphrey, you can read beautifully.”
“Who the deuce is Humphrey?” was on the tip of my tongue. In time, I observed the Chaplain beaming like a lighthouse. The Church and two determined ladies are more than a match for me. I capitulated.
“This one is called ‘To an Obstinate Boy,’” the Reverend Humphrey Paget announced when the book had been fetched and we were settled.
“He fidgets when the grace is said,
Wicked child.
He should be fed his daily bread,
In the wild,
Where hungrily the king of beasts,
Day by day,
Is heard to roar before he feasts,
‘Let us pray.’”
“Oh, my word,” said Lady Holdfast.
“Ha, not bad,” said Bullivant. “It’s a pun. ‘Let us prey.’ How about that, Padre?”
“One applauds the intention of the poem without altogether approving of its phrasing,” said the Chaplain guardedly.
I glanced across at Osgot-Edge to see how he took the criticism. He was sitting with his head back, staring at the ceiling.
Lady Holdfast said, “If you want the truth, I didn’t really like it.”
“What are you objecting to?” Bullivant asked her.
“It was too outspoken for me.”
“Outspoken? I don’t call that outspoken.”
“Possibly not, but I think I shall retire before the next one is read out.” Which was inexcusable, considering that she was chiefly responsible for inflicting the poetry on us.
“You can’t go to bed, Moira,” said her husband, quite properly alert to the discourtesy involved.
“Well, I shall retire to another room.”
“The poems can’t all be as strong meat as that, my dear. I’m sure the Chaplain can find one more suitable to read out.”
“Why don’t we ask Mr. Osgot-Edge to suggest one?” said Miss Dundas.
“That should see us through till bedtime,” murmured Bullivant.
Whereupon I decided to speak up. “Better still, why don’t we ask Mr. Osgot-Edge to make a selection of five or six poems that the Chaplain, if he is willing, can prepare, rehearse and read to us another evening?”
“Oh, splendid!” cried Sir George. “I second your suggestion, sir.”
I gave a nod and pointed out that the suggestion originated with Miss Dundas. She rewarded me with a tilt of the eyebrow. Peculiar woman, I thought. Not unattractive, however.
The Chaplain and the poet seemed amenable, so we were spared more poetry, at least for the present evening. Instead I regaled the company with my experiences hunting tigers in India and, though I say it myself, it was a damn sight more entertaining.
We called a halt this side of midnight, needing to be up and about quite early next day for the shoot. After the good nights had been said and Amelia had escorted us to our suite I passed a short time gossiping with Alix before retiring to my bedchamber. In view of what follows I had better explain that we have slept in separate rooms for years.
Having confirmed what I would wear next day, I dismissed my valet, washed, prayed for my mother the Queen and good shooting in the morning and got into bed. A comfortable bed it was, too, a spacious four-poster evidently reupholstered for my visit. I do like a well-sprung mattress. My feet found the spot where the warming pan had been, and I believe I was asleep in ten minutes.
Tuesday
CHAPTER 4
The next thing I knew a voice close to my ear, a lady’s voice, was whispering, “Are you awake?”
Woolly minded from sleep, I struggled to make sense of it. I had difficulty remembering where I was, let alone whether I’d started the night with a companion. It was too dark to see much. Some hours to go until dawn. Was she a dream? I kept very still and listened.
She repeated, “Are you awake, sir?”
I said, “If we’re on sufficiently intimate terms for you to visit me in bed, you’d better call me Bertie. Who are you?”
“Amelia Drummond . . . Bertie.”
“Amelia.” My brain stopped being bleary at once. I knew precisely what was happening. And on the first night! So bold! I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or alarmed. She was taking an appalling risk with Alix’s bedroom just across the corridor.
She said, “I do apologize for disturbing you. I knocked twice, and I thought you must have heard.”
She’d knocked, on my door!
She asked, “May I light a candle, sir?”
“Bertie—and keep your voice down.”
She whispered, “Bertie.”
She said it rather fetchingly with that gurgling note in her voice.
I responded in a tone equally warm, “Well, Amelia, do we really require a light?”
“I think we do.” Amelia cleared her throat. “I regret to say that I am the bearer of bad news.” She struck a match and I saw that she was standing beside the bed fully dressed. Bad news indeed.
“What is it?”
“Jerry Gribble has just returned. I sat up to wait for him.” Her chin trembled. “Miss Chimes is dead.”
“Dead?” I sat up straight.
“She failed to recover consciousness.”
“Oh, my hat! That’s dreadful. What was it—her heart?”
“I don’t know. Jerry thought you should be told at once. He’s outside.”
“Call him in. You did the proper thing, my dear. Absolutely the proper thing. Forgive me for appearing so confused. Would you hand me my dressing gown?”
Jerry entered the room looking grim. He stood at the foot of my bed with hunched shoulders, taking long, heavy breaths.
I told him to sit on the bed. “My dear fellow, this is too appalling . . . ghastly. When exactly did it happen?”
“Before I reached the doctor’s,” he told me. “She died in my arms, poor child. Some popping sounds came from her mouth. Like turning off the gas. I knew she was going. I don’t think she was in pain. I hope to God she wasn’t.”
“What a tragedy,” I said. “Did the doctor give an opinion?”
“He said it was too early to be sure, but he suspected from my description that she had been in a state of coma, of uncertain origin.”
“Coma?”
“She could have suffered a hemorrhage of the brain. I had to take her to the hospital. They’ll carry out a postmortem later in the week.” He covered his face. “I can’t believe this has happened.”
The poor fellow was ready to weep, so I did my best to keep him from breaking down by saying gently, “How long had you known her, Jerry?”
“Six months, I think, sir.” He was having difficulty in speaking. “We met down in Kent at a cricket match.”
“Ah, cricket.” A less harrowing topic. “Was that Canterbury, by any chance?”
“No, Gravesend.”
We couldn’t get away from death. “Gravesend? I know the ground. I know Canterbury better.”
“This was definitely Gravesend. The Thespians were playing a team got up by my former brother-in-law, Lord Peterkin. I didn’t see much of the game once I got talking to Queenie. She came around the ground selling tickets for the Actors’ Retirement Home—the tombola, I mean—and that was how we met. It’s such a treat talking to a pretty young girl when you live alone in the world.”
“It’s a treat in any case, Jerry.”
“I’m glad you understand, sir. And she didn’t have designs on becoming a duchess. I made it abundantly clear that after two marriages gone to pot I wouldn’t consider a third. She understood that.”
Amelia spoke. “Jerry, her people will have to be told. Do you know who they are?”
Jerry made a dismissive gesture. “It’s all right. She had no living relatives. She told me that herself. I’ll arrange everything. I’ll give her a decent funeral. Lord, to be talking about a funeral when a few hours ago she was sitting at dinner with us!”
I reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Jerry, I think you should have a stiff brandy and get to bed. There’s nothing else you can do tonight.”
He glanced towards Amelia. She cleared her throat, took a step closer to the bed and said, “With respect, sir, the reason we took the liberty of waking you was to find out your wishes.”
“My wishes?”
“This tragic event casts a shadow over the party.”
“Without a doubt,” I agreed.
There was a moment’s silence.
Amelia resumed, “We thought it proper to enquire whether you wished to call off the shoot.”
“I see. Out of respect, do you mean?” It hadn’t occurred to me. I pondered the matter. My first thought was to soldier on. That’s the way of the Prince of Wales, even in adversity. Besides, my charming hostess had gone to no end of trouble and expense to arrange the battue. Eighteen months and more of preparation go into any shoot worthy of the name.
Then I remembered how easily things can be misconstrued. I once got into no end of trouble with my dear mother the Queen for omitting to postpone the Marlborough House Ball when Arthur Stanley, the Dean of Westminster, died. Mama was very attached to the good Dean. What really put the lid on it was when I had the funeral brought forward to avoid a clash with the first day’s racing at Goodwood.
Yes, this had to be thought about. On the other hand, the death of an unknown actress couldn’t be compared with the passing of Dean Stanley. “What do you think, Jerry?” I asked.
After a moments reflection he said, “I think Queenie would have wished for a quiet funeral, sir. If it gets out that she died at a house party at which you were present, all of Fleet Street will be there.”
“By George, you’re right! We don’t want to give the press a field day. If I return home tomorrow, they’ll want to know the reason why. Those blighters can make a scandal out of anything.” I turned to Amelia. “My dear Lady Drummond, with your permission we’ll proceed with the arrangements as planned.”
“Certainly, sir, if that is your wish.”
“I shall explain everything to your other guests in the morning. And Jerry . . .”
“Sir?”
“I shan’t expect you to join the guns.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll go into town and see the undertaker.”
“Good man.” I gave him a sympathetic smile. “These things happen. It was the hand of fate.”
He got up and left the room. I put my hand to my mouth and yawned, ready for sleep again, and then realized that the candle was still alight on the chest of drawers. Amelia was about to follow Jerry through the door.
“Would you mind?” I asked. “The candle.”
Somewhat to my surprise she shook her head and then put her finger to her lips like a conspirator. She meant to return after showing Jerry to his room.
Frisky young filly, I mused. After the distressing scene just enacted I can’t imagine how she can be so—what is the word I’m groping for?—single minded.
And you, dear reader, could be forgiven, nay, applauded, if you expected me to close the chapter here for reasons of good taste. However, I must continue, and insist that you read on. What transpired is not what either of us expected.
She returned, yes, after a short interval. I, meantime, had settled down in the bed, making extra room on the side nearest the door. She had left the door ajar and she crept in, closing it silently behind her, and then paused.
I said whimsically, “This is a little unfair, my dear. I’m in my nightshirt and there you are already dressed for breakfast.”
She said nervously, “Your Royal Highness—”
“Come now—it’s Bertie between you and me.”
“B-Bertie.”
“Now you sound like the blessed poet.”
“There’s something else. It may not be important.” Her tone of voice was anything but frolicsome.
I sat up in bed. “What is it? What else happened tonight?”
“After Miss Chimes collapsed, the servants cleared her place at the table.”
“I noticed, yes.”
“I don’t know what to think. I didn’t want to mention it in front of Jerry. He was so upset. My butler found something. A small piece of paper cut from a newspaper, The Times, I believe. It had been tucked into the frame containing Miss Chimes’s name.”
“Her place setting?”
“Yes.”
“A piece of newspaper? What did it say? Anything significant?”
“It just said ‘Monday.’”
CHAPTER 5
“She was poisoned,” said Alix flatly.
We were in her dressing room the next morning and I had just given her the news of the sad business, breaking it to her with particular care. I could well foresee my dear impetuous wife insisting upon our leaving the house forthwith, regardless of my high-minded decision to continue with the shoot. However, she remained calm. I’m afraid it was I who became excitable.
“Poisoned?”
“It was something in the food,” said Alix. “That is obvious.”
“Oh, Alix, I can’t believe that!”
She was intractable. “Where did she collapse? At the dinner table. She was perfectly well until then.”
“My dear, that’s absurd. People don’t murder each other at dinner parties.”
“Bertie, you never listen properly to what I say. I didn’t say it was murder. I said she was poisoned.”
“Isn’t that the same?”
“Food poisoning.”
“That’s equally absurd.”
“Not in this house,” said Alix in a voice suddenly as prim as a Mother Superior. “I should like to know when Lady Drummond last inspected her kitchen.” She paused and eyed me unadmiringly through the mirror on the dressing table. “I have the impression that she would rather visit bedrooms.”
“Now that’s unfair, Alix. It was quite proper that she knocked on my door last night. I had to be told the bad news, for heaven’s sake. And as for your food poisoning, why should it have killed Queenie Chimes and left the rest of us as fit as fleas?”
This time she gave me a look that would have toasted a crumpet. “I shall count the guests at breakfast. And I shall avoid cooked food of any sort. I advise you to do the same.”
“I shan’t be so ill-mannered.”
“You mean you can’t make do with a bowl of prunes.”
“I mean, my dear, that I have the fullest confidence in the catering arrangements.”
When we got downstairs I was told that Jerry had been up before six, had eaten an early breakfast and gone out. He had very decently asked Colwell, the house steward, to pass on his regret at not joining us, either for breakfast or the shoot. It was clear to me that this was a typically considerate act on Jerry’s part; he had felt that his presence at breakfast would have put a blight on the party.
Bertie and the Seven Bodies Page 3
