Bunburry--Murder in High Places

by Helena Marchmont

  “You won’t believe this, darling, but Oscar saw me in New York in the production of The Caucasian Chalk Circle.” He paused while a waiter refilled all their glasses. “Paige’s parents live in upstate New York. It was great being able to spend some time with them.”

  The perfect marriage. Alfie looked round the book-lined room. No sign of Betty. But Rosemary Savile was making her way towards them. He intercepted her before she reached the group.

  “I seem to have lost my plus one,” he said lightly.

  “I’m sorry, Alfie, it’s that ill-brought-up daughter of mine – she’s dragged your lady off to see the SUDS pond.”

  Alfie nodded, hoping he looked as though he knew what a SUDS pond was.

  “But please excuse me,” said Rosemary. “I need to have a very quick word with David.”

  She spoke to her husband in an undertone, but Alfie managed to make out what she said: “They’re here. Remember, be nice.”

  David grimaced.

  A voice Alfie had heard only once before, drawling, patrician, rang out. “Dave, you old rascal. How the devil are you?”

  Alfie felt his heart start racing. Fight or flight – he understood the phrase now. He wanted to do both. He wanted to escape from the house so that he didn’t have to meet the man who had killed his grandparents. And despite never having been in a fight in his life, he wanted to smash his fist straight into that patrician mouth.

  He no sooner had the thought than he was utterly revolted by it. This wasn’t him – he could never be physically aggressive. But he couldn’t meet Charlie Tennison, couldn’t be in the same room as him. He tried to move away, but there were too many people around him.

  “Cousin Charlie!” David Savile was hearty, obeying his wife’s instructions. “Glad you could make it. And Isobel- lovely as ever. Come and meet everyone. Dorian you know, of course, and this is his wife, Paige. And Oscar de Linnet.”

  Alfie wasn’t sure whether Oscar and Charlie Tennison had ever met, but he knew Oscar detested the man, even though they were both Old Etonians. There were persistent and credible rumours about Tennison’s murky business dealings, but David Savile’s cousin rejoiced in the nickname of “Teflon” Tennison because nothing ever stuck to him.

  “And Alfie McAlister,” David was saying.

  Flight was now impossible.

  “Oh yes, McAlister,” Tennison drawled. “I remember, the chap who wanted to sell me a car. Didn’t know it wasn’t vintage.”

  Alfie flushed. Tennison was trying to make him out to be a fool. He knew he should make some clever riposte but his brain wasn’t responding. Tennison might be an aristocrat, son of Lord Caversham, but he looked a thug. He was thickset, with heavy dark eyebrows over sharp eyes. His features seemed to be set in a permanent sneer. Alfie wanted to wipe that supercilious smile off his face. Instead, he shook hands and muttered a greeting.

  Isobel Tennison was air-kissing her way round the group. She reached him.

  “Alfie McAlister!” she said. “My goodness, the richest man in the land.”

  “Scarcely,” said Alfie.

  “Well, you could certainly buy and sell me a hundred times over.” There was no doubting the suggestiveness of the remark.

  Tennison was much-married, a fixture in the gossip columns, his wives generally leaving because they had finally had enough of his constant philandering. Alfie had no idea which number of wife Isobel was, but she was a lot younger than her husband. Every time Tennison remarried, he upgraded to a younger model.

  But Alfie couldn’t see the attraction. Despite her relative youthfulness, she had already had work done. Her plunging neckline revealed bizarrely spherical breasts. Her face was unnaturally taut, and she had a definite trout pout.

  Betty disapproved of women who embarked on risky and invasive procedures in a bid to make themselves more attractive, and probably blamed it on the patriarchy. But if Alfie, albeit by default, was a member of the patriarchy, he preferred Betty without a scrap of make-up to this living Barbie doll.

  But Betty had rejected him. She claimed to think he was a good guy, but she obviously didn’t trust him. She was making a fool out of him.

  “Darling.” Isobel Tennison put a scarlet-nailed hand on his chest. “You look so terribly grim. It’s a party – you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.”

  Alfie was astonished by the intimate gesture. What did she think she was doing? He took a step back to get away.

  “Have you been married long?” he asked.

  She laughed, apparently unoffended by the pointed remark. “Long enough. And I plan to be married for a bit longer. I’ve made sure it’s much too expensive for Charlie to divorce me. When his father finally decides to die, I’ll be Lady Caversham.”

  If she thought that impressed him, she had the wrong man.

  “Here.” Her tone was peremptory, as though she was calling a dog. For a moment, Alfie thought she was talking to him, then saw she was holding out her glass to a waiter passing with a bottle of champagne. She didn’t thank him when he refilled it.

  Alfie was repelled by her rudeness, but he couldn’t see a way to escape. Oscar was deep in conversation with Dorian, who was still embracing his wife, David Savile was being talked at by Tennison, and Rosemary had disappeared.

  “I believe David houses a lot of your husband’s vintage cars,” he said.

  “Darling, don’t be so dreadfully boring. Cars and my husband, two of my least favourite subjects.”

  Nobody could call her subtle. He wondered how much success she had if these were her typical chat-up lines. But there would always be people who were attracted by money and status.

  He gave a tight smile. “The house must be getting a lot of visitors now that it’s a movie star.”

  Her eyes flickered and he could almost see the pound signs dancing in front of them. “David’s simply raking it in,” she said. “And I can’t imagine how much he got from the film company. Of course, he had to be compensated for closing the house to the tourists, but he would make sure he got a very advantageous deal.”

  She pouted in what she presumably thought was an attractive way, but it just made her look more like a fish.

  “You wouldn’t believe the security around the place. It was a nightmare to get in, even though we were family.”

  “You visited while the filming was going on?”

  “Of course, darling. It was so tremendously exciting.”

  According to Vivian’s experience of filming, it was all so tremendously boring, either standing around, or doing take after take after take.

  “Charlie got to see his precious cars, and I got to see Dorian.”

  She was watching for his reaction. Alfie knew she wouldn’t have been allowed on the set, so was she implying she was Dorian’s mystery lover? She was perfectly capable of pursuing the star, but he credited Dorian with better taste.

  He kept his face impassive, and with an impatient toss of her head, she called: “Dorian, darling, come and join us.”

  Dorian obeyed with a polite smile, leaving his wife chatting to Oscar. But Alfie noted that Paige looked anxiously after him.

  Isobel took hold of his hand and stroked it. “I’ve just been telling Alfie about all the hassle I went through just to see you here.”

  Dorian withdrew his hand and addressed Alfie. “Yes, it all got a bit like Fort Knox. It was an enormous relief when we got back to the studios.”

  It sounded a deliberate snub to Isobel.

  “Oscar tells me you’re interested in the theatre,” Dorian said. “You starred together in The Importance of Being Earnest?”

  “A very amateur production,” said Alfie. “Not quite the version at the National starring Dame Evadne. I went to see it three times, all because of her.”

  “She’d love to hear that. Let me introduce you to her,” said Dorian. />
  Isobel, scowling as much as the Botox would allow, said something under her breath. Alfie was pretty sure it was: “How dare you ignore me!”

  Dorian repeated his polite smile. “Isobel, would you like to meet her as well?”

  For answer, she turned her back and waved her glass to summon a waiter.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” murmured Dorian. Alfie saw him mouth a kiss at Paige, who was gazing at them with wide eyes.

  Alfie had no idea what was going on, but he was going to spend the rest of the party as far as possible from Charlie and Isobel Tennison.

  5. The Grand Dinner

  “I’m completely reconciled to country life,” declared Oscar. “If I’d known David put bottles of twelve-year-old Glenlivet in the guest bedrooms, I would have been here long before this.”

  He handed a glass to Alfie.

  “A twelve-year-old Glenlivet is David’s equivalent of a discount supermarket’s cheapest blend,” said Alfie. “Dorian’s been telling me all about it. He and David wouldn’t touch anything as mundane as this – Dorian’s just bought a bottle of something called Thorne’s Heritage for £2,500, and David has a bottle from the nineteenth century that cost £150,000.”

  He took a swig of the Glenlivet which was more than palatable. “Dame Evadne’s eyes lit up when she heard that – I think she’s going to demand a post-prandial glass.”

  Oscar was laying out his dinner suit, tie and shirt on the bed. “Yes, I saw you getting an audience with Her Magnificence. I almost ran over to join you, but I couldn’t leave poor Mrs Dorian – she’s a sweet little thing, but so nervous. She was in a complete panic when Dorian left. Reminds me a bit of a rescue dog.”

  He brought out a shoe polishing kit and began to burnish his black shoes.

  “By the way,” he said casually, “well done for coping with Tennison. That can’t have been easy.”

  Alfie gulped down more whisky. “It never crossed my mind that David would invite him. I would never have come if I had known. I thought you said they didn’t get on?”

  “They’re not soul-mates. But they’re family. And all the rumours about Tennison are just that, rumours. Nothing’s ever been proved against him.”

  “No, they haven’t” Alfie snarled. He began pacing the room, the tumbler in his hand, and whisky sloshed on to his fingers. “Those morons on the jury. They ignored all the evidence. That man has never paid for what he did to my family.”

  “And what he did was terrible,” said Oscar. “But distressing yourself like this is only hurting you, not him.”

  “I’ll cope.” The tumbler thudded down on the dressing table.

  “But you do know you’ve got him seriously rattled?” Oscar went on.

  “What?”

  “Your blossoming friendship with the future Lady Caversham.”

  “Good God, Oscar, the woman’s practically as loathsome as he is. They deserve one another.”

  Oscar rubbed the shoe cloth over already gleaming leather. “As the Blessed Oscar said, in married life, three is company and two is none. Cousin Charlie was furious when he saw you together. I tell you, Alfie, if you flirt with her, there’s a very good chance Tennison will die of apoplexy. I’ve never seen anyone so red in the face.”

  “Not even in the interests of killing Charlie Tennison would I have anything to do with that woman,” Alfie declared. “I’m staying well away from both of them from now on.”

  Oscar stopped polishing his shoes. “You haven’t seen the seating plan? Oh, God, Alfie, I’m sorry.”

  He went over to the dressing table and picked up a sheet of paper which he handed to Alfie.

  To his horror, Alfie discovered he was seated at a table of eight, between Isobel Tennison and Paige Stevens. Tennison was sitting on Paige’s other side, and then came a female whose name Alfie didn’t recognise. Betty was between Oscar and Dorian.

  His immediate reaction was to go to Rosemary and David Savile, insist on being moved to another table, and to tell them why. The family had no doubt white-washed the entire incident after the jury found Tennison not guilty. And even if anyone remembered the name of the elderly couple who were killed, there was no obvious link to Alfie – they were his mother’s parents, and he had his father’s surname.

  Or he could go along with the seating plan and then stand up and denounce Tennison in front of everyone, tell them how the jury had been in awe of wealth and privilege, conned by character statements from a vicar and a master at Eton, who Alfie was certain had either been coerced or bribed by Lord Caversham to say what they did.

  He drained the whisky glass. It was no good. He knew he would do neither. The irony was that as Oscar’s friend, he was in the position of one of the most privileged guests, seated at Dorian’s table. And family ties ruled that Charlie Tennison must be given the same status. Alfie couldn’t wreck the Saviles’ evening.

  He poured himself some more whisky.

  “Go easy,” said Oscar. “The wine will be flowing freely over dinner.”

  Alfie ignored him. The one thing that might have made the evening tolerable was being with Betty. But she had just rejected him, so there was no point in looking to her.

  By the time he was dressed in his dinner suit, he was on the verge of feeling pleasantly drunk.

  “Let’s call on Ms Thorndike and see if she’s ready,” said Oscar. “The pair of you had better go into dinner together or people will think the bedhopping’s started early.”

  Alfie would be civil, but distant. It would be clear from his demeanour that the last thing on his mind was sharing a room with her, and there was unlikely to be another opportunity.

  He followed Oscar out of the bedroom and went to knock on Betty’s door.

  Just as he reached it, it opened. Betty was wearing a figure-hugging scarlet silk evening gown, her arms and shoulders bare. Her long fair hair was coiled into a chignon. She was wearing embroidered velvet slippers that looked as though they had come from some souk, and her necklace and earrings were made of intricately twisted silver wire. It was an audacious combination, and it looked sensational.

  He was about to tell her how beautiful she looked when he decided against it. She might think it a sexist remark, or be offended that he had never complimented her until she was dressed up. He stood awkwardly silent, willing her to sense how he felt about her.

  “Incredible,” said Oscar. “Your mamma was photographed in that very dress – by Karsh of Ottawa, if I’m not mistaken.”

  She laughed. “You’re not mistaken. Mom’s put on a couple pounds since then, so I lucked out with vintage Dior. Of course, she accessorised it with Tiffany diamonds but unfortunately her ears haven’t gained weight.”

  “My dear, your ensemble is perfection. Alfie’s struck dumb at the very sight of you.”

  “The dress is lovely,” Alfie mumbled.

  “Why, thank you.”

  He was sure she was being sarcastic.

  “Madame.” Oscar crooked his arm. “May I escort you downstairs?”

  Betty looked questioningly at Alfie. Was she seriously looking for his permission to accompany Oscar? Was this some sort of test, to see how proprietorial he was?

  He took a step back and gestured for them to precede him. “Please. Lead the way.”

  He saw her mouth tighten as she walked past him and wondered if he’d got it terribly wrong. Had she expected him to escort her instead? They were just reaching the end of the corridor when another door opened, and Isobel and Charlie Tennison emerged. Isobel’s dress was also figure-hugging, but it only served to emphasise that her figure was artificially enhanced. She teetered on stiletto heels, her dress slashed to the thigh.

  It was Oscar who introduced Betty to them, which gave the impression that he was her partner. Charlie Tennison barely acknowledged her and stared at Alfie in what was possibly intended to b
e an intimidating manner.

  Oscar claimed Tennison had been rattled by Alfie. It was time to do a bit more rattling.

  Alfie offered his arm to Isobel. “Madame? May I escort you downstairs?”

  They processed down the grand staircase where they were directed across the marble floor to the dining room. Even Isobel Tennison seemed impressed. The large high-ceilinged room was ablaze with light from three vast chandeliers. The white walls were decorated with gilded mirrors and candles in sconces.

  Each circular table had a graceful candelabra as a centrepiece, an arrangement of white flowers round the base. The table settings were white and gold, with golden cutlery and an array of crystal glasses at each place.

  They found their table, and Alfie seated Isobel, while Oscar did the same for Betty. Dorian and Paige joined them almost immediately, Paige wearing a demure full-length lace dress, which was no doubt designer and very expensive, but would do little to attract the cameras on the red carpet.

  And then a young woman, slightly breathless, wearing a tuxedo, rushed up to take the final seat at the table.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, waving a mobile phone at them, “I just have to keep Instagramming. This place is totally amazing. Hi, I’m Anthea.”

  She turned out to have played the youngest of the Bennet sisters in the film, the reckless, thoughtless, self-obsessed Lydia. Alfie wondered whether she had been typecast.

  Oscar was seated opposite Alfie with Betty beside him, but the candelabra and floral arrangement prevented Alfie from being able to talk to them without leaning over and shouting. They were already chatting animatedly to Dorian, and Alfie wished he was on that side of the table. He had Isobel on his right, and Dorian’s timid wife on his left. He would be able to talk without difficulty to Charlie Tennison, who was on Paige’s other side, but he had no intention of exchanging a word with the man.

  There seemed to be almost as many waiting staff as guests. Most of them were young, and Alfie recognised quite a few of them from Bunburry. Liz and Marge had told him that an evening’s work at the Saviles’ was highly sought-after because the couple paid well over the minimum wage. But he could see that the staff had to work hard for their money.