by Hazel Holt
“That would make rather a good game,” Michael said. “Claudius, I think, would bowl nasty little leg-breaks, and Hamlet? He was probably a batsman, some gentlemanly stroke play, a bit of a David Gower.”
I do enjoy a day at the Taunton ground. Michael is a vice president, which sounds quite grand but only means that you pay a slightly larger subscription than the ordinary members. As we climbed up the steps of the Old Pavilion, Michael said with satisfaction, “Oh good, our usual seats are free.”
The usual seats are directly behind the wicket and, as such, much sought after, which is why Michael insisted on our leaving home practically at the crack of dawn. Not that the actual seats themselves are anything to write home about, being old cinema seats that have seen better days. However, old habitués bring cushions to ease the situation and I always have a heavy woollen rug, since even on the hottest day there is always a stiff breeze, coming from goodness knows where, that chills the extremities.
I settled the picnic bag at my feet and got out the binoculars. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the actual cricket, but I must admit that I derive equal pleasure from scanning the players’ balcony, seeing who’s chatting to whom, who’s reading The Mirror, who’s having a late breakfast of meat pasty and Pepsi. A slight movement in the row behind and a familiar voice indicated that I would be able to indulge my other pleasure. People at the county ground (like Michael and me) like to sit in the same seats every time and we quite often have behind us two elderly men, both of whom talk nonstop throughout the day. Mostly they talk about the game (very knowledgeably, since one of them wears an MCC tie and the other appears to have been at one time captain of an amateur team in North London) but often they talk about the minutiae of their lives or comment on current events. Michael calls them The Wiseacres and he rolled his eyes at me in mock horror when he heard their voices. But I was delighted, since I look upon them as a sort of living soap opera and long to hear how Dora (MCC’s wife) is managing with her broken arm and if North London’s brother-in-law has made a go of his home improvements.
It was a good game. Somerset took a satisfactory number of wickets (that famous “first hour” when the Taunton wicket does unexpected things) and the Wiseacres confined themselves to comments on the play, but when the visiting team had settled down and were playing more defensively and there wasn’t so much action, then their conversation turned to other topics. I was delighted to learn that Dora was now out of plaster and responding well to physiotherapy and that North London’s daughter in Australia had just had her first child. Then they turned, as they usually do, to what they had seen on television the night before.
“Dreadful thing about that bishop!” MCC said.
“I think I must have missed that,” North London replied.
“On the nine o’clock news. A bishop, in the Midlands somewhere, doing something fraudulent with church funds. Couldn’t believe my ears! He’d been siphoning off money right, left and center, thousands! He’d been getting away with it for years—well, you wouldn’t suspect someone like that, a man of the cloth! Apparently some investments of his own went wrong, a company he’d put a lot of money in went bust or something, and he started to borrow. Well, then, of course, it snowballed from there, downhill all the way. It could never have happened when Fisher was archbishop of Canterbury (wonderful headmaster that man, Nigel was under him at Repton) but now, with all this guitars in churches and bishops called Jim and Dick, what can you expect!”
A small alarm bell at the back of my mind went off and a name suddenly emerged. Crashaw Investments (I’d noticed the name because of the poet)—and I remembered my friend Rosemary’s husband Jack saying, about a year ago, how lucky it was that he’d listened to some chap who’d warned him that the company was heading for a crash because they’d seemed absolutely rock-solid, but now they were right down the drain. And it was Crashaw Investments (it suddenly came to me) that had featured heavily in the printout of investments on Francis’s desk, the printout that Francis hadn’t wanted me to see.
Suppose, then, that his financial position had not been as secure as we had been led to believe. I wasn’t sure how this affected the problem of his murder, but, taken with the fact that Francis had removed all his affairs (and all the relevant papers) from his solicitor, there was some mystery somewhere. It seemed more imperative than ever that I should talk to Adrian. If anyone knew about Francis’s financial affairs he must.
A great burst of applause around the ground, Michael’s delighted exclamation “Yes!” and an “Oh, well bowled, sir” from behind recalled me to the present.
“Did you see that yorker!” Michael said. “I think he’s broken one of the stumps!”
“Marvelous!” I said.
“He’s been very erratic this season,” Michael said, “all those no-balls. But it’s almost worth it for a ball like that!”
I turned my attention to the game and watched as the bowler, a very tall young man, shirt untucked and flapping, began his run-up, arms held at an odd angle so that he looked like a jet-propelled stick insect. He let fly the ball and the umpire signaled a wide.
After lunch the match slowed down. The spinners came on and the run rate was more static. In one of the longeurs I was idly scanning the crowd near the pavilion when I gave a cry. I handed the binoculars to Michael and said, “Look, just to the right of that steward at the back there, it’s Adrian! What’s he doing here?”
“I think his firm’s one of the sponsors today—yes, come to think of it, I saw their name on the board as we came in. I suppose he had to come—clients to be entertained, corporate hospitality and all that.”
“I must go and speak to him,” I said, half rising.
Michael grabbed my arm. “Wait till the end of the over, Ma!”
As soon as I could I raced down the steps and around to where I’d seen Adrian. He wasn’t there but, by dint of much searching, I spotted him sitting on a bench behind the sight-screen. He looked ill and wretched. I approached cautiously, as if stalking a wild bird, and came up to him suddenly, so that he had no opportunity to see me and make his escape.
“Adrian!” I greeted him. “What a pleasant surprise! No, don’t get up,” I continued as he made as if to rise and get away. “I’ll join you for a moment, if you don’t mind. It’s nice and cool here out of the sun. Well, I didn’t know you were a cricket enthusiast.”
He muttered something about being here with the firm.
“Of course. Michael brought me, he’s taken a day off because he particularly wanted to see this match ...” I rambled on until his first instinct, for flight, had been overcome by his natural good manners.
“Adrian,” I said quietly, “Judy’s very worried about you. She’s awfully upset that you haven’t been in touch.”
He turned and gazed at me, panic-stricken. He made as if to say something, but no words came.
“Yes, I’ve met Judy and I know all about Robert. Adrian,” I said earnestly, laying my hand on his arm, “she’s deeply fond of you, and very anxious about all this. Look, I’m sure you have your reasons for not seeing her, but do please trust her, give her the chance to understand.”
He shook his head. “It’s no good,” he said. “I can’t.”
“Adrian, what is it? It can’t be as bad as all that!”
The look of desperation in his eyes was frightening. “I can’t,” he repeated.
“Is there any message I can give her?” I persisted.
“Tell her,” he almost whispered, “tell her to forget I ever existed.”
He made as if to get up and I said quickly, “Adrian. There is another thing. I don’t want to bother you when you’re obviously so distressed, but David does need to know how he stands. About the house, I mean. I imagine you’re the only person who knows about your father’s financial affairs, so if you could just have a word ...”
He stared at me blankly, almost as if he had forgotten who I was. “The house?”
“Yes,” I said, “the
house on West Hill. I believe David inherits the whole thing now, under the terms of the trust. Who is your solicitor? Who should he get in touch with?”
“In touch with?” he echoed. “I—I’ll write to him. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go now.”
He got to his feet and was gone before I could say anything more. I stared after him as he pushed his way through the crowd around the back of the pavilion. Adrian Beaumont was a very disturbed young man and there seemed to be only one reason for his strange behavior.
Chapter 19
So you see,” I told David that evening, “I honestly don’t know what to say—about who you should get in touch with about the house.”
Needless to say we had all discussed ad nauseam Adrian’s extraordinary state and had speculated with varying degrees of wildness on Francis’s financial position.
“I wonder if he managed to get his hands on Joan’s trust fund?” Michael said. “It might just have been possible if he got Adrian to cut a few corners. And that might explain why Adrian’s in such a panic now it’ll all come out.”
“Oh, not that!” I exclaimed. “Joan promised she’d give Mary some of that money to buy her partnership in the stables. If it’s all gone ...”
“The trouble is,” Michael said, “if Francis didn’t appoint another solicitor and if he kept all the paperwork—stuff about investments and so on—in his own hands or did things through Adrian on a sort of ad hoc basis, then, until Adrian applies for probate and chooses to divulge what’s been going on, we’ve no way of knowing what the situation is!”
“I’m sure Mary’s going to want to know pretty soon about the terms of whatever will he left,” I said.
“Yes, well, that’s another reason for Adrian to be jumpy,” Michael said.
I was still speculating idly on Francis’s will and what it might contain at breakfast next day. Michael had gone off early and David and I were sitting over our third cups of coffee, ‘slothing around,’ as my friend Rosemary calls it. David was listening with half an ear while leafing through the Daily Telegraph.
“I suppose we might know more after the funeral,” I said. “After all, that is the traditional time to read wills, isn’t it?”
“Oh, absolutely ... Good heavens!”
“What is it?”
“Poor old Dickie Davidson’s dead. There’s an obituary here.”
“How sad. I remember how marvelous he was in that Ibsen season, and didn’t he do Heartbreak House with Marcia Farmer and Julia Grey a couple of years ago? He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, we were at Nottingham Rep together years ago. It was my first big chance, Constantin in The Seagull, and he was playing Trigorin. Constance Whipple was Arkardina and she was the most awful bitch, ego the size of Wembley Stadium. She upstaged me quite relentlessly all through rehearsals and I was too green to know how to cope with it. The director didn’t dare say a thing because, of course, she was a draw and he didn’t dare offend her. But Dickie, who was an even bigger draw in those days, took her to one side and gave her a terrific finger-wagging, after which she was sweetness and light. Bless him! We’ve always kept in touch. He’s been ill off and on for years now and I used to go and see him at Denville Hall. He was quite alone then, his boyfriend, Bobby, died quite young—terribly sad. And then Dickie got this cancer thing and had to go into a hospice. I visited him a couple of times this year, whenever I managed to get up to London.”
“Poor thing.”
“Yes, it’s a merciful release, as they say, because he was in a lot of pain at the end—had to be kept sedated. Oh well, all the old ones are going ...”
“Which reminds me—Francis’s funeral. We’ll all go, of course, Michael’s taking the day off. I imagine Joan will want you to sit with them in the family pew.”
It was a very impressive service. Full ecclesiastical honors for the dean in his own cathedral. The bishop spoke well, the choir sang like angels and there was a large and attentive congregation, and yet, as I looked up at the soaring roof, at the vaulting and the gilding, at the banners, moving slightly in the high, thin air, I didn’t feel we were mourning a real person. It seemed like a pageant, splendid but formal, and without a heart. Of all the many people in that great building, only one truly grieved for Francis, and that made me very sad.
Because we had to drive David home, Michael and I (reluctantly) went, with a small group of people, back to the deanery after the service and the committal. Joan had arranged for sherry and sandwiches and, as so often happens on these occasions, as the tension lightened, people began to talk more freely and more naturally. There was even the occasional subdued burst of laughter.
I looked around the room for Adrian. He was backed up in a corner by the window with a large, gray-haired man who was talking earnestly to him. Adrian looked ill at ease and seemed to be saying very little in reply. Mary was passing with a plate of sandwiches and I touched her arm.
“Mary, who’s that man Adrian’s talking to? There, over by the window. I seem to know the face, but I can’t put a name to him.”
“Oh, that’s Donald Gibbons, the cathedral treasurer.”
“Oh yes, I thought I knew him. So tell me, how is everything going? About the stables, I mean.”
“Well, we can’t do much until Adrian sorts out Mother’s trust, and she won’t let me hurry him over that because he’s been so ill.” Mary sounded resentful. “Which is all very well, but Fay does need to know how things stand pretty soon.”
“Adrian’s no better, then?” I asked tentatively.
“Well, he seemed to pull himself together a bit—went back to work and all that. But these last few days he’s been worse than ever. In fact, we did wonder if he’d be all right to come to the funeral. Honestly, it doesn’t make sense. It isn’t as if he’d been fond of Father; he hated him as much as I did! Sorry, that’s not the sort of thing I should be saying at a time like this, but it’s true and I’d be a hypocrite if I pretended otherwise ...”
She broke off abruptly as Joan came over and joined us. Her black, high-necked dress made her look sallow and old and her eyes were red with recently shed tears. She embraced me warmly.
“Thank you for coming, Sheila, and it was so good of Michael, too.”
“It was a beautiful service,” I said, “and I thought the bishop spoke splendidly, just the right note. And it was marvelous to see the cathedral so full.”
“Yes, people were so kind. Francis would have been very touched. Oh, excuse me, the bishop’s leaving, I must just have a word ...”
David came up behind me. “No reading of the will,” he said. “Just as we imagined, Joan was rather flustered about that. Actually, darling, now that the bishop’s gone I think we might make our getaway ...”
“Hang on a moment, I’d like to have a word with Adrian.” I looked round the room, but Adrian had vanished.
“Well, I’m glad there was a good turnout, for Joan’s sake,” Rosemary said, “and I suppose it was a sort of occasion, with the bishop and everything.”
“Full ceremonial,” I agreed. “Francis would have liked that.”
I’d really only gone around to Rosemary’s to deliver some jumble, but, as usual, I couldn’t resist a cup of coffee and a gossip.
“I mustn’t stay long because I haven’t been to the shops yet and there’s nothing in the house for lunch. Michael won’t be in, but David’s there, of course, and, although he’s the easiest person in the world, it’s still one more thing to think about ... Anyway, I can see you’re busy.” I gestured toward the far end of the sitting room where Delia had set out her dolls in a semicircle and was pouring imaginary tea for them and singing in that high-pitched, otherworldly way that little girls do.
“Oh, Jilly’s taking Alex to the clinic and then shopping,” Rosemary said, “so I have Delia for the morning. She’s very good, really. Except for the nursery rhymes—ever since she started to go to play school she’s been singing nonstop.”
“And that�
��s bad?”
“It is when you get one of the beastly things on your brain and it won’t go away. Last week it was ‘The Good Ship Sails on the Ally Ally Oo’ and I had it for days!”
I laughed. “Oh dear, I wish you hadn’t told me—I’m afraid I’m going to have it on my brain now!”
“So, when’s David going back to Stratford?” Rosemary asked.
“It’s still all up in the air. He can’t really leave while the investigation’s going on, though I suppose if he had to they couldn’t stop him. We haven’t heard any more from Inspector Hosegood. Has Roger said anything?”
“Well, you know how it is, he doesn’t say much, but I gather they’ve been talking to a lot of people and haven’t really got anything concrete.”
“Presumably if they had anything they considered hard evidence they’d have hauled David in. Did I tell you that they’re considering Nana’s death now. They seem to think that might be murder, too.”
“Oh, for goodness sake! The poor old soul fell downstairs and I’m not a bit surprised, that house was dark as a tomb, she never put a light on!”
“Exactly. It’s perfectly obvious it was an accident, but the inspector had David in and grilled him about going to see her!”
Delia now approached us, one hand extended.
“My dollies has sent you some chocolate cake,” she announced.
We both graciously accepted the invisible goodies and she returned to her play, exhorting the dolls to “Row, row, row the boat gently down the stream.”
“Talking of accidents,” Rosemary said, “I heard from Rosa Harris yesterday—you remember her, that nice American Jack and I met in Venice, terrific traveler.”
“Oh yes.”
“She was in Egypt with her mother—equally indefatigable although she’s well in her eighties—and the mother went down with some sort of acute stomach thing, giardiasis I think it’s called, intestinal parasites, really horrible. Fortunately, she had some morphine tablets (you know how some Americans take complete pharmacopoeias with them when they travel!) and she had one tablet and that did the trick. However, the poor old soul is a bit vague, and Rose only just stopped her in time. She’d got the containers mixed up and she was going to put three or four in her coffee—she thought they were sweeteners! Well, they do look very similar. Sheila! Are you all right?”