by Eric Brown
A little later, noting the time, Langham said, ‘My word, it’s almost six. We’d better be pushing off.’
‘I’ll be in touch about the scenic tour,’ Annabelle promised. ‘Perhaps Sunday afternoon?’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Maria said.
They returned to the Rover. As they drove off, Maria said, ‘I like her, Donald. I’m intrigued by her relationship with her father.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, in her ambivalence; she obviously loves him, but also hates him at the same time.’
‘You think so?’
She nodded. ‘Well, I think I would, if I were his daughter.’
They drove through the village, up the hillside and through the forest towards Connaught House.
‘And now for a quick drink before dinner – and the appearance of Denbigh Connaught,’ Langham said. ‘I think we’re in for fireworks before the evening’s out, my girl.’
EIGHT
They entered the drawing room to find Charles holding forth, his gargantuan, brandy-glass figure a central primary around which the other guests orbited.
The gathering had been augmented by the arrival of two more guests, Lady Cecelia Albrighton and Monty Connaught. Lady Cecelia was a tall, spindly woman in her early sixties, whose silver lamé evening dress might have suited a woman thirty years her junior but which, draped on her angular frame, merely pointed up the fact that the passage of time had not been kind to her. Everything about her was grey, from her distant eyes and distressed hair to the tone of her skin. Langham did discern, however, something of the vanished beauty of her younger days in her elegant face and long neck.
Monty Connaught was a tall, powerfully built man in his early fifties, dressed in casual flannels and a light blue cotton jacket. His sunburnt face and head of tight, gunmetal grey curls gave him the distinguished appearance, Langham thought, of a Roman senator. His most striking feature, however, was not his patrician face but his right hand, which had been horribly injured in an accident: the three middle fingers were missing, leaving only the thumb and little finger. The silvered scars scoring the ill-carpentered metacarpus suggested a burns injury.
He pincered his whisky glass, crab-like, between the thumb and remaining finger.
The butler hovered with a tray of sherry, and Langham and Maria helped themselves. Charles made introductions.
‘I won’t shake,’ Monty Connaught said to Langham, lifting his injured hand. ‘Some people are a bit put off by the claw. Pleased to meet you, Donald, Maria.’ He had a rich, pleasant voice and an affirmative smile. Langham wondered why he didn’t offer his left hand, which he kept in the pocket of his jacket.
‘Just a tick,’ Langham said. ‘M. J. Connaught. Iberian Sojourn. I thought I recognized the face.’
Monty smiled. His light blue eyes were striking, even more so for their contrast with his suntan. ‘You’ve read it? You must be one of a very select few. That was one of my early ones – it sold about fifty copies.’
‘I enjoyed it. I was researching the coast of Spain for one of my thrillers. I thought you brought the country to life.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Are you working on a book at the moment?’ Langham asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve just been commissioned to write about a trip along the Moroccan coast. That’s where I’m heading in a few days.’ He paused, staring down at his whisky. ‘I don’t know about you, Donald, but I’m finding it harder and harder to make a living from the pen.’
‘I went through a lean spell just after the war,’ Langham said, ‘but I’m not doing too badly now. Selling enough to keep the wolf from the door, at any rate.’
Monty smiled. ‘Oddly enough, it was just after the war when I was doing well. Halcyon days. You see, everyone wanted to escape, lose themselves in exotic climes and far-flung adventures. I did a couple of slim books a year and the lending libraries couldn’t get enough of ’em.’
‘But these days?’
‘I’m lucky if I get one commission a year. The market’s still stable, but there are more and more scribblers cashing in on the racket. Everyone with half an education is writing an account of their summer holidays.’
‘That must be more than a little galling.’
Monty laughed. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I don’t live in Britain. I spend the summer sailing around the Med, doing the research for my books, then dock in Athens for the winter, batten the hatches and write the things. Few places cheaper to live than Athens, Donald. I get by.’
Langham wondered how Monty viewed the literary success of his brother, whose books were well reviewed and often appeared on bestseller lists.
To their left, Charles was finishing off an account of his friendship with Lord Alfred Douglas. ‘And the sweet thing was his devotion to Wilde, and his acknowledgement of his part in the great man’s downfall.’
Colonel Haxby harrumphed and smote the parquet with his stick. ‘Great man?’ he muttered. ‘Chap deserved everything that came to him. Jumped-up Irish invert that he was.’
Pandora Jade, dressed for dinner in a pin-striped trouser suit, challenged the old soldier. ‘I don’t see how you can use his nationality, or his sexual persuasion, to tarnish the undoubted fact of his genius. Have you seen any of his plays, Haxby?’
‘Plays? Haven’t the time to go running around the West End!’
Wilson Royce, gripping a glass of whisky to his chest and looking, Langham thought, more than a little inebriated, whispered, ‘The old sot hasn’t lived.’
‘Charles was telling me about your recent marriage,’ Lady Cecelia said to Maria. ‘How I do love a romantic story. Now tell me,’ she said, ‘was it love at first sight?’
Maria laughed. ‘I first saw Donald in a photograph on the back of one of his books. And I have to admit that I did think him rather dashing.’
‘My word, what a remarkable coincidence! Do you know,’ Lady Cecelia went on, smiling around the group, ‘my first encounter with Denbigh was, as it were, through one of his early novels. My husband was a critic for The Times, before the war, and the house was positively inundated with review copies. Of course, I browsed through them from time to time, and I well recall the occasion I happened upon A Winter’s Harvest. And the picture of the young author! Why, my head was turned, if I’m not being too indiscreet. And I thought the novel a masterpiece.’
‘How did you come to meet Connaught in person?’ Pandora wanted to know.
Lady Cecelia laid her long, pewter fingers on the woman’s arm. ‘It was through a remarkable coincidence. My husband farmed the estate before the war, and when many of his workers were called into the services, their places were taken by Land Girls and conscientious objectors. One of the latter was a man whom I thought rather familiar, and then the penny dropped. It was none other than Denbigh Connaught.’ Her gaze became distant as she thought back to the early years of the war.
‘It’s remarkable,’ she went on in a quieter voice, ‘how one’s life can change because of random chance, isn’t it? Had it not been for Denbigh’s posting to Lincolnshire …’
‘You would not be here today,’ Pandora finished.
‘Which begs the ruddy question,’ Colonel Haxby said, ‘why are we here? Why did Connaught drag you down here, Lady Cecelia?’
Lady Cecelia blinked, returning to the present. ‘I received a letter inviting me for the weekend.’
‘Did he, by any chance,’ Pandora ventured, ‘mention anything about an apology? You see, to the rest of us he mentioned the need to apologize.’
Lady Cecelia regarded her sherry. ‘As a matter of fact, he did. But that’s not the reason I came. I don’t hold grudges, my dear. Life is too short to harbour ill-will towards others, don’t you think? What passed between Denbigh and me all those years ago … It’s all water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned. When I received the letter, I thought how nice it was that he still remembered me, and how wonderful it would be to renew our a
cquaintance.’
Langham glanced at Maria, who was smiling at the woman’s words.
‘Can’t say the same in my case,’ Colonel Haxby barked. ‘Letter stirred up memories I thought I’d buried long ago.’
‘So why,’ Wilson Royce said, ‘did you accept the invitation?’
The old soldier drained his Scotch and signalled to the butler for a refill. ‘Despite what I said earlier, I didn’t come to shoot the old reprobate. Considered it, mind you. Chap deserves a round of lead, for what he did.’
‘And what might that have been?’ Langham asked.
‘That’s between me and Connaught,’ Haxby muttered.
‘So if not to dispense summary justice,’ Pandora said, winking at Maria, ‘why did you accept his invitation?’
Haxby waited until the butler had topped up his glass, took a swallow, then said, ‘Because not only did Connaught say he wanted to apologize, but he also said … said he wanted to make amends – to give me something.’
Wilson Royce blinked. ‘Give you something? Did he say what?’
The colonel shook his head. ‘Kept mum on that front, laddie. That was the bait, you see, to bring me here. I’ve no idea what he meant, but I’m intrigued.’
Langham looked around the little group. ‘Would it be indelicate to ask what inducement he made to the rest of you?’
Charles said, ‘You know what it was in my case, my boy – Connaught promised me his next novel.’
Pandora said, ‘Merely said he wanted to apologize, and sent me a cheque for travelling expenses.’
‘To me he mentioned merely the need to apologize,’ Lady Cecelia said. ‘I would need no inducement. It is enough to think that I will soon be renewing my acquaintance with Denbigh.’
Monty Connaught finished his whisky. ‘I received a telegram from him at my club on Wednesday. Said he needed to see me urgently. I arrived this morning, but Denbigh’s been holed up in his study all day. Haven’t had sight or sound of him.’
Colonel Haxby pushed up the sleeve of his blazer and blinked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s past six. I thought you said he’d be with us by now, Royce? Where the blazes is he?’
Wilson Royce looked uncomfortable. ‘Punctuality, I’m afraid, is not Mr Connaught’s strong point. When he’s working, he tends to forget things like the passage of time, and meals.’
‘But for God’s sake,’ Pandora said, ‘he invited us down expressly to see him, so he should damn well keep to schedule. He said drinks at six, and it’s a quarter past now.’
‘I’ve heard all about this study of his,’ Colonel Haxby said. ‘Read about it in some newspaper. Stole the idea off Bernard Shaw, if I’m not mistaken.’
Royce said, ‘But Shaw’s study rotated manually, Colonel. The beauty of Connaught’s study is that it’s automatic. It’s mounted on a cross-frame, and the upper part of it turns to follow the sun, powered by an electric motor. Connaught designed it himself.’
Colonel Haxby raised his stick. ‘Tell you what. We should mount a raid. A little sortie, beard the lion in his den. Lead the way to this revolving study, young Royce!’
‘I … I don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ the young man said.
‘I think it a damned good notion!’ Pandora declared. ‘And it’s such a lovely evening; let’s go and visit the great man.’
Maria smiled at Langham and raised her shoulders in a shrug of excited delight.
Lady Cecelia looked unsure. ‘Well, if you don’t think it would anger …’
Charles glanced at Langham. ‘I’ve heard that his rage is legendary, my boy. I think caution might be the watchword here.’
The colonel bellowed a laugh. ‘Balderdash! Let’s surprise the fellow!’
Monty Connaught caught Langham’s eye. ‘I’ll be pushing off, Donald. I’m not stopping for dinner – due to meet a few friends in the village at seven. Let’s get together for a drink and a natter at some point over the weekend.’
‘I’d like that,’ Langham said.
Monty nodded around the group and strode from the room.
Colonel Haxby made for the French windows, lofting his walking stick. ‘Tally-ho!’ he called out, and led the guests out into the balmy evening.
Langham, Maria and Charles brought up the rear of the little group as it crossed the lawn.
‘I’m not sure I want to be leading the charge,’ Maria said.
‘Wise of you, my girl,’ Charles agreed.
To the south, the extensive lawn sloped towards the edge of the cliff. To the right of the greensward, concealed from the house behind the boxwood hedge, was Denbigh Connaught’s singular study. Twelve-sided and constructed from pitch pine, it resembled a rather plain musical box with a conical roof. It might have been revolving, but at such a rate that, as it followed the sun, its movement was undetectable to the naked eye.
A circular, stepped plinth surrounded the foot of the study, and without preamble Colonel Haxby mounted this and rapped sharply on the glass of the door with his walking stick. He applied his nose to the window, but a rattan blind hid the study’s interior from view.
Haxby tried the door handle, found it locked and raised his stick again. Wilson Royce winced and began, ‘I don’t think …’ but to no avail, as the colonel tapped again fit to break the glass.
‘Hell hath no fury,’ Charles whispered, gripping Langham’s elbow, ‘like a writer rudely plucked from his muse.’
‘Perhaps Connaught is already in the house,’ Maria said, ‘which would be just as well.’
Royce said, ‘But he would have joined us for drinks, if …’
‘Perhaps,’ Pandora said, with a hint of mischief that Langham realized was becoming her stock in trade, ‘one of us has decided to do away with the reprobate? You said you wanted to shoot him earlier, Colonel. And the rest of us, with a couple of exceptions, wouldn’t be averse to pulling the trigger.’
‘I don’t think that kind of humour …’ Royce began.
Pandora beamed around the dithering group. ‘Can we all account for our whereabouts since arriving here?’
Charles said, ‘Does anyone have a spare key? Perhaps it might be prudent to check?’
‘My money’s on finding him seated before the typewriter with a bullet in his brain,’ Pandora said with ghoulish glee.
Lady Cecelia touched Maria’s arm and murmured, ‘Why does the awful woman go on so, my dear?’
Maria smiled in reassurance. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to be worried about.’
Royce looked around the group, and his gaze alighted on Langham. ‘Do you think I should fetch the spare key and check?’
Langham nodded. ‘Might be wise,’ he said.
At that second, a large, looming figure appeared from around the side of the study and stood regarding the group.
‘What the hell,’ boomed the man, ‘d’you think you’re all doing out here, milling around like a flock of sheep?’
‘Mr Connaught!’ Royce cried with relief. ‘We wondered …’
‘We thought you’d had a heart attack, old boy,’ Colonel Haxby said.
‘No, we didn’t,’ Pandora piped up. ‘We thought someone had finally done the honourable thing and bumped you off.’
Denbigh Connaught stared at the artist. ‘Typical of your gallows humour, Pandy. You haven’t changed in the slightest, have you? I’ve neither succumbed to a heart attack nor been bumped off. I’ve just finished my constitutional, I’ll have you know.’
His face was large and fleshy, in repose melancholy but now animated by disdain. He had a curious head of hair, spun gold and bunched above his ears, with thin strands cross-hatched sparsely over his scalp.
Langham glanced at Charles to see how he’d reacted to the appearance of his bête noire. His friend had taken a step backwards, a hand lifted to his mouth, and was staring at Connaught with evident distaste.
‘So here you all are,’ the novelist said in a low, baritone rumble, his eyes raking the quivering group. ‘Here you all ar
e … Pandy, still the jester, the agent provocateur. And Colonel Haxby … It’s been a long time, Haxby. Charles, Charles … even longer. My word, how the sands of time change us all.’ He smiled at Cecelia, it seemed with genuine warmth. ‘It’s good to see you, Lady Cee.’
He clapped his hands suddenly, making several people jump. ‘Now in with you! Go on! I need a drink … Inside!’
And, running at the group, he chivvied them back into Connaught House as if they were a gaggle of errant geese.
NINE
‘If you’d care to follow me through to the dining hall,’ Connaught said as they entered the drawing room.
He led the way through a side door and along a gloomy, panelled corridor hung with Victorian landscapes. ‘This part of the house is a hundred years old,’ he expounded as they walked, ‘but the dining hall and the rest of the west wing are Georgian. Much of the house was destroyed by fire in the eighteen-fifties. Only the west wing survived. Here we are.’
The oak-panelled walls of the dining hall were hung with dusty landscapes and several portraits of Victorian worthies, presumably Connaught’s ancestors.
The novelist seated himself in a massive oaken chair at the head of the table. Wilson Royce murmured to the guests, ‘You’ll find that you have each been assigned a place.’
Langham found his name written on a folded card and wondered if Connaught had arranged the seating plan to achieve a desired effect. He was seated to the novelist’s right, across from Lady Cecelia; to Langham’s right was Maria, and Pandora Jade faced her. Charles, Wilson Royce and Colonel Haxby were seated furthest from Connaught.
They were served dinner by the old butler, Watkins.
Langham glanced at Charles, who was sipping his wine and casting the occasional wary glance towards Denbigh Connaught. He caught his agent’s eye and smiled; Charles raised his glass in acknowledgement. A strained hush hung over the gathering, all the more pronounced for a guest occasionally attempting to strike up conversation which might engage the whole group: Pandora praised the consommé, and Colonel Haxby splashed a mouthful of claret around his gums and pronounced, ‘A decent drop of Bordeaux, Connaught.’