‘Who?’ asked Haldean.
‘Need you ask?’ said Preston. ‘Lyvenden, of course. My esteemed employer. God knows why your uncle invited him. If he knew half of what I know, he wouldn’t have him in the house.’
‘To be honest, Tim, I did wonder about it myself. I can’t say I took to him at lunch.’
That was an understatement. Even though Uncle Philip could get along with just about anyone on earth – chiefly by assuming everyone was exactly like himself – Haldean had been surprised by his uncle’s new acquaintance. Victor, Lord Lyvenden, was a tubby little arms and munitions manufacturer from Birmingham who had promised a firework display. Lord Lyvenden had arrived in state, complete with his wife, Lady Harriet, his wife’s companion, Mrs Strachan, his servants and workmen. That he’d also brought his secretary, Tim Preston, who knew both Haldean and Stanton and was a close friend of Malcolm Smith-Fennimore’s, was unexpected but welcome.
Haldean had caught the pained expression on Preston’s face as Lyvenden held forth to his unenthralled audience over lunch about how he’d helped the war effort and how, undaunted by the fact that there no longer was any war to help, he’d had the Foresight, Enterprise and Initiative to develop the fireworks part of his business, principally, according to him, to aid The Operatives Of The Leading Manufactories Of Our Sadly Depressed Industrial Heartland. The capital letters were clearly audible when Lord Lyvenden spoke. Haldean had to fight the urge to shout ‘Hear, hear!’
‘I suppose he does some sort of good by providing jobs,’ Haldean said to Preston doubtfully. ‘Homes fit for heroes, and all that.’
Preston leaned forward. ‘Don’t believe a word of it, old man. The only person Old Tubby wants to help is himself. He’s as mean as sin and I don’t believe he’s as successful as he likes to make out, either. There’s a lot of cheap arms kicking about nowadays, as you’d expect, and the bottom’s dropped out of the market. His peerage cost him a cool fifty thousand and you have to sell a lot of Roman candles to make up that sort of money. I think he’s struggling. That’s why he was so anxious to get on the board of Malcolm’s bank.?’
‘Malcolm’s bank?’
‘Yes. That was partly my fault. Lyvenden knew I knew Malcolm and made it his business to scrape an acquaintance. Before you could say “knife”, he was on the board. I warned Malcolm what he was like, but he pulled a long face and talked business at me. I suppose Malcolm knows what he’s doing, but I wouldn’t trust Lyvenden as far as I could throw him, I tell you,’ said Preston, drawing Haldean away from the swirling dancers, ‘if I don’t get another job soon, I’ll go crackers. Every damn time he sees me he has me running up to his blasted room for something. Lady Harriet’s forgotten her bag, so guess who has to go and fetch it?’
‘You?’ suggested Haldean with a grin.
‘Abso-ruddy-lutely,’ replied Preston with feeling. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure they couldn’t be overheard, ‘I’ve been up and down like the proverbial bride’s nightie. He’s awful to work for. I wrote three perfectly good letters for him this afternoon, all of which ended up in the waste-paper basket.’
‘You can’t blame him for wanting to get it right,’ put in Haldean.
Preston snorted. ‘Can’t I though! You don’t know what he’s like. As if that wasn’t enough, I picked up the wrong papers and he went bonkers. He’s neurotic about those papers. God knows what he got so worked up about. It was all in some sort of code and I couldn’t understand a word of it.’
Haldean looked doubtful. ‘It was in code, you say? To be fair, it might really be important. Doesn’t he have government contracts and what-have-you for his munitions works? After all, fireworks are only a sideline. The munitions stuff would have to be confidential.’
Preston gave another snort. ‘Confidential! Let me tell you, Jack,’ he said, steering him towards the door, ‘if I had any confidential documents, Old Tubby is the last person I’d trust them with.’ He cast another quick glance over his shoulder. ‘D’you know what I found the other day, mixed up with some quotes for cardboard sheeting? A love letter.’
‘A love letter? From Lady Harriet, you mean?’
Preston gave him a withering look. ‘No one gets love letters from their wife, Jack. Talk sense. No, this was from his latest armful, so to speak, Mrs Strachan, Lady Harriet’s so-called companion.’ Preston paused. ‘He pays her very well,’ he added meaningfully.
Haldean was stunned.’You don’t mean the Mrs Strachan who’s here, do you?’ Preston nodded gleefully ‘My God, Tim, he must be mad. If it got out he’d brought a . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I’d better call her his mistress, I suppose, to a house party, he’d be ruined.’
‘I know.’ Preston’s grin was infectious. ‘It’s not really done to arrive with a ready-made harem, is it? Especially one of the Queen of Hearts, so to speak. Finding someone on the spot’s different.’
Haldean laughed. ‘Don’t be coarse. Hesperus has never been somewhere to play musical bedrooms, but that’s above the odds anywhere. What the blazes is Lyvenden thinking of?’
‘God only knows. And look at her. She’s no scorcher, is she?’
Haldean glanced across the room to where Mrs Strachan was languidly sipping a glass of champagne. She was wearing a frilly apricot and white dress with ostrich feathers and looked like a dissolving wedding cake. ‘I hope to God my uncle never finds out. He’d blow a fuse.’
Preston smoothed back his sandy hair with a grin. ‘Shocking, isn’t it? She did start off as Lady H’s companion, that’s kosher enough. Old Tubby can’t keep his hands off the domestics – or anything else in a skirt, for that matter. I tell you, Jack, he’s not a nice man.’
‘Poor Lady Harriet.’
Preston sniffed. ‘Save your sympathy. If I were married to her, I’d want some time off myself. She’s a complete iceberg, a shocking snob and hates his guts as well. She’s the daughter of old Ballavinch, who went half dotty with horses and drink, and he married her off to the highest bidder. The title’s pukka, though, and that’s what Lyvenden was after. He wanted a posh wife who’d get him into society.’
‘Watch it!’ warned Haldean, catching sight of the red-faced Lord Lyvenden walking ponderously towards them. Preston swore and shot off down the room, leaving Haldean with the irate peer.
‘Was that Preston?’ puffed Lord Lyvenden. ‘Eh, boy?’
‘It was, sir,’ said Haldean smoothly. ‘I must apologize for holding him up.’
‘Hmm. When I ask for something to be done, I expect it to be done.’ Lord Lyvenden frowned at him. ‘It’s Hutchinson, isn’t it?’
‘Haldean, Lord Lyvenden. Jack Haldean.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Lord Lyvenden with satisfaction. ‘Rivers was telling me about you. You do murders, don’t you?’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Haldean, keeping his face straight with some difficulty. ‘I write about them, though. I write detective stories.’
‘Thought as much. I don’t read ’em myself. I’ve far too much to do.’ A crack of a firework sounded from outside and Lord Lyvenden frowned. ‘Did you hear that? It’s a good job I’m here otherwise it would all be a complete shambles. I’ve checked every item in that display myself. Every item, sir,’ he added, as if Haldean had been arguing about it. ‘You’d think the men would be capable of setting up a firework display but they’re not. They’d never get it right if I left them to it. Constant care, that’s my motto. Constant care and vigilance. Thank heaven you don’t have any responsibilities, boy.’ He nodded and strode away, the worries of the world heavy on his shoulders.
Haldean turned to find Isabelle at his shoulder.
‘Go and dance with Squeak Robiceux,’ she hissed. ‘Now!’
‘I want a drink.’
‘Not now, Jack. The poor girl’s waiting.’
Haldean turned to where Squeak Robiceux was standing. She looked lovely, if uncharacteristically nervous. Her fair hair was dressed with a pink ribbon embroidered with pearls that perfectly set off t
he pearls of her necklace and the pink and cream of her ballgown. She saw his glance and smiled, a quick, rather tentative smile. Haldean’s conscience bit him. Poor old Squeak must have spent ages getting ready and it wasn’t too much for the girl to expect someone to dance with her. He liked the Robiceux twins. They were old friends of Isabelle’s and she’d often told him how the virtually indistinguishable twins had enlivened the dull life of school. And now Squeak was on her own; it must be rotten for her, especially as she’d been so looking forward to the ball.
‘Of course I’ll dance with Squeak,’ he said. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
‘Good-oh.’ Isabelle turned as a man hovered respectfully beside her. ‘The next dance, Ronnie? That’s spoken for, I’m afraid.’ She flashed out a melting, if artificial, smile. ‘You can have the fourth one from now if you like.’
Ronnie Hawthorne coloured with pleasure. ‘I say, that’s awfully good of you.’
‘Not at all.’ She looked round to find Haldean still there and switched off the smile. ‘Please, Jack. You promised.’
Haldean duly danced.
It was a good three-quarters of an hour afterwards, during which he had Waltzed, Shimmied, Glided, Jog-Trotted and Missouri Walked, that Lady Rivers approached.
‘Jack, there’s a peculiar-looking man at the door,’ she said, drawing him away. ‘He’s asking for your Uncle Alfred and I can’t find him anywhere. I can’t ask Philip to help. He’s far too busy and the servants have all got their hands full. Will you take care of this man until we find Alfred? I can’t have him wandering all over the house and he didn’t seem to understand anything I said to him. He’s certainly not English. Goodness knows where Alfred came across him, but he’s definitely odd. I left him in the hall.’
‘I’ll see to him, Aunt Alice. Don’t worry.’
Haldean lit a cigarette and walked out of the brilliant, noisy ballroom into the empty, shadowy house, hearing the music fade behind him. His weak leg, a souvenir of the war, throbbed warningly and it was a relief to stop dancing for a while. He could feel quite grateful to Alfred Charnock’s visitor, no matter how odd. Almost by definition, any visitor for Isabelle’s Uncle Alfred could be described as odd. Alfred Charnock was Aunt Alice’s stepbrother, and, although well over forty, stalked through life like a lean panther with a dark, moody charm which he used to wind otherwise sensible women round his finger. Not only that, it was Charnock who had introduced Lord Lyvenden to Uncle Phil and that was probably his worst offence to date. He had been living at Hesperus for months now, having come to grief, so he said, in the City. And whatever scheme Charnock had been involved in, it was bound to be dodgy, Haldean thought uncharitably. There was a mysterious blank about what he’d done in the war, too. Isabelle had a typically romantic reason for his silence. Russia! And they’re still after him!
But there might, thought Haldean, pausing at the pillared doorway to the now deserted hall and summing up Charnock’s visitor, be some truth in the Russian story after all. For the man slumped on the settle was certainly a Slav. He had high cheekbones and hair so fair it was nearly white, and he wore knee-length boots and a short leather jacket which were obviously foreign. His age might have been anything from twenty-five to well over thirty. Haldean coughed and the man turned a pair of hard, pale blue eyes to his.
‘Al-fred Char-nock?’ The man picked over the syllables of the name carefully. ‘You are Al-fred Char-nock, yes?’
Before Haldean could answer, Charnock himself came down the stairs into the hall. He stopped short, then crossed to the settle, snapping out a sentence in a language Haldean didn’t understand. Although the meaning was obscure, the emotion was transparent. Charnock was furious. The Slav looked sullenly at the floor, spat, and gestured towards Haldean in the shadow of the doorway.
Charnock whirled, forcing a smile. ‘Jack! Been here long?’
Haldean shook his head. ‘I’ve just arrived. Aunt Alice asked me to take care of your visitor until you could be found.’
Charnock cocked his head and rapped out another sentence to the man, receiving a grunted reply. Then he relaxed. ‘Thanks, Jack. Good of you to bother. I’m going to have to go out for a while.’ He indicated the Slav. ‘This is an old friend of mine. I came across him in the war. He’s a bit up against it. I’ll have to go and see if I can get him a bed for the night. I won’t inflict him on Alice. She’s got enough to do and I don’t want to trouble her. Can you ask Egerton to leave the side door unbolted? I may be some time.’ Charnock rapidly escorted the man out of the front door, leaving Haldean to close it after him.
And what, thought Haldean, turning back to the ballroom, was all that about? Old friend be blowed. Old friends could be counted on to recognize one another and it was clear the Slav had not known Charnock. So who the devil was he? And why did Charnock want him out of the house so urgently? Giving Aunt Alice any trouble was something which had never bothered Charnock in the past. No. For some reason Charnock had been very anxious that Aunt Alice shouldn’t see any more of the man than was necessary. Why?
In the ballroom, Arthur Stanton was leaning by the door. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Hesperus reminded him of home before it had all been broken up and sold. He had lived twenty miles up the coast and was touched to find his father’s name still affectionately remembered. He took a great delight in the everyday conversations around him. No one had mentioned Flanders or the war or illness, just solid, ordinary things such as the weather and crops and dogs. He had a great yearning to be part of this world once more, with a house and some land and settled, reliable tasks in front of him and all . . . all that so firmly behind that he need never think of it again. Then Isabelle walked towards him and, as he saw her smile, contentment changed to delight.
She grinned at him conspiratorially. ‘Arthur, do you want to save a human life?’
Her smile was exhilarating. ‘That sounds rather a good idea. Whose?’
‘Mine.’
Stanton felt a glow of sheer pleasure. ‘I’ll say. What do I have to do?’
She leaned forward. ‘Meet me by the stone seat at the end of the terrace with some cigarettes and a cocktail. Make sure mine’s got plenty of gin in it. I’m going to die if I have to spend another minute in here.’ She turned as a cry of ‘Isabelle! My dear!’ sounded behind her. ‘Mrs Gavinthorpe!’ she said with every appearance of sincerity. ‘How lovely to see you again!’ She tipped him a wink as she swept away.
She’d chosen him. Not Jack or Tim or any of the other dozens of men in the ballroom or even Smith-Fennimore, with whom she’d danced far too often that evening, but him! He fetched the drinks, went out on to the terrace and took a deep breath as he saw her shadowy figure come towards him. The light and music of the ball spilling through the open french windows seemed distant and remote, as if they belonged to another world. A brilliant moon chequered the house and gardens in black and silver. A man laughed and the sound was far away.
‘Are those the cocktails?’ asked Isabelle, unethereally enough. She took a substantial drink and sighed. ‘Thank God for gin.’ She looked at his face and laughed. ‘Oh dear, I’ve shocked you.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Stanton, nettled. ‘I’ve seen you drink cocktails dozens of times.’
‘Ah yes, but that was in London and what goes on in London, so I’ve been told, won’t do here. Have you got a cigarette? Thanks. I need it.’
‘Whatever have they been bothering you about?’ asked Stanton. He sat beside her and lit her cigarette. ‘I’m sorry, they’re only gaspers. Shall I get you something else?’
She shook her head and put her hand on his arm. ‘No, don’t go. To be honest, I just wanted some time off. I’ve had to be so nice to so many people, it all got to be a bit of a strain. I’ve danced with at least three old relics of about ninety-six and been ever so polite, even though one smelt of snuff, one trod on my dress and the other told me about every ball he’d been to since the Crimea. At that point I saw you and thought of gin. I knew you’d
be a sport. Goodness knows where Jack’s got to and Tim’s spent the evening either glued on to Bubble Robiceux or running errands for Lord Lyvenden.’
Stanton coughed. ‘What about Smith-Fennimore?’ If there was an edge to his voice, she didn’t notice it. Her hand seemed to burn through the cloth of his sleeve.
‘Malcolm? I like Malcolm, but . . .’ She sipped her drink reflectively. ‘He’s difficult to relax with. I could never imagine being out here with him and simply having a drink and a cigarette.’ She looked at Stanton affectionately and squeezed his arm. ‘You’re different. You’re a very easy person to be with.’
There were so many mixed messages in this speech that Stanton baulked at working them out. He let the tangle of thought go and smoked in silence, feeling her warm presence beside him. He was afraid to break the spell and yet . . . An owl hooted in the distance and a rustle close by suggested it would not hunt in vain. Surely this was the moment? She’d said she felt happy with him.
Isabelle stood up and threw away the stub of her cigarette, watching it firefly into darkness. ‘I’d better be getting back, I suppose.’
The moonlight caught the nape of her neck, the skin of her shoulders and the delicate angle of her jaw. Stanton scrambled to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Please don’t go.’ As she turned to face him, her hand lightly holding his, his stomach turned to water.
‘Arthur?’ For once she looked absolutely serious and it made him, if possible, love her even more. ‘Arthur, please don’t.’
‘I’ve got to,’ he insisted. ‘I love you.’ He’d said it. He’d tried to say it for months. ‘I love you. There’s never been anyone like you, Isabelle. I’m asking you to marry me. You must know I love you.’ He reached out and touched her face with the palm of his hand. She said nothing, but looked at him with such compassion that he knew what her answer was. He strapped down the numbing feeling of desperation and stroked her cheek gently, pleading with his eyes. Slowly she shook her head and Stanton felt his world start to splinter round him.
Mad About the Boy? Page 2