Death Sits Down to Dinner

by Tessa Arlen

  “What were you telling me about Maud Cunard the other day, Olive?” Olive Shackleton spent most of her time in London when her husband was in Thebes on his archaeological dig, and was far more au courant with London’s more salacious gossip than Clementine was. “She was at dinner with us the other night, I could only suppose it was because of her success in drumming up funds for the opera house. Hermione was possibly hoping Lady Cunard would divert a little toward the Chimney Sweep Boys.” Clementine had been surprised to see Maud Cunard at Chester Square, as Hermione though well connected was hardly considered fashionable.

  “Not remotely possible, real acts of philanthropy are not Maud’s strong suit. She has taken to inviting her friends to call her Emerald, by the way.” Clementine immediately thought of her cook Ginger. What, she wondered, is the appeal of concocting a persona by renaming oneself?

  Olive went on, “She’s made short work of London; it has become chic to be invited to her salon. Everyone goes, at least once. But it is not for the fainthearted. Maud loves to serve people’s frailties up for luncheon as a special treat. Asquith actively discourages his senior ministers from going to her parties, after she put Sir Edward Grey completely on the spot about foreign policy. She actually made the poor man admit that whether he liked it or not, his hands were tied by the terms of the Entente Cordiale when he muffed things so badly in the Agadir Crisis. I try to stay clear of her, and so should you, Clemmy, she can be positively dangerous. Ambition doesn’t come close to describing … and I think Sir Thom,” Olive was an old and intimate friend and she giggled as she used the Talbot’s pet name for Lady Cunard’s lover, “is rather scared of her. He does, by the way, have a bit of a thing about…” She nodded toward the Marchioness of Ripon, who was seated in a box across the opera house.

  “Everyone has a bit of a thing about Lady Ripon. Perhaps it’s her height.” The Marchioness of Ripon was easily six feet tall, always splendidly dressed and extraordinarily charismatic. “I thought Maud was done for after that business with the window cleaner.” Clementine remembered the unfortunate incident of Sir Thom and Maud Cunard caught in flagrante by a window cleaner at her husband’s country house, Neville Holt, threatening scandal for months.

  “Oh good heavens, yes, so did I.” Olive shook her head in silent laughter. “What a to-do! Can you believe the man—he was a laborer from the estate, not a window cleaner—saw them both tucked up together as clear as day. If it wasn’t for Bache Cunard’s immense influence in squashing that newspaper story, Maud would be twiddling her thumbs on the Continent somewhere, just like poor old Daisy Warwick.” Everyone understood that infidelity, one of the unrecognized pastimes in society, if kept under wraps was acceptable, but revealed to the world in newspapers or divorce courts was quite unpardonable and resulted in the culprit’s being ruthlessly excised from society, until it chose to forget.

  Clementine watched Maud Cunard making the social round and realized that by the end of the night everyone in London would know of Hermione’s calamitous party for Mr. Churchill. Another thought occurred to her: Maud was an observant woman, who understood human nature well. Clementine made a mental note to see if she might glean some of her observations on the night’s events at Chester Square.

  The muted murmur behind her grew in intensity and glancing over her shoulder she was pleased to see her husband was still immersed in conversation with Mr. Greenberg, who appeared to be explaining something of great interest. Every so often Ralph would nod slowly with his lips pursed, a sign he was being extra attentive.

  Clementine had met Mr. Greenberg on many occasions and had found him intelligent and well read, a thoughtful and considering man with the careful, cultivated manners of an arriviste, albeit one with an established provenance, as Mr. Greenberg had been a close friend of the late king. He is one of those men, she thought, who enjoys society to its fullest extent, but never betrays a confidence and is always ready to play the role of financial adviser. Neither was Mr. Greenberg ever seen to embrace the vulgar or outré interests of the more jaded members of the exceedingly rich. He was a paragon of restraint and virtue. And he had to be, she realized. Aaron Greenberg was welcomed into society—everywhere. He was gifted with the ability to recognize a potentially lucrative investment and so was on everyone’s guest list, but Aaron Greenberg was not of society nor ever would be. No matter how many august families invited him to dine, to shoot, to dance and flirt decorously with their wives and daughters, there his connection with them ended. He might watch his Thoroughbred win the Derby, sail his yacht at Cowes, and singlehandedly fund the opera season after season. He might well be taken into the confidence of princes, dukes, and earls, even kings, but as a Jew he could not marry one of their daughters. Clementine, as the mother of an unwed daughter, thought it was regrettable that race counted for so much, and it was certainly an indication of how hidebound the English aristocracy continued to be—even those of them who were still struggling to support estates that had leached their fortunes decades ago. But having been brought up in India, that outpost of the British Empire where race and religion set unbreakable lines among the three million people the British referred to loosely as Indians, she knew only too well the cultural and societal importance of not breaking caste.

  There was a smattering of applause that gradually grew in strength as Sir Thomas Beecham strode out into the front of the opera house. He stopped and glanced up at the royal box, but as always it was dark. What a disappointing king George has turned out to be, Clementine thought; he is probably busy spending the evening sticking stamps in his album, before retiring for the night at ten o’clock. She felt a stab of nostalgia for dear old Bertie, who never missed an opening night, always accompanied by the beautiful wife of one his closest friends and a lively procession of coming and going amid clouds of cigar smoke and laughter, before he discreetly disappeared during the entr’acte.

  Sir Thomas bowed his head and waited before them to be feted. He bowed again and the applause grew. Satisfied with his welcome, he walked down into the orchestra pit and inclined his head toward his first violinist, to be rewarded by more applause. Finally, taking his place at his conductor’s podium, he turned once more for a final round of adulation before he picked up his baton and with arms extended turned toward his orchestra, inviting them to stand and acknowledge the house.

  “Great heavens, is he ever going to play?” murmured Olive Shackleton, who had been in love with Sir Thom for years and had almost given up on him, being neither young enough, beautiful enough, nor rich enough for the great impresario. And great impresario he most certainly was, Clementine thought, as she watched him nod his handsome head at the adoration he expected to receive. Undoubtedly a fine musician and tremendously gifted, he was also rich enough to have his own symphony orchestra and he held absolute sway over both His Majesty’s Theatre and the opera house. He also held absolute sway over the hearts of many of its financial contributors too. Successful and handsome as he was, Sir Thom was not to Clementine’s taste; she disliked conceited men and though she admitted that he had immense charm and could be tremendous company, she preferred men who appeared to be disinterested in their appearance and if they flirted did so with dignity.

  Veda Ryderwood, sitting quietly on Clementine’s right, fixed her large dark eyes on the stage, her lovely face expectant, her hands resting quietly in her lap, waiting. The murmured voice of Mr. Greenberg behind Clementine stopped its instructive conversation and said, “Ahhh,” in anticipation. Out of the corner of her eye Clementine noticed that Mr. Greenberg had fixed his attention forward, whereas her husband had settled back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest and chin dropped down onto the starched front of his boiled shirt.

  The curtain rose on an elaborate version of a traditional wood-framed Japanese house, with paper walls and a blue-tiled roof, set amid a garden frothing in pink cherry blossoms and suffused with golden light from a glowing backdrop of Mount Fuji at the peak of a splendid sunset. There was a deep sigh
from Lady Ryderwood, probably not in appreciation of the splendors of the set but because Enrico Caruso had strolled onto the stage, dressed in an American navy uniform with his hat tucked under his arm.

  Despite his girth, or perhaps because of it, Caruso was, thought Clementine, undoubtedly impressive. She lifted her opera glasses and along with several hundred other women examined the handsome, dark features of the famous tenor as he stood center stage to bask in their approval. She glanced again at Veda Ryderwood and saw on her face such wonder and reverence that she felt a small shiver, which intensified as Caruso filled his powerful lungs and the opera began.

  As Butterfly’s tragic story of enduring faith in a man who has every intention of abandoning her unfolded, Clementine found her mind wandering at times between arias. She found the set and costumes both sumptuous and exotic, and there were parts of the opera that were extraordinarily moving, but she privately agreed with her husband that sometimes it was hard to keep up with what was going on, especially when everyone sang together at once. And although Luisa Tetrazzini’s voice was remarkable in its power and thrilling tone, her short, buxom figure simply wasn’t set to its best advantage in a kimono, especially with that large, flat bow-tie arrangement in the back.

  As Tetrazzini began her aria “One Fine Day,” Clementine found herself comparing her quality with that of Lady Ryderwood the other evening, and decided that she preferred Lady Ryderwood’s version. There had been more determination and thrust to Lady Ryderwood’s performance, she thought. Lady Ryderwood’s Butterfly would never give up on reuniting with her errant husband, whereas she felt Tetrazzini’s Butterfly was lying down somewhat on the job and was all for throwing in the towel.

  Then, with the shocking suicide of Butterfly, which left the audience feeling breathless and some of the less sophisticated in tears, the opera ended in a storm of applause from the stalls, as those in the dress circle and boxes turned to one another, patting gloved hands together politely, smiling and nodding their approval, most of them already thinking about their champagne and lobster salad for supper.

  It took a while before Lady Shackleton’s party actually left the opera house. There were so many little farewells to be made, and Clementine sensed that her husband was not only hungry but bored with waiting. She put her hand on Lady Ryderwood’s arm and said, “Should we leave for the Savoy now? I think Lady Shackleton still needs to talk to a few people.”

  Aaron Greenberg must have felt the same because he was holding out Lady Ryderwood’s opera coat for her, and Olive Shackleton, who was stuck like a burr to Lady Busborough’s side, must have noticed them wrapping themselves up, because she said, “Oh yes, do go on. We won’t be long, we just need to…” And once again she was drawn into another group of exclaimers, all chattering brightly and gathering around Lady Cunard like moths to the flame. This gave Clementine the opportunity to say something to Maud Cunard about recovering from the upheavals and shocks of the last time they had met, hoping to draw her in. But Maud turned a blank face to her, thin brows arched in surprise, and after staring vacantly at her for a moment drawled, “I had a perfectly lovely evening, Lady Montfort. What an extraordinary voice Lady Ryderwood has, you would think she sang for a living.” And having delivered both a barb and a snub, she turned back to join her group of friends.

  How interesting, thought Clementine, someone has made an indelible impression on Maud Cunard about the importance of not discussing Sir Reginald’s murder. Of course we were all warned off, but I thought Maud Cunard was irrepressible. What a surprise.

  * * *

  Supper at the Savoy was far from fun as Lord Montfort put his foot down and declined an invitation to join the Marchioness of Ripon’s larger party. The six of them took a table on the edge of things but with a good view of the fashionable world at supper.

  They were joined by Lady Shackleton and Clarence Tavistock, and right behind them was Sir Thomas Beecham, urbane and consciously unaware that all eyes in the dining room had turned to him. On his arm was Lady Ripon, who positively towered over him; dazzling and glossy, her flawless white shoulders and magnificent bosom were perfectly displayed by a garnet-red dress that clung to the edges of her superb figure. As they passed, a flurry of talk and excited whispers followed them.

  Goodness me, thought Clementine, how exhausting it must be to be so sought after and invited everywhere.

  And then turning in her chair she found Mr. Churchill standing at her elbow, bowing and smiling and saying dear lady.

  But it was not for Clementine that he had come to their table. As soon as he had greeted her, and he did so with his habitual expansive geniality, he took Lady Ryderwood’s hand in his and bent over to kiss it, unashamedly showing off his balding crown.

  Interesting, thought Clementine, as she took this in. It seems Lady Ryderwood has a distinct crush on Mr. Churchill, or maybe it’s the other way around. I hope she is aware how fierce Mrs. Churchill is about these little things. She took in the rosy flush to Lady Ryderwood’s cheeks and noticed that her large, dark eyes were quite brilliant as she looked up at the man bending over her chair.

  Lady Ryderwood was too restrained in manner to behave like an obvious flirt. During her brief conversation with Mr. Churchill she turned her head up to look at him and listened gravely without a trace of affectation to what he had to say. But her responses were made with emphasis, and she looked directly into Churchill’s eyes, her own bright and alive with interest. Clementine was impressed. There is certainly a difference between flattering a man with ready laughter and breathless chatter and the direct, unswerving interest that Lady Ryderwood is bestowing. And it had its effect. Mr. Churchill eventually straightened up with demonstrable reluctance and must have said something amusing, because Lady Ryderwood opened her delighted mouth and laughed, showing pretty white teeth. And then with her characteristic composure she said good night to Mr. Churchill and turned to Lord Montfort as she lifted a glass of champagne and took a sip.

  Clementine transferred her attention to Mr. Greenberg, who was seated to her right. He was such an unpretentious man, with an agreeably light and playful manner, that she found it easy to enjoy their chitchat about the opera: whether Sir Thomas would ever welcome Nellie Melba to sing at Covent Garden again, and if he did, would she accept?—since their feud was of a long-standing and bitter nature. When they had finished with this diverting topic, she thought it time to direct their conversation to what had happened on the night of Hermione’s dinner party.

  “It must have been the most terrible thing to discover, Lady Montfort.” There was no prurient interest but genuine sympathy from Mr. Greenberg when she referred to the untimely and shocking death of Sir Reginald.

  “Yes, it was actually, quite awful. The image is beginning to fade, but…” She lifted her hands palm-upward in resignation. “There are other parts of the evening that I find have stuck quite vividly in my mind and others that are a complete blank, which makes the experience rather disconnected and troubling. Do you mind if I ask you something about that time? You see, I find if I talk about it a little, it takes away some of the dread.” She waited to be snubbed, but Mr. Greenberg, although no doubt cautioned as they had all been not to gossip, played by his own rules.

  “No, I completely understand.” He took an oyster, neatly lifted it off its shell and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes briefly and said, “North Sea, Orkney probably; always so much brinier than those from the south coast.”

  “Is there a discernible difference?” She took an oyster. “I can never tell.”

  “Yes, a considerable difference; try eating them without the mignonette, or lemon or all those other bits and pieces, then you will taste the oyster. Now what were you saying about the other evening?” He consumed several oysters with his eyes closed and then opened them and turned courteously to her.

  “Well, when you left the dining room the other night, can you remember where everyone was, all the men I mean?”

  “No, not r
eally, but I will try. I think your husband, Sir Henry, and that young flying officer walked straight up the stairs to join you in the salon. I know Mr. Churchill hurried off to the library to use the telephone; he was the first to leave us. And Captain Vetiver stayed behind in the dining room to talk to Sir Reginald. I spent a little time in the hall with Sir Vivian Hussey, he wanted to talk about Royal Opera House business; have you any idea how expensive that place is to run? It’s outrageous…”

  Clementine did not want to hear about the Royal Opera House or its business, as she had spent nearly three hours in it and that was more than enough.

  “But you didn’t talk to Sir Vivian for long, because he came into the salon after my husband.”