Death Sits Down to Dinner

by Tessa Arlen

  “Could he have—?” Clementine rushed in, but Mrs. Jackson ever so politely lifted her hand from her lap to indicate that she was almost but not quite finished.

  “Here is the most interesting thing, m’lady. According to your timetable, Porter was outside in the area at about the time Sir Reginald was murdered, so if anyone got into the dining room through that window, then Porter would only have to look up to seen anyone climbing from the portico onto the dining-room windowsill. And this also means that Mr. Jenkins, who had been standing outside the dining-room door in the inner hall, left his post for as long as it took to go down to the servants’ hall and deal with Porter and then come back up again, something we did not know about before.” Mrs. Jackson having delivered this useful information sat back in her chair with a look that said, Ask me to do something and you can be sure that I do it well. And Clementine thought, Smug doesn’t come close to it.

  “Then this Porter fellow came to the house to engineer the death of, or to murder, Sir Reginald. Has he already disposed of Leonard Crutchley and then presented himself as from Gibson’s, complete with false references? Was he hired to murder Sir Reginald in this rather complicated manner? It’s hard to understand why anyone would want to murder a Goody Two-shoes like Sir Reginald, but what motive would a footman have?” Having written down all her notes, Clementine was still grappling with the concept that another dimension had been added to her investigation.

  “Indeed, m’lady, but how did he get into the dining room? He might have gone up the area steps to the pavement and then to the front door, stepped from there across to the dining-room window, murdered Sir Reginald, and then climbed back out of the window and returned the same way to the servants’ hall through the area. But somehow I think that would have taken longer than ten minutes, and he was standing in the area smoking a cigarette when Mr. Jenkins told him to get back upstairs, and why didn’t he close the window afterwards, when he went back upstairs?”

  “Because he didn’t have time, because Mr. Jenkins discovered the body before he could do that. I don’t somehow think…” Clementine thought about Adelaide Gaskell and her possible crime of passion. “Perhaps Miss Gaskell can shed some light on this, after all she was also running around the house at the same time as our clumsy footman, Eddy Porter; it doesn’t do to ignore her at this moment, now that Porter has emerged as the possible villain. Perhaps this Porter and Miss Gaskell are linked in some way.” Clementine, despite Mrs. Jackson’s belief that the young companion did not have the courage it took to murder Sir Reginald, was reluctant to let go of Miss Gaskell with those unaccounted-for minutes, and the torn photograph.

  “Oh good heavens, look at the time, I must run and take my bath. I’m off to the ballet with Lady Waterford and Mr. Greenberg as Lady Ripon’s guest, so I mustn’t be late. Looks like you still have your hands full at Chester Square, so carry on the good work.” Clementine rustled to her feet as Pettigrew came in from her dressing room with her evening gown over her arm, and seeing that she was still engaged with her housekeeper, she disappeared into the bathroom, which was cloudy with fragrant steam. Clementine just had time for her last instruction to Mrs. Jackson: “I think it’s time to get stern with Miss Gaskell, and if anyone can do it you can, but carefully, Jackson, carefully. If she is the murderess, she is certainly not what she seems. I really envy you, you know, I would give anything for two minutes with that young woman. How many days is it now until the charity evening, by the way?”

  “Three, m’lady. Miss Kingsley and Miss Gaskell are going to have to come out of their rooms by then.”

  “Hopefully before, Jackson.”

  And off Clementine went to soak in her bath and ponder the endless possibilities that cluttered up their inquiry involving bogus footmen, unlocked windows, and geriatric butlers. And Mrs. Jackson went back to the Montfort House servants’ hall for a cup of tea with Ginger before she left to chaperone her young charges to the Gaumont Picture Palace, and to hear exactly how that interesting young woman had come across such an incongruous culinary repertoire.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Clementine spent what turned out be an anxious evening at His Majesty’s Theatre and afterward decided that if she had to choose between an evening in the company of Constance Gladys Robinson, the Marchioness of Ripon, and the overactive Lady Cunard, both of whom numbered among Sir Thomas Beecham’s many current paramours, hands down it would be Maud Cunard. At least you could squash some of Maud’s more bullying and steamrolling traits, she thought afterward, whereas Gladys was like a powerful Eastern potentate from a fairy tale: splendid, implacable, and coolly assured that everything must go her way. And most certainly Gladys did not run around society referring to herself by her pseudonym, as did Maud, alias Emerald. Gladys did not run around at all. She was extraordinarily stately: easily six feet tall with marvelous deportment that made the energetic Maud with her tiny frame and her sharp features seem rather like a frantic hen.

  Mercifully unprepared for what was to come that evening, Clementine found herself seated on Gladys’s right in the best double box the house had to offer, second only to that of the royal box, which once again was completely dark. Clementine had been received with a languid smile and a gracious tilt of the head from the marchioness as she had indicated the seat that had been left vacant for her. As she took her place next to Gladys, Clementine was aware that she was among one of London society’s most fashionable cliques. She could only assume that her invitation came to her through their mutual friend Gertrude, Lady Waterford, who had greeted her arrival with a pleased smile as Clementine had taken her seat between her and the marchioness. She nodded to those she knew: Hartley Fairfax-Hunter and his beautiful wife’s best friend Lady Westmorland; the elegant Marque twins, first sons of Lord Acton Marque, twins in the family always muddled the line of succession; and the Princess Esterhazy. All gave her polite bows and smiled their good-evenings. The only people she knew well were Gertrude Waterford, and the ubiquitous Aaron Greenberg, who appeared to be on everyone’s guest list this year. As the curtain rose on the ballet, the lively chatter around her dropped to respectful silence; the marchioness would not tolerate conversation in her box during a performance unless she instigated it.

  Clementine, who was still reeling from her meeting with her housekeeper, spent the first part of the evening pondering the events at Chester Square as she idly watched the ballet. She remained absorbed in her thoughts until Nijinsky came onstage for his solo performances, when she allowed herself the luxury of paying attention.

  As always, she was completely mesmerized by the intensity of expression in the Polish performer’s dancing. Fashionable London ladies vied with one another to entertain the dancer at dinner parties and soirees, but Clementine refused to be drawn into the current fad among her more puerile middle-aged friends in forming a crush on the dancer. Nijinsky was clearly not a man who completely enjoyed the company of women, which made infatuation seem rather pointless. He was considered beautiful, and Clementine agreed that he was, but there was a disconcerting and rather feral look to him with his long muscular neck, on which was balanced a beautifully shaped head with a pale face, extremely wide cheekbones, and lips that were remarkably full. She had come to the conclusion, having once been introduced to the dancer, that there was something rather troubling about the expression in his eyes.

  Up until now Clementine had been enjoying herself, and had felt almost flattered that Gladys had invited her to share her box, as the Ripon circle was decidedly a far more stylish set than that of the Earl and Countess of Montfort. And when during the intermission Gladys particularly expressed the hope that she would see the Countess of Montfort at her ball at Claridge’s to welcome Nellie Melba back to London, Clementine had thought for one brief moment that she had become one of those women who were invited everywhere and had magically acquired a passport to cross all lines that separated the cliques that made up fashionable society. My goodness, she thought, as she gazed out across
the theater from the best box in the house, where will all this end up? If I keep straying from the tried and true I shall find myself sitting on a cushion on the floor of some uncomfortable little house in Bloomsbury discussing Postimpressionism with Roger Fry and sipping a glass of vodka.

  As Nijinsky finished his solo and bounded off the stage amid thunderous applause from the stalls, and the corps de ballet made their entrance the audience settled back to catch up on serious gossip. Gladys, without turning in her seat, said in her strange, one-note, flattened tone that seemed to come from the back of her throat, “Everyone is talking of nothing but Nellie Melba’s only recital in London at Hermione Kingsley’s charity evening at Chester Square. It will be such a coup for Miss Kingsley to host Miss Melba’s only appearance in London this winter. How is she doing, by the way?” Gladys lowered her opera glasses and turned her large, diamond-crowned head to gaze at Clementine, her cool eyes casting a quick assessing glance over Clementine’s dress, her fashionable hairstyle, and the exact sum her jewels would have fetched at auction. Clementine immediately understood that the marchioness knew of the murder at Chester Square and that she had been invited to sit next to her so that she might inform, as Hermione was still incommunicado.

  “She is very well, and in her usual way completely underplaying all the terrific work it takes to put on an evening of such importance for her charity,” Clementine replied, then she sent up a prayer that Mrs. Jackson was on top of everything and not neglecting this part of her duties.

  “I hope the poor old thing is not too exhausted by it all. I was going to suggest she move the occasion to Claridge’s, but Beecham says that the acoustics in Miss Kingsley’s salon are quite adequate. I am sure the evening will be a complete success.” And there it was, thought Clementine, as she caught the emphasis on the last word in Gladys’s otherwise unemphatic drawl: a warning to be communicated through her to Hermione. Gladys had somehow heard of the Chester Square debacle and she was making it clear that her famous and personal friend Nellie Melba, whom she had no doubt encouraged to sing at Hermione’s recital, must not be embarrassed in any way whatsoever. Gladys most certainly did not wish her reputation or her dear friends, the Princess Esterhazy and the dowager Queen Alexandra, who would, as Mrs. Jackson had already told her, be accompanying the marchioness to Chester Square, to be compromised in any way.

  Clementine had far too much information about the state of affairs at Chester House to be able to respond without her pulse rate increasing significantly. Both Miss Gaskell and Miss Kingsley had shut themselves up in their rooms, the butler was on the verge of a breakdown, and all the Montfort male servants had been commandeered for the charity evening as Miss Kingsley’s footmen were either dead or wanted by the police. She felt a flash of nervous panic at the thought of the charity evening going forward with all of London society invited to Chester Square and a murderer running loose in the house. What a mistake not to have worked harder on Hermione to postpone, she thought, and why was it always so damn hot in this place? Resisting the urge to open her fan to cool her cheeks, she sought to change the topic. But Gladys had not quite finished with her.

  “I hear that Veda Ryderwood is also to sing at the recital, a couple of duets with Miss Melba. Have you actually heard her sing?” Clementine heard in Gladys’s monotone the politest of suggestions, a well-bred query, the sort of inquiry someone floats up if you suggest a race between your talented but yet unheard-of two-year-old Thoroughbred against their three-time Derby winner. Clementine assured her that she had heard Lady Ryderwood sing and that her voice was quite superb—not as superb as that of Miss Melba, she hastily added—but still perfectly lovely.

  “Yes, I heard she was quite good. Beecham thinks highly, says she has the dramatic coloratura range reminiscent of Velma Moser. Do you remember her remarkable aria as ‘Queen of the Night’ when she was a young woman, such an intricately difficult song. I think she sang with the Munich opera. Or was it Milan or Moscow? It started with an M at any rate.” Clementine doubted if Gladys really knew who this singer was; she might be the doyenne of the Royal Opera and the woman who had brought the Russian Ballet to London, but she was really interested only in celebrating famous musicians and singers at extravagant parties, not actually listening to them perform. So she nodded and smiled as Gladys pressed relentlessly on, “I rather wonder if Lady Ryderwood might be a shade too pushing, don’t you?”

  Good heavens, thought Clementine, she is worried that Melba will be upstaged. Sir Thom can’t stand Nellie Melba and he’s putting the wind up Gladys about Melba’s private performance. Stop it, she told herself, this is ridiculous, you are getting things completely out of proportion.

  “Lady Ryderwood is a gifted amateur singer, Lady Ripon, honored to sing with Miss Melba; she is an unassuming young woman and her voice is quite delightful.” Her reassurances fell on deaf ears, as Gladys had heard talk and needed further information and was also taking more than a moment to caution.

  “Nonetheless, I do hope she will not try to overpower the evening—since I understand she has only just returned to London. It doesn’t do to thrust oneself forward. I hear she has been almost continuously in the company of some of our senior cabinet ministers: Sir Edward Grey, Winston Churchill … and, unfortunately, that dreadful Mr. David Lloyd George, isn’t that right, Gertrude?” This was said across Clementine.

  Lady Waterford turned her lovely green eyes toward the marchioness and frowned, refusing to be drawn into Royal Opera House politics, or politics of any kind. If anyone knew how to stop this terrifying interrogation in its tracks Gertrude did, thought Clementine. Her closest friend despised common gossip and always refused to participate.

  “It will be a pleasure to introduce Veda Ryderwood to you, Gladys.” Gertrude’s expression was neutral, her tone polite; she was not to be drawn. “She is a most unassuming woman and most likely feels quite overwhelmed by the thought of singing a song or two with Miss Melba. Her modesty is refreshing and I rather think it is for this reason that she is beginning to be invited everywhere.”

  Having effectively silenced Gladys, Gertrude turned back to not listening to Mr. Greenberg, and Clementine allowed herself a slow outward breath of relief. And then their attention was diverted completely by Nijinsky as he sprang onto the stage in a tremendous vertical leap and seemed to hang in the air for a moment to give everyone an opportunity to welcome him back in a storm of applause from the front row. Out of the corner of her eye Clementine noticed Gladys acknowledge this adulation with a queenly inclination of her handsome head, as if it was her the audience was applauding and not the dancer on the stage.

  * * *

  Clementine was particularly determined to find out more from Gertrude on this business of Lady Ryderwood and her apparent flirtation with a senior cabinet minister notorious for his pursuit of women. During supper at the Savoy she had the opportunity to do so.

  “Tell me more about Lady Ryderwood, Gertrude. I find her delightful company, but what can this be about her and Mr. Lloyd George?”

  “Oh it’s the usual stuff, Clemmy, people love to gossip and speculate, and she has returned to England after years of isolation in Spain or somewhere equally hideous. The poor thing has to run the gamut of every mean old spinster and unattractive widow. You know how it is.” Gertrude had pecked away at two tiny morsels of truffled foie gras and now sat back in her chair so that the waiter might take away her plate. Clementine resolved to tread carefully, Gertrude was the epitome of discretion and rarely repeated information, even if she spent her time with people who did. Her reputation in society was unsullied and she intended to keep it that way by never making enemies among those who were unsubtle enough not to keep their own affairs hidden from public scrutiny.

  “I didn’t for one moment think that she was involved with anyone, but Lady Ripon implied something otherwise,” Clementine persisted, and she put down her fork; if she never ate lobster salad again it would not be too soon, she thought.

  �
�Yes, and it’s always the way with that crowd. Scandal is what they mull over with the morning toast and marmalade. You always rather avoided them I thought.” There was a hint of reproof, as Gertrude expected her closest friend to remain above suspicion when it came to scandalmongering.

  “We were invited to Chester Square for Hermione’s dinner for Mr. Churchill. Sir Vivian Hussey and Maud Cunard were invited and it sort of went on from there. And of course Olive is so involved with the Royal Opera House.” Mentioning their mutual friend Olive Shackleton somewhat mollified Gertrude and she said, “Well, unfortunately, Lady Ryderwood was invited by Lady Cunard to a dinner party, and Lloyd George and our Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, were there and found her company perhaps a bit too intoxicating for Emerald’s taste.” She smiled as she mentioned Lady Cunard by her self-given name. “So I imagine that is where all this came from. Lady Ryderwood is lovely and has her own particular brand of quiet charm, and of course all the old hens are spitefully jealous. Sometimes I get quite sick of it all. But I can assure you, Clemmy, Lady Ryderwood is not romantically involved with Lloyd George, or otherwise.” Lady Waterford’s slender white shoulders shivered with distaste at the mere thought.

  Annoyed with herself for appearing to pry, Clementine decided that it didn’t take long for a steady diet of London society to pall. She almost wished she were back at Iyntwood setting out on a nice country walk with the dogs tomorrow afternoon, instead of attending yet another fitting at Lucile’s, where she must say no to the pretty pink dress that had garnered such disapproval from Pettigrew.

  * * *

  But Clementine did not go to Lucile’s salon in Hanover Square the next day after all, because she was invited to tea with Hermione Kingsley, who had at last emerged from her bedroom. And as Clementine soon found out, as they lifted their teacups and said no to diminutive cucumber sandwiches, Hermione was in the mood to confide.