The two pink rooms share an interconnecting bathroom, as do the two blue rooms, whilst the other three must make do with a separate bathroom at the end of the landing to share.
Rashid and I are a little underwhelmed. I, at least, was expecting grander bedchambers than these. These are what I would expect for staff, and yet they are quite clearly for guests.
We make our way back to the staircase. Major Simmons is climbing the stairs quite laboriously, very out of breath before he even gets to the top step. “I say, jolly bad show making us climbs all these bloody stairs to get to the bathroom,” he gasps when he finally reaches us.
I point along the passage that Rashid and I have just investigated. Now, I could have said that he could go into the first bedroom on the left, which is one of the blue rooms, and use the shared bathroom there, but I’m feeling a little mean. “The bathroom’s right at the end of the hall, on the right.”
Catching his breath, the Major gruffly thanks me, and staggers off in search of relief.
“That was a bit cruel,” Rashid chortles. “Good going.”
He raises his hand for a high five, which is a frivolous Americanism that I don’t much care for, and so I ignore it. Where did he pick up that habit, I wonder? In prison, perhaps, or during the war? Or perhaps from any of the dreadful American films that we are routinely subjected to in the picture houses in town? Wherever he picked it up from, he needn’t think I’m going to join in. I cannot abide the Americans. They are so smug and sanctimonious since helping us win the war.
“Well, he deserves it, I reckon,” I say a little more vindictively than my intention. “I mean, did you see the way he ate his food?”
Rashid nods emphatically. “And what about the way he drank a whole bottle of wine – on his own! No wonder he needs the bathroom.”
I agree. The Major will probably find one of the bedrooms and claim it for himself by collapsing fully clothed on the bed and surrender to the effects of the alcohol he has consumed.
Rashid motions me onwards, and we creep along the opposite passage to investigate the other wing.
Again we find two pairs of rooms with interconnecting bathrooms, each slightly more elegant and refined than those in the other wing. These rooms are obviously reserved for more personal guests – close friends and family, most likely.
And then the final door, which I half expect to be locked, opens into a sitting room with a luxurious leather settee of sumptuous ox-blood, and a matching pair of fireside chairs either side of the fireplace – which is already lit for the night. Moving through this sitting room, we come to the master bedroom itself. There are two other doors, which on investigation lead to a luxurious en-suite bathroom and a huge walk-in wardrobe, but it is the sumptuous bedroom that makes me catch my breath.
The whole room is designed to look like it’s come out of an ancient Egyptian palace. Every square inch is gilded and lacquered; Egyptian papyrus art adorns the walls, and ornate effigies of Egyptian Gods stand guard. The massive four poster bed is a triumph of style and comfort.
The room could have bordered on tasteless, I guess, but I absolutely love every inch of it. The far wall is comprised solely of louvered shutters that fold back to reveal wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling glazed doors that open onto a verandah that, facing East, and getting no shade from any obstructions, must be glorious in the morning. I can picture waking up here with the sun blazing through, and hearing the waves crash far below.
Tranquility, pure and simple.
Except for the tempest outside currently doing its damndest to ruin the atmosphere.
“I see you have found my little palace.”
I start at the voice from behind, and turn to find Waterfield has followed us into the room. “It’s simply stunning,” I say, able to keep neither awe nor jealousy from my voice. “I take it this room faces East?”
Waterfield nods, pride self-evident upon his face. “This is my favourite room in the whole house. I can sit in here reading or writing my poetry, filled with calm and inspiration, and lose myself completely in the solitude. From this room, I cannot hear anything from anywhere else in the house, so even with other house-guests I won’t be disturbed. The balcony hangs directly over the east cliff face, so even people in the gardens won’t disrupt my peace.”
“Why do you live in such a large house, all alone?” I ask casually.
Waterfield’s face is etched with a deep sadness and he sighs, almost wistfully. “It is to remind me of all that I have lost, and of just how alone I am in this world.”
I open my mouth to question him further, but Rashid says with rude abruptness: “You certainly like to surround yourself with beautiful things.”
His voice is filled with envy, and I am alarmed by his tone. I know only too well what envy can drive a man to. Hasn’t Rashid already admitted to me that he’s been in prison for attempting to rob our host once before. It seems that there are an increasing number of objects in this house that the ex-burglar would like to get his hands on.
Waterfield merely smiles, although I can see there’s a little trepidation to the expression. “I really wouldn’t try anything, Mr Rashid. Remember what happened the last time?”
“It’s Monsieur Rashid, if you please. And yes, I remember only too well. Betrayal is not something one forgets in a hurry, Cuthbert!”
There’s an undertone of resentment to Rashid’s words, and I cannot help wondering whether there is more to the previous robbery attempt than I’m aware of.
“If we’re going to be picky about names, Monsieur Rashid, then you should call me Mister Waterfield.”
I feel the animosity prickling through the air, and suddenly wish I were elsewhere. I don’t know where – in fact, I don’t care where – just anywhere rather than in the same room as these two men, whose hatred for one another has suddenly become palpable and none too palatable.
It can’t all be to do with Rashid’s previous conviction. There’s something else going on here, and I’m not sure if I want to be a party to it. I motion towards the door. “I think I’d better rejoin the others.”
I make a move to leave, but Waterfield blocks my way. “No, please stay. Mr Rashid is just leaving us, aren’t you?” He glowers at Rashid, who doesn’t dare respond. The Arab leaves, and once through the sitting room, we hear the door slam shut.
Waterfield turns to me, filled with apologies. “I really cannot abide that odious little man,” he says, walking over to the window to re-fold the shutters, closing out the storm.
Not knowing what to make of the situation, I merely say: “Think nothing of it, Mr Waterfield.”
Waterfield turns sharply. “Oh, but I do think something of it. That man is not someone I would ever have invited into my home. His actions have always been most reprehensible, and it would seem his words are equally distasteful. The man has no respect for the opinions of others, nor for their belongings.”
I nod in agreement. “He told me that he wants all treasures to be available for the public to view freely.”
Waterfield laughs. “Is that what he says? He’s either delusional, and actually believes that’s why he burgles people, or he’s a mad liar. I’m not sure which, but he has never once given away anything that he has stolen. I had to go to court to get back the things he stole from me. Can you believe it! He was caught red-handed in the act of burgling my house, and had the temerity to claim that some of the things found in his possession were his. He said they were promised to him by my brother.”
There’s anger in Waterfield’s voice that is accompanied by a great sadness at the mention of his brother. “I’m sorry,” I say softly, “but I was under the impression that you weren’t overly fond of Herbert. He tried to rob you as well, after all. But why would he promise things to M. Rashid?”
Waterfield sighs, and walks me back through to the sitting room, where he motions me to sit in one of the fireside chairs. I find it exceptionally comfortable and cozy beside the roaring fire. I feel almost at hom
e here.
My host sits in the chair opposite me, and reaches onto the table beside his chair, where he lifts a framed photo. The picture is somewhat faded with age and creased, but when he hands it to me, I see a happy family group gathered in a country garden. There’s a mother and father seated in chairs, and in front of them kneel three boys.
“This was taken more years ago than I care to admit,” Waterfield says in his sad voice. “It was just at the beginning of the First World War, in much happier times. Shortly after this was taken, my father was sent off to fight in the trenches, where so many never came back.”
I can hear a bitterness creeping into Waterfield’s voice to match the sadness. “I take it he didn’t return?” I say, probing gently.
Waterfield shakes his head. I can tell that this is a difficult topic, and I’m a little touched that he’s telling it to me, a complete stranger. But perhaps it’s easier to say it to someone he doesn’t know. He is acquainted with the others downstairs, and there’s no love lost between any of them.
“He was killed within a month of going to fight for King and Country. My poor mother never got over his death. She had the unenviable task of bringing up three teenage boys who were not quite old enough to go off to war, but who each wanted to do their bit to avenge their father’s death.”
“Your mother was very pretty, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Waterfield wipes his eyes. “Thank you. She kept us close to her side following Father’s death. It had a profound effect on all of us. She wouldn’t let us out of her sight, and each of us began to resent her in our own way. Of course, something had to give, and that something was Herbert.”
“Was that when he turned to crime?”
Waterfield nods. “Yes, it was. The shame Mother felt at having a son behind bars was another thing that she never got over. She died a broken-hearted woman shortly before the outbreak of the Second World War. Thankfully she didn’t live to witness the death of her favourite son.”
“Albert?”
“Yes. I see that you have already heard some of this tale.”
“Yes. Herbert pointed him out in the stained-glass above the staircase.”
Waterfield smiles. “I thought it appropriate to commemorate us all in this house. There is a stained-glass window of Mother and Father in the library.”
“Why do you dislike Herbert so much?” I ask, intrigued by the sad family history.
“Because he came home from the war and Albert didn’t.” He looks into my eyes. “If anyone should have died out there in France it should have been Herbert, not Albert. And then when the war was over, one day Ahmed Rashid turned up on my doorstep, dressed in his Foreign Legion getup, and told me that he’d been there when Albert died and that my brother had promised him a certain something that was in my possession.”
“And what would that be?”
Waterfield doesn’t respond to my question. He instead continues with his tale. “I didn’t believe him about Albert, of course. Both Herbert and Major Simmons were in the same Regiment as Albert at the time of his death, and neither one ever mentioned an Arab man from the Foreign Legion in their midst. I think they might have done, don’t you? In passing, if nothing else. He would have been a bit of an oddity, don’t you think?”
I have to agree. I imagine what I would have written home about if I’d been out there, and someone like Rashid, who would have stood out like a sore thumb, would most definitely have been on my list.
“So Rashid lied to you?”
“Or Herbert and the Major did. I never really worked out who told the lie, but I rather think it was Mr Rashid.”
“So what happened when you told Rashid that you wouldn’t give him this item he said had been promised to him?”
“That was when he tried to rob me. That was when he went to prison, and whilst he was in there, he met Herbert.”
“Who’d also tried to rob you?”
“Indeed.”
“What did they try to steal from you?”
Waterfield takes back the framed photograph, placing it lovingly back on its original resting place beside his chair. In spite of the animosity between the pair, it’s clear there is a bond still there.
“Rashid tried to steal the Fabergé egg. He’d said it was what he’d been promised by Albert. Herbert tried to steal our grandfather’s pocket watch.”
I cannot help but frown. “What’s so special about this pocket watch?”
Waterfield shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “I really couldn’t say, because it’s not in my possession?”
“It’s not?” I touch my belly absentmindedly, then scratch more vigorously to be rid of the imagined itch.
“No. It never has been. I can remember Grandfather having a pocket watch, but I don’t remember there being anything particularly special about it. Father inherited it when Grandfather passed away, and as the eldest, it passed to Albert when Father was killed. As far as I can remember, it was damaged, and I don’t know if Albert ever had it fixed.”
“So who has it then, if not you?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t amongst Albert’s things when he came back from the war. I suppose he might have left it with his widow before he went to war.”
I am intrigued at his mention of a widow. “Albert was married?”
Waterfield nods. He picks up another photo and hands it to me. “That’s Albert’s widow, Annie.”
The photo is of a happy couple on their wedding day. I look up at Waterfield, my face a mask of incredulity. “But, that’s not Albert in the photo with her. It’s you!”
Waterfield nods. “It is. We were married a couple of years after Albert’s death.”
“You married your brother’s widow? It’s that a bit – I don’t know – sick?”
“She fell in love with me, and I always loved her.”
“So where is she now?”
Waterfield snatches back the clearly precious photo, tears falling as he touches the beautiful bride in the picture. “She died,” he says, so sad that I’m on the verge of tears too. “She died before her time. She was killed – possibly by someone downstairs.”
“So you did send the invites!”
Waterfield shakes his head emphatically. “No. That’s the queer thing. I honestly didn’t invite any one of you!”
“So who did?”
“Who indeed!”
CHAPTER NINE
Having had semi-guided and un-guided tours of the upstairs, Waterfield escorts me like a criminal back down to the others, who are gathered once more in the drawing room. The overhead lights continually flicker as the electricity wavers due to the storm that rages outside.
“Are we in danger of being plunged into darkness, Cuthbert?” asks Dr Runcible in a tone of annoyance. I guess he doesn’t like being without light. We’ve all grown so used to electricity that most have forgotten what it’s like to be without it.
I haven’t forgotten, though. My grandparents lived way out in the middle of the Scottish countryside, and at the time of their deaths our little cottage had neither gas nor electric power. We lived by candlelight and oil lamps, and had a fabulous solid-fuel range in the tiny kitchen which practically heated the cottage on its own without the need for the log fires in each room – except in the winter when it grew so cold that the windows would quite often have frost on the insides, and the water in my bedroom ewer would have a thin surface layer of ice.
I have since grown accustomed to the luxuries of what some might consider more civilized society, but I never take such things for granted, even now. Even with the storm raging outside, it won’t bother me if the lights go out. There’s enough illumination from the fireplaces to enable us to get around the room; besides which, Waterfield seems to have a plentiful supply of oil-filled lamps around the house.
“West Cliff House has its own generator to power the electric lights,” he says, and, echoing my thoughts: “And there are oil lamps in every room as well, so fear not.”
The sense of relief in the others is palpable. They are infantile in their fear of the dark. Electric power is supposedly the way forwards, and yet to me it seems that we now rely on something that’s actually altogether too unreliable.
My current London home has all the trappings of modern life, but at times I yearn for a simpler way of life. This house, as wonderful as it might be, reminds me of a bygone era. It transcends the old and the new in a quite marvelous way, and I must admit that it’s a house I could easily get used to living in, even without all the rich excesses.
The lights flicker some more and in fact go out momentarily, to a collective gasp from the group, who then sigh with relief when the lights come back on almost instantly. If this is to be the behavior this evening, then I think perhaps it’s time to retire for the night. I glance surreptitiously at my watch – it reads just before nine. I cannot believe that we have been here for three hours already. Such speedy passage of time is an indication to me of getting old but at least it doesn’t indicate boredom.
I might be in a minority, but I am seldom troubled by boredom. Even when there’s little to occupy my time physically, my mind drives me ever onwards with a tumult of thoughts and notions that I don’t care to share with others. I like my private inner monologue. It keeps me company on lonely nights, but at times it drives me mad when in the company of others. It’s a distraction, to be sure, but at least I can honestly say I have never been bored.
“Might we be shown to our rooms, do you think?” I ask with a yawn.
“Are you bored with our company already?” says Runcible with a soft chuckle.
I shake my head no. “Actually, I’ve been up since very early this morning. It’s been a long and trying day, and I’d quite like to rest my head for a while, if that’s all right?”
Waterfield nods sympathetically, but the expression on his face tells a different story. He’s probably annoyed that I didn’t say this when we were upstairs. Having just walked me down, he’s now expected to show me back up to whichever room he decides to allocate me like the consummate host I know him to be. He won’t leave it to chance. He’ll have been thinking all evening of which room to put each one of us in.
Seven Steps to Murder Page 5