by Clara Benson
‘How do you do?’ she said, with a touch of reserve which did not escape her daughter. ‘You must be Mrs. Marchmont. I am Lady Strathmerrick.’
‘Hallo, Angela, I’m so pleased you could come,’ said Gertie. ‘Mother, now I insist that you be kind to my friends. They’re not all dissipated inebriates, you know. Many of them—perhaps even most—know perfectly well how to behave in polite company.’
A pained look passed fleetingly across Lady Strathmerrick’s face at Gertie’s blunt insistence on making public what had been said in private, but she affected not to notice the inference.
‘Have you met Mr. and Mrs. Nash?’ she said.
‘Oh yes, we’re old friends,’ said Angela.
‘Indeed?’ said Lady Strathmerrick in surprise. She seemed to unbend slightly at this discovery.
‘Do come and have a cocktail,’ said Gertie, rather contradicting her previous statement. ‘Or there’s tea if you’d prefer.’
Angela thought it politic to take the safer course. ‘I should love some tea,’ she said with more enthusiasm than she really felt, and was rewarded with an approving glance from the Countess.
‘Is Gabe here?’ said Aubrey Nash.
‘Yes, he arrived a little while ago,’ said Lady Strathmerrick. ‘He’s shut up in the study with my husband and the gentleman from the civil service but they should be along shortly. The rest of us are in the West drawing-room.’
She led them out of the entrance-hall and into a long, brightly-lit gallery bordered on one side by windows that presumably looked onto the garden, although given the near-darkness outside, it was difficult to tell. Along the wall of the gallery hung portraits of twenty generations of McAloons and their consorts and children, as well as one or two portraits of Kings and Queens that Angela remembered as having seen in books.
Gertie was talking brightly, nineteen to the dozen. She appeared to be on her best behaviour and Angela guessed that her mother had given her a stern talking-to in advance of the party’s arrival.
‘Most of the formal rooms are shut up in winter,’ she was saying. ‘They’re dreadfully cold and damp pretty much all year, except in the height of summer, and they’re just not worth heating up except when we have a really large party. The ball-room will be opened up tomorrow, though, for the dance.’
‘The dance?’ said Angela.
‘Oh yes,’ said Gertie. ‘Every year at Hogmanay we hold a dance for the servants and the tenants and anyone who cares to come from the village. It’s all great fun. Everybody stuffs themselves and jumps about and has a jolly good time, and all the young men fight over who gets to dance with Priss. She hates it but has to put a brave face on it and pretend she’s enjoying herself.’
‘It sounds delightful,’ said Angela. ‘I shall look forward to it.’
They now entered a large, comfortable drawing-room which was evidently the one favoured by the family, for it had the air of being well-used. Although it was smart and tastefully decorated, Angela noticed that the carpet was somewhat worn, and that some of the chairs and sofas sagged a little. One armchair was firmly occupied by an elderly retriever, who evidently considered it to be his rightful property: he made no attempt to move as the guests arrived, but merely cocked an eye and an ear at them and carried on with his nap.
A young man with a complacent demeanour rose from a sofa as they entered, and stood to polite attention. This was Claude Burford, whom Angela remembered hearing of as a rising politician. He shook hands with her, and Angela had the strangest feeling that he was looking at her and attempting to gauge whether or not she was a person of any importance. Evidently he was unable to decide, for a frown of puzzlement crossed his face briefly, which pleased her, since she much preferred not to be so easily read.
‘This is my eldest daughter, Priscilla,’ said Lady Strathmerrick.
‘Hallo, Mrs. Marchmont,’ drawled Priss, not bothering to stand up. She was both exquisitely beautiful and exquisitely bored and made no attempt to hide the fact. The Countess gave her an exasperated glance but said nothing.
‘Claude and Priss are going to be married,’ said Gertie. ‘Isn’t that right, Priss? I’ll bet you can’t wait for the wedding, can you? Won’t it be fun to be a politician’s wife?’
Priss glared at her younger sister but did not respond to the needling. Instead, she said, ‘Give me a cigarette, Claude, will you?’ The young man gave her a meaningful look, and she sighed and said sulkily, ‘Oh, very well, I shan’t, then.’
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘You know how the constituents hate to see a woman smoking.’
‘The constituents aren’t here, though, are they?’ said Priss. ‘Why should they care what I do at home?’ Before Claude could answer, she tossed her head and entered into determinedly polite conversation with Selma Nash.
Gertie gave Angela a wink, and Angela wondered what it was all about. For an engaged woman Priss seemed to lack a certain enthusiasm for the state, and even appeared to hold her betrothed in contempt. Had there been a row? She sipped her tea and wondered how the next few days would turn out.
Lady Strathmerrick seemed to be warming to Angela, now that she had found to her relief that Mrs. Marchmont was not a bright young person who was likely to get up to mischief, but rather an elegant and sophisticated woman close to middle age who was perfectly capable of conversing without using incomprehensible slang. Not only that, she was friends with the American Ambassador and his wife, as well as, apparently, a number of other people of notable importance. That, to Lady Strathmerrick, indicated that Angela was probably All Right, and gave her some cause for relief. She now introduced Angela to Miss Foster, a woman with untidy hair and a vague manner who had once been governess to the children.
‘She was no better at controlling them than I was, though,’ said the Countess with some impatience, ‘and so we gave up and sent them to school.’
‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ agreed Miss Foster mournfully. ‘I fear I am better suited to the life of a companion than a governess.’
‘Not that you’re much company lately,’ said Lady Strathmerrick. ‘If you’d only spend less time on that silly novel of yours, perhaps you’d have more time for me.’
She spoke carelessly, in the manner of a superior to a dependant, but Miss Foster did not seem to take offence.
‘Do you write?’ asked Angela. Miss Foster brightened up.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Indeed I do. I don’t mean to say that my poor efforts will ever be worth publishing, but I find a great deal of satisfaction in putting pen to paper and expressing my very deepest thoughts. There is something almost sublime in the sound of the syllables of the English language, and I must confess I find it quite thrilling to think that by committing my words to paper, I am giving them something in the nature of immortality. To think that people might read my little stories and poems long after I am gone!’
‘You write poetry as well, then?’ said Angela.
Miss Foster puffed up and preened a little.
‘Not to say poetry,’ she said modestly. ‘I merely dabble in light verse. Perhaps you would like to hear some?’ She glanced towards a large notebook which sat on a nearby table.
Angela’s attention was just then caught by Gertie, who, unseen by Miss Foster, was shaking her head frantically, eyes wide open in horror.
‘Er—’ began Angela.
She was rescued at that moment by the entrance of a cross-looking girl of eighteen or so, who without waiting for preliminaries said, ‘I say, it’s coming down a blizzard out there. It looks as though we’re going to be snowed in soon. Has everybody arrived now?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lady Strathmerrick. ‘No, we’re still missing Mr. Pilkington-Soames and the Foreign Secretary.’
‘And Professor Klausen,’ added Claude Burford smoothly.
‘Well, they’d better get a move on,’ said the girl, who Angela guessed to be Clemmie, ‘or they won’t manage it at all. The snow is already three feet thick down in the glen. A
t this rate, nobody will be able to get here for the dance either.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Gertie. ‘Nothing would keep them away. It’s the high-light of the year for most of them. They’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.’
‘I do hope we don’t get any gate-crashers as we did last year,’ said Clemmie. ‘We were turning them out of dark corners for weeks afterwards. MacDonald says he’s already seen a suspicious-looking character hanging about the place today. He ran off when he was spotted, though.’
‘Well, if he was a gate-crasher then he was a pretty inept one,’ said Gertie. ‘The dance isn’t till tomorrow.’
‘Dear me,’ said the Countess. ‘Do you think we ought to send out a search-party for the remaining guests? I should hate them to get stuck in the snow.’
‘No need for that, Lady Strathmerrick,’ said a voice from by the door and they all turned to see Sandy Buchanan and his wife entering the room. Angela recognized him immediately: he was the darling of the newspapers because of his sociable nature, and he and his young wife were frequently photographed attending the opera, or the ballet, or the opening of a new art gallery, or the summer parties of the rich and well-born.
Buchanan greeted everyone heartily, pressed Lady Strathmerrick’s hand and clapped Claude Burford on the back. As he shook hands with Angela she again had the queerest feeling that she was being assessed, for the Foreign Secretary gave her a searching glance and looked deep into her eyes. Then came a little nod and a twist of the mouth, and Angela wondered what he had seen and whether he had approved of her. She had the feeling that he was not so easily shut out as Claude.
Eleanor Buchanan was much younger than her husband, and wore her hair back from her face, which threw her thick, dark eyebrows and high cheekbones into sharp relief. She would have been strikingly attractive were it not for an intense, watchful manner and unsmiling expression which put one rather in mind of a wild animal that sees enemies all around it. The Foreign Secretary had entered into conversation with Aubrey Nash, and she looked towards the two men warily, her fingers playing unconsciously with a gold locket she wore around her neck. Angela thought she had never seen anybody so tense, and did her best to put her at ease, although she did not seem to be having much success, for Mrs. Buchanan replied in monosyllables and glanced to her right and left as she spoke, and Angela soon gave it up and left her to herself.
It was getting late and the Countess was beginning to make noises about dressing for dinner when Freddy Pilkington-Soames swung into the room as though he owned the place. He made a bee-line for Lady Strathmerrick, bowed slightly and gave her his most winning smile.
‘Hallo, Lady S,’ he said. ‘It’s awfully good of you to invite me. I believe we’ve met once before—it was a year or two ago, at the Derbyshires’ house, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh—ah,’ said Lady Strathmerrick, caught off guard by his familiar courtesy. ‘Yes, I believe I remember it. How delightful to see you again.’
Freddy then proceeded to ruin the good impression he had just made by turning to Priss and saying, ‘Hallo, Priss. You’re looking as ravishing as ever—far too good for that ass Claude. When you’ve divorced him you can marry me. How about it?’ He then turned and started theatrically as he pretended to see Claude Burford for the first time. ‘Oh, sorry old chap—I didn’t see you there.’
‘I resent that,’ said Claude, who had no sense of humour. ‘Priss is not going to divorce me. It’s simply absurd of you to suggest such a thing. If you were any sort of gentleman you’d apologize to her now.’
But Priss had perked up at Freddy’s entrance and merely said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Claude. Freddy’s baiting you, as usual. And you fall for it every time.’
Freddy smirked.
‘I’m sorry, old bean,’ he said. ‘Priss is right—I was just teasing. I instruct myself continually to be a model of decorum but somehow I can’t stop myself from doing it when the opportunity presents itself. Lady Priscilla,’ he said with a formal bow to Priss, ‘please accept my humble apologies. I won’t do it again. Now I dare say you’d like to have me soundly thrashed.’
‘Idiot,’ said Priss, who was eyeing him with some interest. Angela noticed that Selma Nash was also giving the young man covert glances from under her lashes. She sensed trouble—never too far away when Freddy was about—and resolved to keep well out of it.
‘Where are Gus and Bobby?’ said Lady Strathmerrick when Freddy had greeted everybody and given Angela a particularly significant leer. ‘Clemmie, dear, would you mind going to fetch them? They were supposed to be here by now.’
Clemmie sighed and went out.
Freddy said, ‘I say, I hope you’ve got plenty to eat and drink here. The snow was coming down so thick and fast that I had to abandon my car halfway up the drive when it got stuck in a dip. I don’t think anybody else will manage to get here tonight—or tomorrow either, if it keeps coming down like this.’
‘Do you mean we’re trapped here?’ said Eleanor Buchanan, and there was a strange note in her voice that might have been fear or something else entirely.
Gertie looked up in surprise at her tone.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ve been snowed in before, and it’s rather good fun. Why, we were stuck here for two weeks once—do you remember, Priss? We did run rather low on food then. I half-thought we should have to start eating each other.’
‘I wouldn’t bother eating you,’ said Freddy. ‘You’ve no meat on you at all. Hardly worth it. Priss, on the other hand, looks far more appetizing. Quite deliciously succulent, in fact.’
Fortunately, Lady Strathmerrick was talking to Claude and neither of them heard. Priss heard perfectly but affected not to. Sandy Buchanan looked amused but his wife did not.
‘I do hope it stops snowing soon,’ she said. ‘I should hate to think we couldn’t get away.’
‘My dear girl,’ said her husband. ‘Why, we’ve only just arrived and the fun has yet to begin. There are plenty of ladies here for you to talk to while we men get on with business, and there’s plenty for you to do. To listen to you anyone would think you expected to be dreadfully bored by the whole thing, if you’re that desperate to get away.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that at all,’ she said, flushing. ‘I’m terribly sorry if that’s how it sounded. I just meant—well, you have to get back to London in a day or two, don’t you? You have lots of important meetings.’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Buchanan soothingly. ‘Now, I think we had all better go and get dressed for dinner, or we shall be late.’
FIVE
Angela completed her toilette with Marthe’s expert assistance, took one last critical glance at herself in the glass and left her room. She was rather pleased with her new evening-gown, which was of dark-blue silk and hugged her figure in all the right places, while cunningly-placed beading and embroidery contrived to disguise any minor imperfections in her form. She enjoyed listening to it rustle as she drifted along the passage to the head of the stairs, where she stopped for a second to make a slight adjustment to one of her gloves.
‘Hallo, Angela,’ said a voice, and she looked up to see Aubrey Nash standing at her shoulder. He offered her his arm. ‘It always takes Selma an age to decide what to wear,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘so I never wait.’
His glance showed that she had made the right choice of dress. Angela smiled and took his arm, and they walked down the stairs together and into the drawing-room. They were not quite the first ones there, for two of the guests had arrived before them. Aubrey introduced her to his secretary, Gabe Bradley, a pleasant-faced young man who had spent the afternoon discussing business with the Earl. Then the other man came forward and a look of surprise crossed Angela’s face as she recognized him.
‘Hallo, Mrs. Marchmont,’ said Henry Jameson.
‘Why, Mr. Jameson!’ she exclaimed, her face breaking into a smile. ‘I had no idea you were going to be here.’
‘I’m afraid I can
’t say the same,’ said Mr. Jameson. ‘I knew you were coming. You are looking very well, Mrs. Marchmont. How long has it been? Ten years, perhaps?’
‘Oh, at least,’ replied Angela. ‘Now, that makes me feel dreadfully old.’
‘You don’t look a day older than you did then,’ he said gallantly. ‘I understand you have been showing the chaps at Scotland Yard how their job ought to be done.’
‘Hardly,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I should say it’s more the case that I have been getting in the way. I seem to have the most unfortunate knack for destroying evidence without meaning to.’
‘You are too modest,’ said Jameson. ‘I know my brother admires your detective abilities greatly.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Angela uncomfortably. ‘Perhaps in another life I should have liked to have been a detective, had I been a man. As it is I am forced to satisfy myself by meddling in things that don’t concern me.’
They were soon joined by the other guests and members of the family, and the conversation became more general. Finally, Angela was introduced to the Earl of Strathmerrick, very formal in his dinner-suit, who shook her hand and listened to her name as though he had never heard it before. His manner was distant and he glanced over her as though she were not important—or was it perhaps her imagination? Angela suddenly wondered why she was so conscious of being judged, and decided to stop thinking about it.
At dinner, Angela was seated between Aubrey Nash and Henry Jameson. The Ambassador was talking to Lord Strathmerrick, so Angela and Henry talked merrily, in the way of old friends who have not seen each other for many years. Henry was married now, she learned, and had a growing brood of children. The little ones were all very fond of their Uncle Alec, the inspector, who was rather wedded to his job at Scotland Yard and showed no signs of settling down. Angela agreed that it was difficult to find time for that kind of thing when one was busy solving crimes.