A Bachelor Establishment

by Isabella Barclay

  Munch nodded importantly.

  ‘You can rely on me, Mrs Bascombe.’

  ‘Thank you so much. We ladies will sleep so much more soundly now. And I’m certain his lordship has some form of recompense in mind – you know, for all these extra duties.’

  His lordship’s appreciation vanished like the morning mist.

  Mrs Bascombe met his look with a guileless smile and tripped back to join the others in the library.

  Naturally, the second attack on Mrs Bascombe was the main topic of conversation at dinner. His lordship, presiding over a table laid for six, with a sideboard laden with dishes and both Porlock and Margaret serving, began to wonder if the dark cloud of respectability was descending upon him. Seeing his guests fully engaged in vigorous discussion and formulating plans to defend themselves, he smiled at Mrs Bascombe and asked if he should cut up her meat for her.

  ‘Thank you, my lord, but I can manage.’

  ‘I notice you are not wearing your sling.’

  She twinkled at him, saying, ‘Most inappropriate for formal wear, sir. If I had known you entertained so extensively, I would have packed accordingly.’

  She was wearing a loose gown in her favourite shade of blue, tied under the bust with a matching sash – an informal outfit to be sure, but easy to put on and off and comfortable to wear. His lordship, an expert in women’s apparel, approved.

  ‘No matter, ma’am. You look quite charming.’

  She was quite taken aback by this compliment, but managed to say, ‘Thank you,’ before her attention was claimed by Miss Fairburn. Encountering a Look from Lady Elliott, he smiled blandly and recommended she try another of her favourite damson tartlets.

  ‘I still do not understand,’ Miss Fairburn was saying for the third or fourth time, ‘why Mrs Bascombe should be attacked. It’s ludicrous. What possible motive could there be?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, as I said before, if it is not Mrs Bascombe then the target was obviously Lord Ryde. He was present on both occasions.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Elliott with unflattering swiftness. ‘It is much more likely that someone would want to kill Lord Ryde.’

  She met her husband’s reproving glance and continued hurriedly, ‘I mean – not that anyone would want to shoot you either, my lord – probably – it’s just that of the two, you seem to be the more likely target.’

  ‘I cannot disagree with you, ma’am,’ he said, gravely. ‘But even so, I am unable to think of anyone who would actually want me dead. Yes, I do owe money, but my creditors would certainly prefer me to live long enough to repay them. My heir loathes Ryde House and its surroundings even more than I do. And I haven’t lived in England for twenty years. I’m not worth much,’ he concluded, and Elinor thought she detected a note of bitterness in his voice. ‘But I’m certain I’m worth more alive than dead. So we’re back to Mrs Bascombe again.’

  Sir William’s voice cut calmly through the storm of protest.

  ‘Actually, my lord, no.’

  The table fell silent.

  Lady Elliott said uncertainly, ‘My dear, what are you saying?’

  Sir William laid down his knife and fork and looked around the table.

  ‘I think you are, all of you, forgetting something.’

  Silence.

  Lord Ryde, who had more than once entertained this third possibility but refrained from mentioning it, waited to see what Sir William would say.

  ‘You have discussed – very thoroughly indeed – the relative merits of Lord Ryde and Mrs Bascombe as the intended victim, but you all seem to have forgotten – on both occasions, a third person was present.’

  Heads swivelled.

  ‘Mr Martin? You were accompanying Lord Ryde in Green Lane and I believe you had just joined Lord Ryde and Mrs Bascombe at the window when the shot was fired.’

  If there were doubts as to the attraction between Mr Martin and Miss Fairburn, there was now ample evidence for all to see. Miss Fairburn’s eyes were large with alarm and fixed on Mr Martin who stared at her in consternation.

  He pulled himself together.

  ‘No, hang it,’ he protested. ‘Dash it all, sir, who would possibly want to kill me?’

  ‘Where have I heard that before?’ said Lord Ryde softly.

  Lady Elliott was regarding Mr Martin with bright-eyed interest.

  ‘Are you, perhaps, a lost heir?’

  ‘I’m a third son, ma’am. There are at least two lost heirs ahead of me.’

  ‘Your father, perhaps …’

  ‘A clergyman. And himself a younger son. Believe me, ma’am, you’d have to decimate half Gloucestershire before my family would come close to inheriting anything.’

  ‘Perhaps …’ said Mrs Bascombe. ‘Are you perhaps in possession of some important knowledge and must be silenced before the truth comes out?’

  Lord Ryde sipped his wine and wondered when dinner at Ryde House had become so entertaining.

  ‘No, I am not, said Mr Martin, indignantly. ‘At least I don’t think I am. How would I know?’

  ‘That’s just the point, Charles,’ said Lord Ryde. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘No, dash it all. I will not be murdered because I’m supposed to know something I don’t know I know.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t, have you?’ pointed out Mrs Bascombe. ‘Been murdered, I mean. So far your shockingly inefficient assassin has only managed to hit me.’

  ‘What a relief,’ murmured Lord Ryde. ‘So much trouble to find a new secretary, I mean,’ he added hastily as Mrs Bascombe fixed him with an indignant glare.

  ‘Especially one of my calibre,’ said Mr Martin, modestly.

  ‘Just so,’ agreed his lordship.

  Lady Elliott persisted. ‘Are you perhaps in possession of a rich uncle?’

  ‘Not in my family, alas.’

  ‘A rich aunt then, who took a fancy to you when you were in your cradle.’

  ‘Sadly, ma’am, my aunts are in possession of many qualities, but wealth is not one of them.’

  ‘That is a shame.’

  ‘I have often thought so, too.’

  ‘Are you sure there is not some deep, dark secret, confided in you many years ago – by Lord Ryde, for example – and now you must be silenced?’

  ‘I was standing next to him on both occasions,’ objected Lord Ryde. ‘Even if I was so muddle-headed as to go around blabbing my deep, dark secrets to all and sundry.’

  ‘You have deep, dark secrets?’ asked Elinor, wide-eyed over her wine glass.

  ‘Yes. No. I believe we were discussing Charles as the probable target.’

  ‘No, my lord, I believe we had moved on to the far more interesting topic of deep, dark secrets,’ said Mr Martin, helping himself to the damson tartlet Lady Elliott had, up to that moment, considered hers.

  ‘I have none,’ said his lordship, hastily.

  The table stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Ahem! Prague!’

  His lordship regarded his secretary.

  ‘That’s a nasty cough, Charles.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’

  ‘Could he, perhaps, have picked it up in – Prague?’ asked Elinor, demurely.

  Mr Martin smiled at her. ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised, ma’am.’

  Sir William called the meeting to order.

  ‘It seems to me that on each occasion there were the same three people present and that none of them has any idea why they should be a target.’

  ‘Perhaps we should split up,’ said Mrs Bascombe, slowly. ‘I could return to Westfield and see if the assailant follows me there. If I am shot again, you would then have a clear indication of how to proceed.

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Lady Elliott. ‘You are not yet well enough to travel, my love.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Lord Ryde, thoughtfully. ‘Am I alone in thinking Mrs Bascombe’s murder could be quite helpful?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bascombe, shortly.

  ‘I think,’ said Sir William, h
ead of a large family and therefore skilled in maintaining focus, ‘that we should continue as we are for the time being. Nothing can be done until Mrs Bascombe is recovered.’

  ‘An excellent suggestion, sir.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Lady Elliot, ‘I think it would be wise if you did not venture outside tomorrow until all this is over. There is no point in making things easy for him.’

  Lord Ryde was watching the disappointment in Mrs Bascombe’s face. ‘Perhaps, ma’am, you would care to stroll around the walled garden instead. That would be perfectly safe and you could still enjoy the benefits of fresh air and exercise.’

  Mrs Bascombe stared suspiciously at his lordship’s carefully blank features.

  ‘Thank you. That sounds very pleasant.’

  The party broke up shortly afterwards. Sir William requested a word with his wife; Mr Martin took Miss Fairburn away to try her hand at billiards and Mrs Bascombe went thankfully to bed.

  Chapter Eight

  After her exciting day, Mrs Bascombe slept well into the next morning, arising, somewhat guiltily, just in time for lunch. She chose another very pretty gown in a soft blue and cream, taking a little more care over her appearance than normal.

  Hearing that she was to venture outside, Tiller proffered a sunbonnet. Mrs Bascombe declined.

  ‘Mrs Bascombe, ma’am’ pleaded Tiller, nearly in tears.

  ‘I will carry a parasol,’ promised Elinor.

  ‘But madam, you are not at home, now.’

  Elinor suddenly realised that she had, in fact, been thinking of Ryde House as just that and pulled herself up short. Reluctantly, she took the bonnet. Tiller was privately of the opinion that she would probably spend the afternoon swinging the despised article by its ribbons as she walked bareheaded in the sun, before finally leaving it somewhere she could not remember.

  After lunch, Lord Ryde escorted Mrs Bascombe to the walled wilderness at the rear of the building. Quiet and secluded behind high brick walls, the only sound was the hum of busy insects and the chatter of birds. Mrs Bascombe took a deep breath of pure enjoyment.

  ‘Why won’t you wear your bonnet?’

  The happy moment vanished.

  ‘I don’t like things on my head.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Elinor groped for some suitable remark to turn the subject and failed. And now the silence had been too long.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I once sustained – an injury – to my head and find now that I do not care for headgear. Obviously, there are occasions when I must, but if at home, or if I count myself among friends, then I prefer not to.’ She looked at him directly. ‘Do I need to wear it now?’

  ‘By no means,’ he said, coolly, and taking it from her, threw it over the garden wall.

  Elinor regarded him with rare approval.

  ‘You didn’t want it. I didn’t want it. There seemed no point in keeping it,’ explained his lordship. ‘Tell me about your head injury.’

  ‘No. How very sheltered is this garden. The sun is very warm here, is it not?’

  ‘Yes. What happened to your head? Was it an accident?’

  ‘No. What a shame the roses are not yet out.’

  ‘Yes. Did you fall from your horse?’

  ‘No. I would prefer not to discuss this any further. Shall we return to the house?’

  ‘No. Tell me about the injury. Why are you so reluctant? Are you afraid?’

  ‘No. What a splendid crop of dandelions. This must once have been a very pretty garden. I expect you remember that.’

  ‘No. There is an old seat here. Shall we sit for a while?’

  ‘No. Why do you avoid this house? Is it true you have not set foot here for twenty years?’

  ‘Yes. Did someone cause your injury?’

  ‘Yes. Do you hate this house that much?’

  ‘Yes. Was it your husband?’

  ‘Yes. As you well know. We will not discuss this. Have you always hated your father?’

  ‘Yes. No. I … We …’

  ‘Perhaps we should sit down, my lord?’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  He slipped off his coat and laid it on the bench for her.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that. The bench is quite dry.’

  ‘You don’t like wearing hats – I don’t like wearing coats.’

  ‘Oh, no, don’t spoil such a charming gesture. I was very impressed by your technique.’

  He smiled a little sadly.

  ‘My technique? I hardly think so.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ said Mrs Bascombe. ‘This being probably the only opportunity I will ever have to have advances made to me by a confirmed rake, I was eager to see how you would begin. I have to say I am sadly disappointed so far, but that may be my own fault. Should I, perhaps, flirt a little as an incentive?’

  He regarded her heavily.

  ‘I really would rather you did not.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, infamous of you to say such a thing! I am mortified.’

  ‘No, Mrs Bascombe, you are changing the subject. Tell me about your husband.’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to understand.’

  ‘But why?’

  He drew a breath.

  ‘I hardly know. But I do know that our two families are linked by the tragedy of That Night. It creates a bond. If we, of all people, cannot talk to each other about it, then who can we speak to?’

  She was silent a long while.

  He continued. ‘I have never spoken of it – not even to Charles. Like you yourself, I suspect. Everyone knows – but no one talks about it. No one talks to us, Elinor. So, we have to talk to each other.’

  She experienced a sudden and not-altogether-unwelcome urge to unburden herself; to share her thoughts with this hard-eyed, but not uncaring man. But old habits die hard. She took a deep breath but no words came. He sat beside her, unmoving in the morning sunshine. There was all the time in the world …

  She fixed her eyes on a fresh bud, bursting with spring green. How long since her own spring? How much of her life had crept by without her noticing? Unbidden, her mouth opened and the words were found.

  ‘He was drunk when he came home. It started almost at once. I tried to get out of the way. He caught me in the hall and just as things were getting really bad, Georgie came in. He did what he could, but he is – was – a very slight boy. He was no match for … You must understand this – Georgie never hesitated for a moment. His beating finished with a blow that knocked him sideways, and he was picked up, literally taken by the scruff of his neck, and hurled out of the front door like an unwanted puppy. I don’t know where the pistol came from, but the next minute, Ned was aiming at Georgie, still on the ground, only a matter of feet away. It would have been murder. I clung to his gun arm and shouted to George to go. To go now and not come back.

  ‘He threw me across the hall – by my hair. I tumbled over and over. He seized me – by my hair again – and pulled me to my feet and did it again. He threw me against the wall. I could feel blood running down my face. He twisted his hands in my hair and shook me, left and right, like a terrier. He was shouting. Incoherently. I knew what he wanted. He wanted the money. Masters and I – we’d kept a small sum. We were keeping our creditors at bay with it. Promising first one, then the other. He mustn’t have it or we would be finished. He was hysterical. It was fear. Everything was closing in. He was desperate. He would do anything. I couldn’t get up. Porlock ran in. I heard shouting. He knocked Porlock down. Tilly – I don’t know where she came from – was between him and me. She wouldn’t move. He tried to pull her away. I heard the crack as he broke her arm. She screamed. Roberts came. With one of the gardeners. I was so frightened for them. I heard furniture being overturned. Tilly was still screaming but it was all such a long way off. Then there was another pain. I …’

  She stopped.

  A long, long silence ensued.

  Lord Ryde was well aware that if he moved or s
o much as breathed loudly, she would bolt. He sat quietly, arms folded, leaning back against the warm wall, his eyes closed against the sun.

  He gave her plenty of time and then said, in a voice devoid of any emotion whatsoever, ‘And on leaving Westfield, Mr George Bascombe presumably fled straight to Ryde House.’

  She responded with spirit.

  ‘You know that he did.’

  ‘I know that Sugden, my father’s butler at the time, showed a dishevelled Mr Bascombe into the library at a very late hour. It must have taken him some time to get to Ryde House. The night was dark and he had no lantern. As Sugden told the story afterwards, my father was at his desk. Bascombe, breathless, shaking, and considerably bruised was given a brandy. Sugden was instructed to procure suitable clothing for the fugitive – as he was about to become – and left the room.

  ‘When he returned with a top coat and hat and one or two other items, Bascombe was sitting by the fire, my father was sealing a letter and the safe door was slightly ajar. Sugden could not see the contents. He was dismissed. Some time later, he again entered the library to find my father unconscious on the floor and the safe wide open – and empty.

  ‘No one knows what brought on the stroke – whether Bascombe actually attacked and robbed him, or whether it occurred naturally and Bascombe saw his opportunity, no one knows. They tried to question my father – and he was apparently desperately anxious to say something. Perhaps Bascombe had told him where he was going, left some clue – no one will ever know. He made every effort to speak – or write – but to no avail and eventually, the effort killed him.

  ‘God knows, we had no love for each other, but the thought of him – he was a big man, you remember, vigorous and active right up until the end – the thought of him lying helpless of the floor, while that devil Bascombe plundered the safe before walking out as cool as a cucumber … I tell you, Elinor, if I ever see George Bascombe again he will receive a taste of his own medicine – and more.

  ‘I know … I know you always look for another explanation. That you always fly to his defence. It is understandable – we all speak as we find. To you, he is a saviour, to me a thief and a murderer. We just don’t know which. Maybe he is both. And since not one word has ever been heard from him since, I think it likely Mr Bascombe does not wish to be found. That he is in possession of a profitable estate and has never come forward to claim it, I think supports that assumption. Either that, or he is dead.’