A Fête Worse Than Death

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘So horribly smug,’ Haldean repeated in a whisper. ‘Smug. That’s it.’ He looked at Ashley, his eyes bright and his face alert. ‘That’s it!’ he said in ringing tones. ‘He was so disgustingly smug. He was on to something new! D’you know what he said to me? He said Give a man enough rope. That’s what he said. That’s the motive. It makes sense. Everything makes sense.’ He snatched up his hat. ‘I’ve got to go to London.’

  ‘London?’ said Ashley, completely bewildered. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I’ve had an idea but it might take me some time to root it out. Don’t bother about me. Just carry on as if nothing had happened.’

  ‘Oi!’ shouted Ashley as Haldean opened the door and raced out of the room. ‘You’ll have to tell me a bit more . . .’ But Haldean had gone. Minutes later Ashley heard the roar of the Spyker’s engine. Give a man enough rope? What the devil did that mean? He retreated disconsolately back to his desk.

  ‘Haldean?’ Brigadier Romer-Stuart walked across the lobby of the Belvedere Club. ‘What the dickens are you doing here?’

  Haldean smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry to barge in on you like this, Bingo, but it’s urgent. It might be, anyway. I called at your rooms and your man told me where you’d be. Are you in the middle of anything?’

  ‘A fairly tedious dinner. Why?’

  ‘Good. That it’s tedious, I mean. If it’s that much of a frost perhaps you won’t mind leaving. I need to check some records at the War Office.’

  ‘At this time of night!’ The Brigadier’s eyebrows shot up. ‘It’s Saturday. You know, the weekend. That’s the bit where you don’t work, remember? The place is closed until Monday morning. Can’t it wait until then?’

  ‘I’d rather it didn’t, Bingo, old man. You see . . .’ Haldean hesitated. ‘You see, there’s a man in prison.’

  Romer-Stuart sighed. ‘Well, I’m very sorry for him, but I don’t see why I should skip dinner and watch you leafing through files on the strength of it.’

  Haldean grinned. ‘Come on, Bingo. I mean, I know you’re here in gilded splendour, quaffing and supping and what-have-youing, but just think how much fun it’ll be watching me put in some really hard work.’

  ‘About as much fun as a wet weekend in Skegness.’ The Brigadier looked at Haldean’s dark, eager face and wavered. ‘Damned if I know why I’m doing this,’ he grumbled. ‘I suppose, although you haven’t mentioned it, I do owe you a favour for sorting out that mess bill business. All right. Give me a few minutes.’ He disappeared back into the club to re-emerge shortly afterwards with a broad smile. ‘They’ve just got on to the speeches. I don’t mind cutting those. I said that something urgent had come up and I had to get back to the War Office. I could see everyone itching to ask me what it was. The rumours were starting as I left the room. If you hear we’ve declared another war, ignore it. I hope this is worthwhile.’

  ‘Now that,’ said Haldean, as Romer-Stuart got his coat and hat, ‘I can’t honestly say.’

  Sir Philip wandered in through the dressing room and sat down on his wife’s bed. ‘Have you seen my reading glasses, Alice?’

  ‘They’re round your neck, dear.’

  ‘What? Oh yes, so they are.’ He looked at them absently but made no move to go.

  She put down the book she was reading and, sitting up against the pillow, reached out for his hand. ‘Are you worried?’

  ‘Worried?’ Sir Philip gave a snort. ‘I should think I am. I asked Jack outright before he went skittering up to London. “Is Lawrence guilty?” And all he said was, “Wait and see.” I tell you, I don’t like it, Alice. How he can even think Hugh Lawrence might have killed Whitfield is more than I can imagine. Why the devil should he? The man’s our guest. It’s a ridiculous idea. Why . . . I like him, dash it. Why on earth we all just can’t accept Whitfield shot himself – although that’s bad enough for heaven’s sake – I don’t know.’

  ‘I rather think Jack was hoping to get at the truth.’

  ‘Truth? I know the truth and so should he. As for these other two characters who died, I’d be glad if someone could tell me what they’re supposed to do with Lawrence. You mark my words, it’ll turn out that they shot themselves as well. Arresting an innocent man! I don’t know what the country’s coming to.’

  Lady Rivers sighed. ‘Doesn’t it seem a little odd to you, Philip, that three men should shoot themselves in the space of a week?’

  ‘It happens,’ said Sir Philip, belligerently. ‘There could be any number of reasons. I can’t tell what’s going on in someone’s mind,’

  ‘I wish I knew what was going on in Marguerite’s mind,’ said Lady Rivers, reflectively. ‘She was shocked, of course. I wish she hadn’t seen the body, but it’s a strange thing, though. I believe she was as upset about Mr Lawrence being arrested as she was about the Colonel dying.’

  ‘That shows very proper feeling,’ grunted Sir Philip in approval.

  ‘But unexpected, wouldn’t you say? I did feel sorry for her. She said that everyone she’d ever cared for had been taken away. The Vayles, Colonel Whitfield, Mr Lawrence – there was no one left. After we’d been to see Mr Lawrence this evening she was so quiet and thoughtful. I expected her to be up in arms against him but she wasn’t.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything at all as I recall.’

  ‘Not when we were there, no. But do you know she called to see Mr Lawrence again? Afterwards, I mean. Isabelle met her and she was so white and shivery that Isabelle made her go to bed. Marguerite said she couldn’t bear to think of what was happening and it was all her fault.’

  ‘How on earth does she work that out? I can’t get the hang of her at all, Alice. She seems to take things so much to heart.’

  ‘Well, you’d expect her to, wouldn’t you, Philip? After all, it’s a horrible thing to have happened. I was surprised that she came down when Mrs Verrity arrived.’

  ‘Now that was an odd thing. What the devil did the woman want? I didn’t know what to say to her, especially if she really was fond of Whitfield as you suggested. I mean, I couldn’t offer my sympathies because I’m not meant to know that they’re required. It must have been the most awkward game of bridge I’ve ever played. Fancy being expected to concentrate on cards with all this hanging over us! Still, it was better to have something to do rather than sit round gazing at each other. I wish I knew why she’d come here.’

  ‘That’s fairly obvious, I would have thought,’ said Lady Rivers, yawning. ‘Don’t you see, dear? She was lonely.’

  ‘Eh, what?’ Alan Romer-Stuart blinked and stirred in his chair.

  ‘I said I’d finished,’ repeated Haldean patiently.

  ‘I’m very happy for you. What time is it?’ Romer-Stuart sat up and, blinking sleep from his eyes, looked at his watch. ‘Good God, it’s nearly quarter to three.’ He got to his feet, stretching out his cramped limbs. ‘That must be the most uncomfortable chair in London. D’you say you’ve finished? Get anywhere?’

  ‘I think so. I might have. There are two possible names. One lives in Cromer, which is a bit off the beaten track, but the other lives in Battersea. I’ll try the London one first.’

  Romer-Stuart stopped mid-stretch. ‘Not tonight, I hope.’

  ‘No.’ Haldean grinned. ‘I think it’s a bit late for social calls. Come on, Bingo, you look all in. I’ll run you home. And thanks, old man.’

  ‘I suppose I should say, “Don’t mention it,” but I’m jolly well not going to. I can put you up on my sofa for the rest of the night if you like. It’s a bit basic, but it’d be better than that blasted chair you wished on me.’

  ‘I’ll take you up on that. Thanks. Cheer up. You’ve slept in worse places. And it’s better than prison.’

  ‘I don’t know so much about that,’ said Romer-Stuart, grumpily. ‘You get a bed in prison.’

  Hugh Lawrence stirred and looked at the lighter barred patch of grey against the dark wall of his cell. He was conscious of a quiet despair. He’d been a fool to announce he was
going back to Canada; that had put the police on their mettle. Better, perhaps, though, than being arrested on the ship. If only it wasn’t for Marguerite; at the thought of her his insides twisted. She was safe, anyhow. and that was worth everything. Would she ever know how much he loved her? Perhaps . . . What had she said this evening? ‘I don’t love you yet. You can’t expect me too. But I might, in time.’ That was nearly a promise. And Whitfield was dead. God help him, he was glad Whitfield was dead. For a moment his mind leapt ahead, clearing all obstacles and seeing only himself and Marguerite, together at last, and he smiled, conscious of being on the edge of a deep well of happiness. He turned over in bed and his smile faded. His clothes were on a peg on the wall, jacket and hat together. In the dim light they looked like a hanged man.

  ‘I got your telegram,’ said Ashley, walking down the path of his neat, semi-detached house. ‘Thanks for saying you’d call for me. It saves a lot of waiting about at the station. But I don’t know about this, Haldean.’

  ‘It’s worth trying, all the same. If I’m right it’ll explain an awful lot.’

  ‘Well, I’ll agree with you there, and no mistake,’ said Ashley, opening the gate and walking on to the pavement. ‘Is he in the car?’

  ‘He is. We’re parked a few yards down the road. Here we are.’ Haldean led the way to where the Spyker stood. A small, black-button-eyed man sat in the front passenger seat. ‘Mr Stafford? This is the Superintendent, Mr Ashley, I was telling you about, so you can see it really is all above board.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Mr Stafford with a broad Cockney grin. ‘Don’t mind me not getting out. I’m not as handy on my pins as I used to be. Got one less leg than I started off with. Oh yes, my running days are over. The wife says it suits her as she always knows where I am. She don’t know so much at the moment though, does she? It’s nice to have a bit of a trip out. I’ve never been in a car before, not all to ourselves, as you might say. I’m still not sure what you want me to do though, Major.’

  ‘Just say whatever comes into your head,’ said Haldean getting into the car and pressing the self-starter. ‘Are you ready, Ashley? That’ll do fine, Mr Stafford.’

  ‘I always do say what I think. Got me into trouble a few times, that has. I don’t usually get paid a fiver for doing it, though. Is it a long way to this police station?’

  ‘Not very far.’

  ‘Especially driving as you do, Haldean,’ muttered Ashley. ‘I was at the station this morning. Miss Vayle came to see me.’

  ‘Oh yes? What did she want?’

  ‘Well, she actually came to see Mr Lawrence, but she took the opportunity to tell me he was innocent. She had various suggestions, such as a tramp being to blame, which I told her was highly unlikely, and then she came up with something that really baffled me. She suggested that the Colonel might have shot the other two and killed himself so that Lawrence would be hanged for murder. She said she’d read a story where a jealous woman had committed suicide so as to lay the blame on her husband.’

  ‘Oh, I know that one,’ said Haldean, increasing his speed as the road straightened out. ‘“The Problem of Thor Bridge”. It’s a Sherlock Holmes story.’

  ‘It sounds crazy to me. I mean, why go to all that trouble? It’s not natural. It’d be much more straightforward and believable, granted you were going to top yourself anyway, to shoot the person you wanted to, then do yourself in.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have a story then. However, I agree, and I certainly don’t think that’s what happened here. What the devil’s got into Marguerite though? I’d have thought she was the last person to suggest her beloved Whitfield could be anything other than squeaky-clean. I wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Haldean with a sidelong glance at Stafford. ‘Just rambling.’ And the rest of the way to Breedenbrook he talked exclusively of the Great War.

  They arrived at the station where, having been helped from the car, Ernest Stafford looked around with disapproval at the deserted village street. ‘Quiet sort of place, isn’t it? Not much happening here on a Saturday night, or any other time I should say. I like a bit of life, myself. People talk about Battersea and I’ll grant you it’s no beauty spot, but there’s always something going on.’

  ‘There’s been a bit too much going on for our tastes, Mr Stafford,’ said Haldean with a smile at Ashley. ‘Can you manage the steps? Oh, you’re used to it, I can see.’

  ‘No trouble at all, Major. I still don’t know what you want me to do, though.’

  ‘Just speak your mind, Mr Stafford.’

  ‘Well, that won’t come hard. In here, is it?’

  Hugh Lawrence was lying on his bed, reading, when they walked in. He looked more fine-drawn than Haldean remembered and the brightness in his eyes had gone.

  Haldean hesitated at the door with Ashley and Stafford behind him. ‘I’m . . . I’m awfully sorry, Mr Lawrence.’

  ‘What for?’ Lawrence managed a smile. ‘I won’t be here long. Your uncle assures me it’s all a ghastly misunderstanding which he’s sure will be cleared up soon. He seemed to think you might do something to help and I’m open to offers.’ He stood up as Ashley and Stafford came into the cell. ‘Anything you can do . . .’ His eyes widened and his voice trailed off into a whisper.

  Stafford stumped forward and took a long look at Lawrence. ‘Here! I know you! You’re that bleeder Tyburn who did for us all. It’s him! It’s him from the Augier Ridge I was telling you about.’ He turned to Haldean and Ashley. ‘It’s him, I tell you. No moustache and his hair’s gone grey, but it’s him. Don’t try and deny it, because I know.’ His fists clenched. ‘Cor! I’d like to get my hands on you. When I think what you did . . .’

  Ashley dropped a heavy hand on Stafford’s arm. ‘We can’t allow that, Mr Stafford. You’re certain this is Major Martin Tyburn?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. That’s what I’m telling you, ain’t I? Look at him. It’s written all over him. He’s that bugger Tyburn.’

  ‘Oh hell,’ said Haldean. He looked absolutely wretched. ‘I told you I was sorry, Mr Lawrence.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Well?’ demanded Ashley bluntly. ‘Is it true?’

  Hugh Lawrence looked from Stafford to Ashley and Haldean, then back to Stafford once more. He put his shoulders back and sighed. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much point in denying it, does there?’ The Canadian twang faded from his voice and he seemed a much older man than seconds before. He faced them with an air of wary, sick-hearted defiance. Like a man who’s been told of a fatal illness, thought Haldean, or someone before a firing squad . . .

  Stafford shrugged off Ashley’s restraining hand. ‘Don’t worry, mister, I’m not going to slug him. Bleeding clever, weren’t you, Major Tyburn? Leading me and my mates up the garden path like you did. We trusted you. We’d have followed you anywhere. Precious few of us left to trust you now, ain’t there? How much did they pay you then?’

  ‘I believe the going rate is thirty pieces of silver.’

  Stafford flushed with anger and he aimed a swing at Tyburn before Ashley could stop him. Tyburn caught the flailing fist easily and held it firm. ‘Don’t be such a bloody fool, Private Stafford.’ He flicked a glance at Ashley. ‘Get him out of here – stop it, man! – and I’ll answer your questions. God knows, I’ve got little enough to lose.’ He let go of Stafford’s fist. ‘Go on.’ He sank down on the bed. ‘You’ve done your part.’

  Haldean drew Stafford away. ‘Come on, Mr Stafford, I’ll show you to your hotel.’

  ‘And what about him?’

  ‘You can leave him to us. Come on.’

  Tyburn glanced up as Stafford got to the cell door. ‘By the way, where did you lose your leg?’

  ‘Fricourt. Out of all the boys there was me, the Sergeant and Harry Brinton left alive after that. You’d seen to a good few and your Jerry pals finished the rest. Happy about that, were you?’

  Tyburn flinched. ‘No,’ he said bleakly. ‘No,
I can’t say I was ever happy about that.’

  Haldean delivered Stafford into the care of Constable Hawley with instructions to see him safely established at the Talbot Arms. When he got back to Tyburn’s cell, Ashley had been joined by Sergeant Sykes who was sitting at the table, his notebook in front of him. Tyburn was sitting on the bed, his back against the angle of the wall, cigarette in hand.

  Ashley looked up as Haldean entered. ‘I’m glad you’re back. Mr Lawrence – Tyburn, I should say – refused to say anything before you arrived.’

  ‘It’s odd to be called that once more,’ interjected the prisoner. ‘He – Tyburn – belongs to another age.’ He flicked his ash on to the floor and looked up with a twisted smile. ‘And as for you, Major . . . Well, you seem to have worked everything out. The only thing you’re lacking is the truth.’ He waved a hand at Sergeant Sykes. ‘Tell him to write this down. I don’t want to go through it twice. I’m Tyburn. Martin James Tyburn. I’ll give you the story from the beginning. You might as well hear it all. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, but little cause for pride.’

  He put his shoulders against the wall and sighed. ‘It’s hard to know where to start. I got into trouble at Cambridge with a woman a good few years older than myself. She knew what she was about all right and I . . . well, even at that age I should have known better. She threatened an action for breach of promise and my father bought her off. There’d been a couple of other girls, too. It was nothing serious, but I was a good-looking young devil and my head was easily turned. There was a hell of a scandal and not only did I get sent down but the guv’nor hauled me back home to reflect upon my sins. I can sympathize with him now. He was heavy-handed but right and had got me out of an awful mess. He wanted me to go to Australia and make something of myself out there. I, unfortunately from his point of view, met Beatrice Ziege. She was teaching the local doctor’s girls. I’ve never known anyone like Beatrice, before or since. She was . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘Well, I can’t describe her, so I’m not going to try. If she could have called herself Von Ziege I don’t suppose my father would have objected. There was a stinking row which ended with us going off to London together and getting married. We were both of age, so there was nothing he could do about it. He washed his hands of us and for the next year and a half we were completely happy. I tried to make it up with the guv’nor, but he’d have none of it. I think what made it worse, from his point of view, was that instead of starving, as he’d foretold, I actually did rather well. Motor cars were getting popular, and I got a job as a demonstrator with a garage on Warren Street. And then Bea had Marguerite.’