3 The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks

by James Anderson

  'No doubt of the more sensational ones?'

  'Oh, of course. All the ones packed with jealousy, revenge, violence, blood, adultery.'

  'I'm sorry. That was ungracious of me. Which ones would you really want to write about?

  'The most interesting ones from a legal point of view. I'd also like to get your views about the law in general and the legal system - how you think it might be improved, for instance.'

  Timothy took a sip of coffee before saying: 'Well, I certainly can see no objection to a serious piece of that nature. As a matter of fact, the editor of The British Monthly approached me some time ago, suggesting I wrote an article for him, along those very lines.'

  'Oh, then it seems I'm redundant, if you intend to write such an article yourself.'

  'Not at all, I turned him down. I just did not have the time. But I could certainly give you the facts and my opinions and you could write it up, if that is acceptable to you.'

  'Acceptable? It would be terrific. I'd have a market for the piece ready and waiting.'

  'I could get in touch with him, confirm that he is still interested and tell him the plan. You could then see him yourself and ascertain precisely what he requires in terms of length, general approach and so on.'

  'That's better still. Timothy, I could kiss you!'

  He looked away quickly and cleared his throat. She realised the last words had been a mistake. 'And you definitely would not write about me as a person?'

  'Well, just a few basic details, perhaps. Give it a little human interest.'

  'I have to say that I dislike human interest.'

  'It does help sell papers.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'And it might be an idea to include a couple of anecdotes, just to lighten it a little. You must have had some amusing experiences in court.'

  'None that seemed amusing at the time; embarrassing rather. Later one can smile.'

  'Can you think of one in particular?'

  'Well, perhaps, but I don't think it would—'

  'Oh, I'd just love to hear it.'

  'You may not find it at all amusing.'

  Try me.

  'Very well. It happened many years ago, when I was an inexperienced young barrister. It was a case, strangely enough, involving a will. It was hand-written, not drawn up by a solicitor, but perfectly legal - if it were genuine. In it, the Testator left all his property to his only son, who had lived some distance away, and it omitted any mention of his daughter, who had lived with him and looked after him for a number of years. I represented the daughter, whose contention was that the will was a forgery by her brother, who had slipped it among their father's papers on one of his infrequent visits. The matter seemed easy enough to resolve, so we sent the will, and a letter, known to have been written by the deceased, to a professional graphologist by the name of William Jones, who in a written report stated that in his view the will was definitely a forgery.

  'Came the time for me to call my expert. I said: "My next witness is Mr William Jones." The usher put his head into the corridor, called out: "William Jones". A man entered and went into the witness box. I did what I normally did on such occasions, ran through his professional qualifications, prior to asking the first question - something along the lines of: "Mr Jones, you are a professional graphologist of many years experience, who has worked extensively with numerous police forces." He did not say anything, just looked a little bewildered, but I assumed that perhaps he hadn't often actually given evidence in court, and I carried on hurriedly: "Would you be so good as to look at these two documents and say whether in your opinion they were written by the same person?" I passed the will and the letter to the usher, who handed them to the witness. He gazed at the papers for quite a long time, and then said, in a broad west country accent: "Couldn't rightly say. They certainly look the same." I was totally flabbergasted. I said: "But Mr Jones, you have had the opportunity to study these documents at leisure and examine them under magnification, have you not?" "No," he said. "Never seen 'em before."

  'Well, you can guess what's coming. This was not my William Jones. This William Jones had been waiting to give evidence as a witness to a traffic accident in another court. It transpired he had been too nervous to correct me when I listed his qualifications, imagining he would be guilty of contempt of court.'

  'Oh, that's priceless. I love it. And I suppose at that very moment your Mr Jones was indignantly denying that he'd ever been anywhere near a road accident.' She threw back her head and laughed.

  Seeming to find her amusement infectious, Timothy joined in. It was a strange and rarely heard sound, a sort of dry 'hih-hih-hih-hih,' all on the same note.

  Standing not more than eight feet away, Penny spun her head and stared at him, an expression of astonishment on her face. She whispered: 'Tommy, Daddy's laughing!'

  Tommy had followed her gaze. Penny went on: 'I haven't heard him laugh for years. Not since Mummy died.'

  Tommy didn't reply, and Penny plucked at his sleeve. 'Tommy?'

  He ignored her, took a few indecisive steps away from her towards Timothy and Stella. For a ghastly moment, Penny thought he was going to ask them not to make so much noise, but then he stopped and came back. He was wearing a strangely blank expression. 'Sorry. You were saying?'

  She repeated the words. 'Oh. Well, good. That's fine.' He seemed as surprised as she was.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At about twenty past ten, Dorothy slipped from the room, whispering to Lady Burford that she was going to say goodnight to her mother. She returned in about ten minutes and drew the Countess aside.

  'Could — could I ask you a very big favour?'

  'Of course, my dear.'

  'Would you be very kind and look in on Mother? She really does want to apologise to you personally, but she's very anxious to avoid seeing anyone else, and wants to leave early in the morning. It would so ease her mind.'

  About to remark that she felt no obligation to go out of her way to ease Clara's mind, Lady Burford took in Dorothy's wan and quite haggard face and relented. 'Very well. I'll go up now.'

  'Oh, thank you so much.' Her gratitude was almost pitiable.

  Lady Burford left the room. She came back in about seven or eight minutes. Dorothy immediately hurried across to her. 'Well?'

  'We've talked quite freely. Your stepmother did say some highly insulting things about members of George's - and your - family, and made some actual threats, which I told her frankly that I considered indefensible. She would not, however, apologise for that, and I believe she is truly convinced that some of them conspired against her. However, she has apologised handsomely for embarrassing George and me and Geraldine, as well as for any aspersions she seemed to have cast on us. I have accepted that apology and we left on relatively good terms.'

  Dorothy gave a big sigh of relief. 'Oh, I'm so glad. Thank you.'

  'I asked her if she wanted any refreshments and she requested a cup of cocoa and a couple of digestive biscuits, which I have arranged to be taken to her.'

  'You're really so kind. I'm sure she'll sleep better now - oh, I don't mean because of the cocoa, but having spoken to you.'

  The Countess smiled. 'You're a very loyal and dutiful daughter.'

  * * *

  It was shortly after this that the Earl made a short speech - one that he had delivered on a number of other occasions. 'Just a word about our burglar alarm. It's unique and we think foolproof. The one drawback is that while nobody can get in, no one can get out either, without setting it off. You'll find your bedroom windows will only open six inches. If you force them more than that - and, of course, you can do that quite easily in the event of a fire or some other emergency - or break the window or force an outside door, you'll trigger it. It can't be switched off but turns itself off automatically at six-thirty.'

  It had been a long, tiring day for all of those present, and a stressful one for some, and few felt like staying up late that night. By eleven o'clock only the younger people
were still downstairs. They chatted for another quarter of an hour, before Tommy, Stella and Penny all went upstairs together, the girls leaving him at the top of the staircase and making their way together to their rooms in the west corridor. Gerry, who of course, still felt wide awake, and Dorothy were left in sole possession of the drawing-room.

  'Well,' Gerry asked, 'what's it feel like to be an heiress?'

  'Wonderful — I think. I mean, I haven't really taken it in properly yet.'

  Gerry stood up. 'Want a drink?'

  'Oh, no thank you. I don't really drink alcohol very much.'

  'Hot drink? Coffee, tea?'

  'A cup of tea would be lovely.'

  Gerry rang the bell, poured herself a glass of wine and sat down again.

  Dorothy said: 'You're not going to bed yet?'

  'No, it's much too early for me. I'm a real night owl.'

  'Oh, good. I'm usually tucked up by this time, but I'm sure I couldn't sleep tonight.'

  'I'm not surprised. It's been quite a day.'

  A footman entered at that moment and Gerry ordered a pot of tea.

  When he had departed, Gerry said: 'You phoned Agatha, I suppose?'

  'No. I meant to immediately after the reading, but then that trouble with Mother put it right out of my head. By the time I remembered, it was too late, because she was going out for the whole evening, until quite late. I might phone her last thing, if that's all right.'

  'Of course. She'll be over the moon, won't she?'

  'I expect so. I mean, we were pretty sure we were going to get something, but nothing like this.'

  'Got any plans?'

  'Not really. It'll depend on what Mother says.'

  Gerry felt a surge of exasperation. 'It's your money, Dorry - yours and Agatha's.'

  'Oh, Aggie will probably be full of plans, when I tell her. She might even want to move into Grandmother's house. She'd like to be out of town, nearer the country. But I'm sure Mother wouldn't let me go with her, and she wouldn't want to move out of London. So I suppose I'll be staying in Hampstead.'

  'You must tell her what you want to do, and then just do it.'

  Dorothy looked doubtful. 'I don't know if I could.'

  The tea arrived a few moments later. When she was sipping a very sweet and milky cup, Dorothy said shyly: 'Do you still feel like telling me about the murders?'

  'Yes, of course, if you really want to hear it.'

  'Oh, yes please!' She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her. 'This is such fun.'

  It was amazing, Gerry thought, how much happier and more relaxed she was now Clara was not around.

  'It's difficult to know where to start,' she said. 'You probably know most of the facts, from the papers. So why don't you just ask me questions?'

  'All right.' Dorothy was eager. 'One thing I didn't understand is what made you decide, that first night, to go on watch in the corridor after everybody supposedly had gone to bed?'

  'Just a general uneasiness. As you know, we had two foreign diplomats here, an American millionaire, his wife and her fabulous diamond necklace, a notorious jewel thief was active, and we had one guest who had virtually gate-crashed under very suspicious circumstances. I was sure something fishy was going on, and I just had to try and find out . . .'

  * * *

  'And the very next day he proposed to you,' Dorothy said, with a sigh, a little over an hour later. 'And you said yes. It's so romantic.'

  Gerry grinned. 'Well, I hardly felt I could turn him down, after he'd risked his life to save mine.'

  'That's not the reason, though . . .?'

  'No, no. I was quite certain by then. If he hadn't proposed, I probably should have.'

  'When are you getting married?'

  'I don't know. We would have been married by now, but the poor darling had a death in the family, and that led to a lot of complications, which he had to go and try to sort out. Which is why I'm here at the mo—'

  She stopped short and both girls gave a start as from somewhere in the house came the sound of a loud crash. It had a sort of metallic ring to it, as if someone had dropped a heavy tool box. Although muffled by the thick drawing-room door, Gerry realised that the fact they could hear it at all must mean it had been very loud. She jumped to her feet. 'What on earth was that?'

  She hurried to the door and pulled it open. Dorothy, after thrusting her feet into her shoes, joined her. For a second, all was silent, then came the sound of a woman's voice. It was shouting, sounding more angry than afraid, and definitely came from upstairs, but from which wing it was impossible to tell. They could not make out the words.

  Dorothy gasped: 'Oh, can that be Mother?'

  'Let's go and find out,' Gerry said.

  She ran across the hall and up the grand staircase, Dorothy at her shoulder. They had nearly reached the head of the stairs before the shouting stopped. At the top, Gerry turned towards the east corridor and passed a room on her left, which was used for the storage of linen and where the upstairs end of the secret passage emerged. The next room was the last before the corner which led to the east corridor. She made to hurry on, but Dorothy stopped by it. 'This is Mother's room.'

  'Oh.' Gerry had not known which room had been allocated to Clara. 'I think the voice came from farther away.'

  'Let me just check.' Dorothy tapped on the panel. There was no response and she opened the door an inch or two and gave a loud stage whisper. 'Mother? Are you all right?' There was still no reply, and she opened the door wider, groped for the light switch and clicked it on. Then she gave a muffled half gasp, half-scream and moved violently backwards, cannoning into Gerry.

  Gerry stared past her into the room. The large double bed, sideways on to them in the centre of the wall on their right, was wildly dishevelled, the bedclothes half falling onto the floor. Clara was lying across the bed, her head hanging over the near side. Her face was nearly as white as the bed linen and her eyes, pointing fixedly at them, were totally lifeless.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dorothy buried her face in Gerry's shoulder. Her voice came in hoarse whispers. 'No. No. No.' Gerry wanted to scream herself, but she just raised her hand and robot-like patted Dorothy on the shoulder.

  Then there was the patter of footsteps, and suddenly her father was beside them. Gerry had never been so pleased to see him.

  'What the deuce is going on?'

  Gerry just pointed into the room. He gazed past her and made a sharp intake of breath. Then he went into the room. He gingerly approached the bed, bent and took the wrist of Clara's left hand, which was hanging down, nearly touching the floor. He clasped it for a few seconds, then let it go and straightened up. He turned round, looked at Gerry and slowly shook his head.

  That second the Countess arrived. 'What's wrong?'

  Gerry said: 'It's Clara. She's dead. It looks as though she's been murdered.'

  'Oh no! It can't be possible!'

  'I'm afraid there's no mistake.' The Earl's face was almost as white as the dead woman's. He muttered: 'I feared something like this.'

  Dorothy was now sobbing uncontrollably, convulsions shaking her body.

  Rapidly getting a grip on herself, Lady Burford said: 'Geraldine, take Dorothy to her room.'

  'Yes, yes, of course.' She said gently: 'Come along Dorry,' and tried to lead her away. But Dorothy suddenly resisted. 'No. I must see her first, properly.'

  She pulled away from Gerry and half-stumbled into the room. She crossed to the bed and stood looking down for ten seconds, while the others watched. Then she turned and came back. 'I - I think I would like to go and lie down now.'

  'Come along, then.' Gerry put her arm round Dorothy's shoulder. 'Er, which is your room?'

  Dorothy pointed to the left. 'The third on the right.'

  'Oh, next door to me.' Gerry led her slowly along the corridor and opened the door of Dorothy's room. As she did so, she saw the door of the outside corner bedroom at the end of the corridor open and Timothy, dressing-gowned,
emerging. She did not pause to explain the situation to him, but switched on the light, led Dorothy into the room and pushed the door closed behind them. Just inside, Dorothy suddenly resisted.

  'What's the matter?'

  'If Mother was - was murdered, the murderer's got to still be in the house, hasn't he?'

  'Oh, I don't think—'

  'But your burglar alarm. The Earl was saying earlier that no one can get out without setting it off.'

  Gerry bit her lip. It was, of course, true.

  'Suppose he's in here?' Dorothy said, fearfully.

  'I'm sure he's not.'

  'But why not? We must search. Will you look under the bed?'

  'Of course.'

  She walked across to the bed and knelt down, while Dorothy went to the large wardrobe, stopped and took a deep breath, before reaching for the knob. In spite of her airy manner, Gerry did feel a slight frisson of apprehension as she lifted the bedspread and lowered her head. Just suppose . . . ? But all was clear. She stood up at the same moment as Dorothy, with obvious relief, firmly reclosed the wardrobe door.

  'Nothing,' Gerry said, 'and there's nowhere else in here he could be.' The rest of the furniture consisted of a dressing-table and stool, a bedside table, one easy and one upright chair.

  'I expect you think I'm terribly silly.'

  'No, I should have thought of it.'

  Dorothy sat on the bed, meticulously removed her shoes, then put her legs up and lay down.

  'Can I get you some brandy?' Gerry asked.

  'No, really, thank you.'

  'Or just a glass of water?'

  'Nothing at all just now, thank you.'

  'I'll stay with you.'

  'There's really no need.'

  'I want to.'