Suppose Clara did know what she had done, and why she had done it? It didn't bear thinking about. It would, in Clara's rather vulgar phrase, certainly make her reputation mud. It must not be allowed to happen. She had built that reputation - for probity, honesty, truthfulness — over many years. She could not lose it now.
How, though, could she stop Clara? Would offering her money work? Two hundred pounds, perhaps, or three? It would be a big lump out of her inheritance, but worth it if it silenced Clara for good. But could she be sure it would? Suppose Clara came back for more? That's what blackmailers did. She might bleed her dry. And anyway, how could she approach Clara in the first place? 'I'll give you two hundred pounds if you promise to keep quiet about' - when, perhaps, all the time, Clara did not know about it. Jean would be giving her the information.
Oh dear, why had she done that awful thing? She would surely be punished. However, it was no good crying over spilt milk. The important thing was to decide what was she going to do now.
Jean thought deeply for several minutes and eventually came to a decision. She gave a firm nod. Yes, she was going to go ahead. She was not going to back out now. Whatever the cost.
Chapter Sixteen
The menu at dinner that evening was superb: chilled watercress soup, poached salmon, roast saddle of venison, with redcurrant jelly, and summer pudding, containing strawberries, raspberries and black cherries, served with cream. Nevertheless, the meal was a strained occasion. Perhaps it was the presence of Dorothy, who sat low in her chair, merely picking at her food, and when spoken to answered in monosyllables. Lady Burford had to resist a strong urge to order her to sit up straight and answer nicely when addressed. Of the others, Gregory seemed sunk in gloom, Stella distrait; Timothy at the best of times did not excel at light, dinner-table conversation, and Penny was preoccupied and apparently making valiant and unaccustomed efforts to think something through. Miss Mackenzie seemed decidedly nervous and was probably, the Countess thought, feeling rather out of place among a group of people who were all, however distantly, related to each other and all, as she would have described it, her social superiors.
Lady Burford, for whom hosting splendid dinner parties was one of the joys of life, was disappointed. This occasion was perhaps not so very grand — no dress clothes, for one thing, and no especially distinguished guests - but it was, nevertheless, the first for six months, and she had hoped for better.
Only Lord Burford, Gerry and Tommy were in good form, the latter prattling away about various fantastic business plans for which he might use his newly acquired capital. His schemes became more and more wild, and Gerry, realising that without their contributions the atmosphere would resemble that of a morgue, played up to him, adding even more bizarre ideas. Among the projects they came up with were tortoise farming in North Wales, a speech training school for parrots and a company producing reconditioned pencils from the glued- together stubs of old ones.
When they eventually ran out of ideas, the Earl decided to make a contribution. 'I've got an idea.' They looked at him enquiringly.
'Collapsible and expanding cufflinks.'
Tommy stared blankly. 'Sorry and all that, but I don't quite get the jolly old joke.'
'I'm serious. I've got scores of cufflinks. Happened to mention once years ago that I was always not puttin' 'em in properly, so one fell out and I lost it, or else I kept breaking one of a pair, so I was always short. For ages after that I could practically guarantee gettin' a pair or two every birthday or Christmas. But I've never had a pair that it was easy to put in once you'd got your shirt on. I've never wanted a valet, and it takes me minutes sometimes, if somebody's not around to lend a hand. You want to invent some that are small enough to go through the holes easily, then when they're through, you just press a little button and they suddenly expand. You'd make a fortune.'
'I'll certainly bear that in mind,' Tommy said. He looked at Gerry. 'Make a note of that, Miss Jones.'
'Yes, sir.'
When the ladies retired at the end of the meal, things were little better in either room. Tommy was out of his element in the company of what he thought of as three old buffers. A glass of vintage port and a cigar did loosen Gregory's tongue somewhat, though Timothy remained aloof and as unbending as ever.
The Earl concentrated on Gregory. 'Congratulations on getting that Chippendale desk,' he said. 'I remember seeing it. Fine piece of work.'
'Is it? I've never seen it myself.'
'Yes, and in perfect condition, as I remember. Worth quite a bit, I imagine.'
Gregory's ears almost visibly pricked up. 'Really? Er, how much, I wonder.'
'I wouldn't know, my dear fellow. I'm not up in antique furniture. But you won't want to sell it, will you? I mean, tremendous historical interest, and all that, owned by both the Pitts; absolutely fitting that it should stay in the family and be owned by an MP, what?'
'Oh yes, yes, of course. I mean, no, I wouldn't want to sell it. Of course not.'
Timothy spoke for the first time. 'Nothing would induce me to sell my set of Dickens, no matter how short of money I was.'
'I am not short of money,' Gregory said angrily. 'I was simply wondering about the value for insurance purposes. Those of us on fixed salaries have to think about these things, not being in a position to charge exorbitant fees for our work.'
'Perhaps those on fixed salaries should be careful to keep their non-essential expenses down to a minimum.'
'Just what do you—'
The Earl broke in hastily. 'Incidentally, wanted to say how much I appreciated your words at the funeral. Absolutely right, I thought: not too gloomy, but not too flippant either.'
'Oh, thank you. One does one's best.'
'Have some more port,' said the Earl. He refilled their glasses.
Tommy, having drunk nothing so good before, sipped it appreciatively. He was beginning to feel more at home. 'Must say, I do envy you fellows who can speak like that in public. I mean, if it's only a few people and everyone's feeling jolly I can chat away about anything.'
'We would never have known,' Timothy put in.
'No, I mean as long as I haven't got to talk about anything in particular, I'm fine.'
'You would clearly make a splendid Member of Parliament. They are expert at talking about nothing in particular for hours on end.'
'That from a lawyer!' Gregory sneered.
Lord Burford hastened to encourage Tommy; anything to keep the other two from getting at each other's throats. 'So what's your problem, exactly, my boy?'
Tommy, who had really said all he had wanted to, ploughed on. "Well, I mean it's when it comes to talking seriously about a particular subject that I dry up. I mean, I was best man at a chum's wedding recently. Hundred guests and I was bally nervous. In the end it wasn't too bad, because I was able to spin 'em a few jokes. But you can't always do that, can you? I mean, you couldn't tell the one about the lighthouse keeper's daughter at a funeral, could you?'
'Oh, I don't know,' said Gregory, 'there are some people so totally without humour or warmth that they wouldn't recognise it as a joke at all.'
'Shall we join the ladies?' said Lord Burford.
* * *
In the drawing-room, talk was not quite so stilted, this being largely due to the fact that Penny and Stella now seemed to be the best of friends and chatted together quietly, except for the occasional burst of laughter. However, Dorothy and Jean Mackenzie both totally failed to respond to Lady Burford's attempts to engage them in conversation, so that she was forced to talk to her own daughter. She would actually have been grateful for the company of Clara, who, as she remembered, conversed extremely fluently. Usually it had just been gossip - sometimes quite scandalous - but nevertheless, the Countess had to admit, often rather interesting . . .
She was, therefore, relieved when the men eventually arrived, followed by Merryweather and a footman with coffee. After this, the atmosphere lightened as people moved into smaller groups or pairs.
&nb
sp; Penny moved up to Tommy. He grinned at her. 'I say, this is all rather splendid, isn't it?'
'Mm. Tommy, I want to say something.'
'I'm all ears.'
'You mustn't be annoyed, but I don't think they're going to work.'
'What aren't?'
'Some of your ideas. The pencils, for instance. It would take an awfully long time to stick them together. And I don't think you'd find glue strong enough to hold them. They'd break up again when you pressed hard.'
Tommy just said: 'Ah.'
'And I don't think there are enough people who want to buy tortoises. The school for parrots could work, but it might take absolutely ages to teach just one to talk properly, and how much would people be willing to pay for the tuition?'
About to explain, Tommy wisely thought better of it. He just nodded thoughtfully. 'Yes, I think you're absolutely right, Penny. I tend to get carried away, you know, but I can see, now you've pointed it out, that they're all rather impractical schemes. Thanks very much. You've got quite a head for business, haven't you?'
Penny flushed a bright pink. 'Oh, do you really think so? It would be lovely if I had. It must be such fun to be a career woman, running your own company.'
'I don't know that it's always much fun, actually.'
'Oh, but it must be. Think of all that lovely money rolling in every week, and a private office and a secretary and letter headings and business cards with your name on: Penelope Saunders, Managing Director.' She gave a wistful sigh. 'You have got a bit of money now. You can try. I was hoping Florrie was going to leave me some, too, but all I've got is pearls.'
'They sound lovely, though.'
'But I'll hardly ever be able to wear them. They'll be shut up in Daddy's safe practically all the time. Of course, I might take them out sometimes, when he's away - I know the combination - but he doesn't go away very often and if I did it would be just my luck if they were stolen.'
'But they'd be insured, so you'd have the cash value then, which is what you want. It would the best thing that could happen.'
'Unless Daddy just invested the cash for me. In which case, I wouldn't see a penny.'
'But it would be your money. You'll be of age in a couple of years. You could do what you liked with it.'
'I wouldn't dare go against him. He'd probably cut off my allowance.' She looked thoroughly miserable.
Tommy tried to cheer her up. 'Tell you what, I'll steal them from his safe, sell them, and we'll split the proceeds.'
A beatific smile spread over Penny's face. 'Oh, Tommy, would you really do that for me?'
He was taken aback. The girl took everything you said perfectly seriously. Of course, given that she'd been brought up in a home without humour, it was hardly surprising. And in a way, he thought, it was kind of endearing. It made her seem so vulnerable. You felt you wanted to protect her. He said hastily: 'Of course I would. But I think we ought to leave it as a last resort. If your father ever found out, he'd never forgive you, and you wouldn't want to risk that.'
'I suppose not.' Penny sounded doubtful.
'Tell you what,' he said. 'I won't start my own business without consulting you. You can be my adviser. Then when I get it up and going you can come and work with me. We can be partners. Or I'll be Chairman and you can be Managing Director; you can have cards printed and everything. Though I can't promise you a secretary, yet.'
Penny almost jumped in the air with excitement. 'Oo, Tommy that'll be absolutely divine!'
'Yes, won't it?' said Tommy, wondering what he had let himself in for.
* * *
Timothy, sitting by himself on a large sofa, fastidiously sipping a cup of unsweetened black coffee, and looking disapprovingly at his daughter, as she talked to Tommy, glanced up as a shadow fell over him. It was Stella. 'May I sit down?'
'Please.' He made a gesture with his hand.
She did so. 'I wanted to have a word with you.'
'Oh? About what?'
The curtness with which he asked the question was not auspicious, but Stella carried on.
'I wanted first to congratulate you.'
'On what?'
'On Penny. She's such a lovely girl.'
'Oh, she's pretty enough, I dare say. But I cannot claim any credit for that.'
'I didn't only mean that. She has so much charm.'
'I'm afraid she doesn't get that from her father, either.'
'Well, there's one thing I'm sure she does get from him: she's smart.'
He raised his eyebrows. 'Are you serious?'
'Oh, she's not an intellectual. But she knows what she wants and my guess is she knows how to get it.'
'I must admit I am surprised by what you say. She seems to me to live in a fantasy world much of the time.'
'She day-dreams. What's the harm in that, at her age? She's also kind-hearted, totally without spite and devastatingly honest.'
'You've summed her up remarkably quickly.'
'Yes, but I've always been good at that, and we have to do it in my work. Sure, these are only my first impressions. Plainly you know her far better than I do.'
'Sometimes I feel I don't know her at all. But I appreciate very much what you say, and on consideration I think you're probably correct. Perhaps I do tend to dwell too much on the negative side of her personality. No doubt because I worry about her so.'
'That's only natural. But I think you've done a great job, raising her on your own. It must have been hard.'
'Well, her mother was there until she was nearly thirteen. It was terrible for Penelope, losing her then. I was proud of the way she handled it. But the past six years have not been easy. I knew nothing about teenage girls, really. Perhaps I've been too strict. She certainly thinks so. It's no secret that relations between us are somewhat strained at times. But girls of that age seem so vulnerable. One hears such terrible things. A few moments of recklessness and a life can be ruined. I've been so desperate to protect her that perhaps I've gone too far.'
After the first few moments of suspicion, he seemed now relieved to be talking; probably, Stella thought, he normally had no one to unburden himself to.
'I was the only one able even to try and take her mother's place,' he went on. 'It wasn't as though she had an older sister or any aunts. Both my wife and I were only children, and her relatives are scattered throughout the country.'
'You have at least one cousin, though, who is married, and living in London.'
'Gregory? We never meet except unavoidably, on occasions such as this. Besides, his wife, Alexandra, is extremely aloof and very politically minded - the only reason, I'm sure, she married Gregory. She would have no interest in Penelope at all.'
'I was chatting to Gregory this afternoon.'
'I noticed.' Timothy's manner was becoming slightly chillier again.
'He seemed very friendly.'
'Oh, I'm sure he did. You appeared to be getting on famously.'
'I was just making his acquaintance, really. Actually, I thought he might be able to help me. I'm hoping to make a career change. He's offered to lend a helping hand.'
'I should be very cautious of Gregory's helping hands.'
'Oh, I shall be extremely cautious of Gregory's hands: they may well want to help themselves.'
For the first time since she had first seen him, Timothy smiled. 'I can see that there are no flies on you - isn't that what they say in the United States?'
'Working as a journalist in New York City for nearly eleven years does help in that respect.'
'I'm sure. I just wish that Penelope had someone as sophisticated and worldly-wise as you that she could look to for advice and help.'
'Why can't she? I'd be delighted. Of course, we don't really move in the same circles.'
'I'm sure that can be rectified. Look, perhaps you would care to come to dinner in a week or two. I'll make sure Penny's there - oh, I'm sure she'll want to be, anyway.'
'That'd be swell. Thank you.'
'Excellent. I'll look forward
to it.'
'And I have an idea. How old is she?'
'Nearly nineteen.'
'When's her birthday?'
'The first of October.'
'Why not throw her a party? Oh, I know not much is made of a nineteenth birthday, as a rule: people keep the big celebration for the twenty-first. But let this be an extra one - a sort of bonus. It'd be a thrill for her, I'm sure, and show her how much you care. I'd be pleased to help organise it, if you like.'
Timothy nodded. 'Yes, that is a very good idea. And I would certainly appreciate your help. I would not have the first idea how to set about it. In fact, you may find yourself doing more than merely helping to organise it, I'm afraid.'
'That's fine by me. I'll enjoy it.'
'The only trouble is that I suppose she'll want to invite Tommy. She's getting too close to that young whipper-snapper.'
'Oh, Tommy's all right.'
He said quickly: 'I'm so sorry. I'd forgotten he's quite a close relative of yours, isn't he? Do forgive me.'
'That's all right. He's only a first cousin. But I am fond of him. What have you got against him?'
'I'm sure he's quite without malice, but he just seems such a loafer, with absolutely no power of perseverance. He's had about a dozen jobs in the last four or five years. He's never going to amount to anything. He's the last sort of friend Penelope needs.'
'He may just be one of those guys who takes a long time to find his niche. I'm sure he'll settle down - especially now he's got this money. I fancy he might pleasantly surprise everybody one day.'
'I sincerely hope you're right. Because the more I criticise him, the more vehemently Penelope defends him. So it seems I'm going to have to tolerate him.'
'I'm sure it's good tactics to try.'
'Anyway, er, Stella, I'm really very grateful for your interest, and your offer. If there's anything I can do . . .'
'You know, Timothy, I'm very glad you said that.'
The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks Page 10