Mrs. Malory and the Festival Murder

by Hazel Holt

  ‘Oh, it’s not as bad as that!’ I had protested. ‘I know she’s dreadfully jolly hockey-sticks, but she does mean well.’

  But it was rather wearing sometimes, since she tended to attach herself to Rosemary and me as certain girls at school used to do. And, if she never actually said, ‘Will you be my friend,’ as they did, the appeal was there in her large brown eyes.

  ‘Like some beseeching spaniel!’ Rosemary said. ‘Except that I’m devoted to spaniels.’

  Still, as I said, I was fond of Eleanor and responded with what I hoped was equal enthusiasm to her news about Leo Spenser.’

  ‘Yes, he is good – such an intelligent actor. I’d like to hear him reading Byron rather than Adrian’s stuff, though.’

  Eleanor gave me a conspiratorial smile and said, ‘Well, actually, I don’t really understand Adrian’s poems. I’m sure they’re awfully good – everyone says so – but I really only like poems that rhyme. Oh and Shakespeare, too, though he rhymes sometimes, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I wonder how Adrian got hold of someone so prestigious as Leo Spenser?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I think it was something to do with the BBC Eleanor pronounced the initials with reverence. ‘I think he said that they were doing a programme together.’

  ‘Oh well,’ I said grudgingly, ‘full marks to Adrian.’

  ‘What on earth, I wonder, can you be giving our ineffable chairman full marks for?’ a voice behind me enquired. It was a very beautiful voice, deep and velvety, carefully produced and nurtured, and used, inflection by inflection, to convey mood and critical evaluation as well as mere information. Will Maxwell had been an actor before he took to writing plays.

  ‘What’s ineffable mean?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘Look it up, my dear child, in a dictionary in that great big library of yours.’ Will smiled at her kindly. He too was fond of Eleanor, as he was fond of children, animals and other vulnerable creatures. I turned to greet him with pleasure.

  ‘Oh, Will, I’m so glad you managed to come. It’s going to be a fairly dire meeting. The Palgrave fan club is here in force and Rosemary and I will need all the help we can get to stop them turning the whole Festival into a three-ringed circus.’

  ‘If only they would,’ Will said. ‘Adrian as ring-master, of course, in a top hat, cracking a whip, with all the others jumping through hoops. Now that I would pay money to see.’

  ‘Eleanor says that Adrian thinks he can get hold of Leo Spenser, but unfortunately he will be reading Adrian’s poems.’

  ‘Never mind, darling,’ Will grinned. ‘You can always close your ears and just gaze.’

  ‘Yes, well, it does seem such a waste.’ I turned to Eleanor and asked, ‘Is Father Freddy going to be here tonight?’

  ‘No. Such a shame – it’s a meeting of the PCC. He had to be there, of course, and the dates clashed.’

  The Reverend Frederic Drummond was the rector of the beautiful church, whose great sandstone tower we could see from the window. St Decumen’s has a very fine organ (restored and improved by the benefaction of Sir Ernest, and a large and impressive interior so that the church, in addition to its more ecclesiastical function, is always greatly in demand for concerts. The Rector himself is equally impressive – tall and powerfully built. Even now, in his late seventies, he’s a formidable figure. Like some great ruined oak, Will used to say. At Oxford, and later in London, he had been part of that Bohemian literary society that features so often nowadays in memoirs and biographies. Even after he had taken orders he was usually to be found in fairly exclusive circles and his churches were always in the most fashionable square mile of London. He’s marvellous company with a fund of splendid stories and he still tackles everything with tremendous gusto – food, drink, friendship, life. His parishioners are very proud of him (though the greater part of his conversation with them might just as well be in a foreign language), as they might be of some exotic bird that had chosen to land in their back gardens. St Decumen’s has had a tradition in recent years of having elderly retired clergyman – it is, everyone feels, much better than being amalgamated with three or four other parishes – but they had previously been retired service chaplains, whose style and force of delivery were more generally suited to the quarter-deck or a windy parade ground. Compared with them, Father Freddy (as even the villagers called him) was a rara avis indeed. I was sorry he wouldn’t be at this meeting since his ironic eye and unclerical asides usually provide me with much-needed relief.

  Will took Eleanor’s coffee cup, which was sliding dangerously off its saucer.

  ‘Allow me.’ He turned to me. ‘Can I fetch you another cup?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll have one afterwards when we’re allowed to get at all that delicious food. You know,’ I added, ‘I only came on to this committee so that I could enjoy Jessie’s heavenly shrimp patties.’ Jessie was Eleanor’s housekeeper and a fabulous cook. With typical generosity, Eleanor always provided a substantial buffet supper on committee evenings and it was certainly the most agreeable part of the evening for all but the most egotistical committee members.

  ‘You’re right,’ Will said. ‘I’ll go and chivvy Adrian to make a start – the sooner we begin, the sooner we’ll finish and get down to the real business of the evening.’

  I watched with affection his tall, thin figure moving purposefully across the room. I’ve known Will for years – ever since he first came down here and bought that remote cottage after his wife died tragically young in a road accident. He’s had the most tremendous success and recently critics have begun to call him a classic comic writer, which, he says, makes him feel very old. But a new Will Maxwell play is always a theatrical event and his rare television scripts are as notable for their excellence as for their popular appeal. Since Peter died he has been very kind, giving me dinner occasionally or, if we happen to be in London at the same time, taking me to the theatre. Though going to the theatre with Will is not unalloyed pleasure. He fidgets in what he feels to be the badly written bits or startles his neighbour in the adjoining seat by a sharp, very audible intake of breath when the author has achieved some technical feat of which he approves.

  Enid Palgrave, looking, as I said to Rosemary after-wards, more like a hobbit than ever, suddenly appeared and said rather rudely, I thought, since it was Eleanor’s house, ‘Come along, now, you two. All this coffee and chatter is all very well, but we really must get started.’

  I raised my eyebrows at this peremptory tone but Eleanor, who appears to regard Enid as a sort of Head Girl figure, said, ‘Oh, so sorry, Enid. Where do you want us to sit?’

  I gravitated towards Rosemary who was talking to young Robin Turner, our Treasure. Robin is a very nice boy who works in Jack’s firm of accountants. He’s desperately shy and has recently had a sort of nervous breakdown. Rosemary and her husband Jack befriended him and it was Rosemary who persuaded him to be the Festival Treasurer (a thankless task and one for which there are never any volunteers) in the hope that it might ‘take him out of himself. He manages the financial side of things beautifully, being one of those people who are more at home with figures than with people, but the prospect of actually having to get up and speak at a meeting fills him with terror and he can only manage it if Rosemary is close at hand to cheer him on.

  I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

  ‘Hello, Robin, hello, Rosemary. Shall we all sit together? Then we can have a little giggle if Adrian is too impossible.’

  The meeting went on and on, as meetings do. Every item was discussed, turned inside out, and discussed all over again. I suppressed a yawn and looked surreptitiously at my watch, looked up and caught Will’s eye. He winked at me. Various people expressed surprise that various other people didn’t agree with them. Umbrage was taken. My thoughts drifted away and I found myself wondering how anyone, even Enid Palgrave, could have actually chosen a blouse in that relentlessly unbecoming shade of mustard.

  A sharp interchange roused me from my abstraction
. Adrian was being thoroughly unpleasant to poor Robin. Something to do with the allocation of funds.

  ‘But the money simply isn’t there for such a project,’ Robin was saying doggedly. ‘If we haven’t got it, we can’t spend it.’

  ‘This is absolutely intolerable!’ Adrian was being his most high-handed and infuriating. ‘It is not for you to say what this committee can or cannot do.’

  Robin tried to answer but Adrian didn’t draw breath but went on and on, becoming more and more unpleasant and sarcastic. It’s always the same – anyone who opposes him is usually talked down in this way. Most people are used to it; they simply shrug and go round about and get things done some other way. But poor Robin obviously couldn’t cope. His face was flushed and he seemed almost in tears. Rosemary tried to protest and so did Will but Adrian in full flow is difficult to stop. Robin suddenly got to his feet.

  ‘I’m not going to listen to any more of this! You’re hateful and unfair and I won’t stay here to be bullied by you like this.’

  Robin was definitely in tears now and his voice as he threw the childish phrase at Adrian was verging on the hysterical. He snatched up the pile of papers in front of him and, overturning his chair in his haste, he almost ran from the room. There was an embarrassed silence then Rosemary got up.

  ‘Well, Adrian, I hope you’re proud of yourself, picking on the poor boy like that. I’d better go and see if he’s all right.’

  Adrian looked around the table but no one met his eye.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ he said. ‘If the boy can’t argue things out rationally! So emotional and unbalanced.’

  Will went and picked up the overturned chair.

  ‘What a disagreeable schoolboy you must have been, Adrian,’ he said. ‘I expect you pulled the wings off flies as well.’

  Enid shot him a poisonous look.

  ‘Mr Chairman, I propose we get on with the meeting,’ she said. ‘There are still a great many things to be decided and I for one do not have time to waste.’

  The meeting did continue, but the atmosphere was sour and even more squabbles than usual broke out. Eventually Adrian realized that nothing useful was going to be decided and closed the whole thing down much earlier than usual.

  It was with some relief that we all moved into another room for the refreshments. Tables had been set out in the morning room, piled with plates and bowls of food. Jessie quickly set to work to dish out potato salad and Coronation Chicken and the famous shrimp patties. Jessie is Welsh, a large, handsome woman, with the typical dark hair and high colouring and just a faint lilt in her voice. I suppose she must be in her mid-thirties now. She came straight from an orphanage at sixteen to work at Kinsford and is deeply devoted to Miss Eleanor, as she has always insisted on calling her.

  ‘Hello, Jessie,’ I said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day!’

  She smiled with pleasure. I thought how attractive she was and wondered why she had never married.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Malory, it’s very nice of you to say so. Have some of this avocado dip. It’s a new recipe I found in one of those books at the hairdresser’s.’

  ‘It looks gorgeous. What a pity Father Freddy isn’t here tonight to try it!’

  ‘Oh, the Reverend does enjoy his food. It’s a real pleasure to cook for him.’

  ‘He certainly does! Last time he came to see me he ate a whole plateful of coconut pyramids!’

  We smiled together, the old-fashioned smile of two women who do like to see a man eat.

  With my plate satisfactorily filled I looked around the room. Only Adrian’s two most enthusiastic supporters, Geraldine Marwick and Evelyn Page, were talking to him and Enid. Everyone else, though not exactly shunning him, were contriving to be in some other part of the room. The general feeling seemed to be that this time Adrian really had gone too far. Rosemary came in and I went over to see how Robin was.

  ‘He’s gone home,’ she said. ‘I got him calmed down a bit so that he was okay to drive, but he wanted to go and, honestly, I really don’t think he could bear to be in the same room with Adrian after that.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Poor boy! Does that mean he’ll resign?’

  ‘Oh yes, he was quite firm about that. It was the last straw, really. Adrian’s always been foul to him – he wanted Geraldine to be Treasurer, you know.’

  ‘But she’s practically innumerate!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, but she’s one of his buddies. Robin was far too good and conscientious to suit Adrian. You weren’t at last month’s meeting, were you? He and Enid between them criticised every single item of Robin’s financial report – it was terribly embarrassing and awful for Robin, who’d done a really good job. I was absolutely seething!’

  ‘Someone should strangle them both,’ I said. ‘Anyway, you’ve done what you can – come and get some food.’

  We moved over to the table where Eleanor was talking to Jessie. She looked distressed and said, ‘I know Adrian is very clever and all that, but I do think he was absolutely beastly to poor Robin! I hate it when people are sarcastic like that. Where is Robin?’ she asked Rosemary.

  ‘He’s gone home. He was very upset.’

  ‘Poor thing, I’m not surprised. It was dreadful – I hate scenes and arguments.’

  Her face was grave and she spoke with an unusual intensity. Then Jessie asked Rosemary about the food she wanted and the conversation became more general. After a short while Enid came up to Eleanor and, ignoring Rosemary and me, said, ‘I’m afraid we have to dash, Eleanor, dear. Adrian needs an early night – he has to be up at crack of dawn to get the train to London. Rehearsals for his new poetry programme, you know. So do forgive us if we just slip away. Thanks for your splendid hospitality.’

  She turned and collected Adrian and swept him out of the room all in one movement.

  Rosemary snorted.

  ‘At least she could see that they weren’t exactly flavour of the month just now. Not that she’s much better than he is – bossy cow!’

  Eleanor giggled. ‘Oh, Rosemary, what a dreadful thing to say!’

  ‘Well, she is. And patronizing. And dreary. At least Adrian can be amusing in a catty sort of way. She’s just sourdough.’

  ‘What exactly is sourdough?’ I asked, wishing to turn the subject since Eleanor was still looking upset. ‘Do you know, Jessie? I’m sure I’ve seen something about sourdough rolls in an American cookery book.’

  Jessie paused in her attempt to fill Rosemary’s plate to overflowing and considered the question.

  ‘I couldn’t really say, Mrs Malory. I suppose it might be a bread dough made with sour milk. Like scones, you know. I should think it would be very nice.’

  Will came to join us.

  ‘Can I have some of that exquisite trifle, Jessie?’ he asked. ‘I feel I can eat more freely now that the termites have gone.’

  ‘Termites, would you say?’ I considered the word. ‘I’d thought weevils, but you may be right – or lower than vermin, perhaps.’

  ‘The hand of God reaching down into the slime,’ Will quoted with relish, ‘couldn’t raise them to the depths of degradation.’

  Eleanor, who had been swivelling from Will to me like a Wimbledon fan, said, ‘Oh I do love listening to you two! It’s as good as a play!’

  ‘A Will Maxwell play, of course,’ he said.

  I laughed. ‘I’m very flattered that I’m considered worthy of speaking your dialogue.’

  Now that the Palgraves had gone, shortly followed by their two henchwomen, the whole atmosphere was lighter and more frivolous, almost like a party. Little knots of people ate and chatted and laughed and practically no one mentioned the Festival.

  Eleanor was in her element; she was a great one for entertaining. There were not many grand parties now, as there had been in Sir Ernest’s time. He had been in the Foreign Office and in his heyday there had been entertaining on a very grand scale indeed. Eleanor and Phyllis had been schoolgirls then, of course, a
nd after Phyllis’ death Sir Ernest had almost severed his links with the greater world outside. There were still gatherings at Kinsford, but they were of local people, and as he and Eleanor drew together in grief at her death there were fewer even of these. After Sir Ernest had died Eleanor had gone abroad for some months and when she returned she had thrown herself energetically into local events, opening up Kinsford for every one of the fund-raisers who had approached her.

  When I went to say goodbye I said, ‘Thank you for a lovely party!’

  ‘It was fun, wasn’t it, after – you know.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry poor Robin missed the good bit. We’ll have to find something else in the Festival for him to do, something that doesn’t involve horrible Adrian.’

  ‘Oh yes, what a good idea. Why don’t you and Rosemary come to tea next week and we’ll try and think of something? I’m sure there’s a job that’s just right for him. Cousin Ernest always used to say that there is a round hole for every round peg if only you look long enough.’

  Eleanor had the habit of quoting some of Sir Ernest’s more tedious clichés as if they were Holy Writ. In other people it might have been profoundly irritating, in Eleanor Rosemary and I found it rather touching. She still missed him very much and tried to keep Kinsford as much as possible as it had been when he was still alive. I often felt that her deep involvement in local affairs was something that she did for his sake since, in spite of her jolly manner, she was, underneath, a shy person. But if it was what he would have wished, a family responsibility, then she would do it, whatever the cost to herself. There was something rather splendid about her dedication to his memory which made one respect her in spite of her gaucheness and occasionally aggravating ways.

  ‘That would be lovely, Nell,’ I said warmly, using the diminutive of our younger days. ‘I’ll organize Rosemary and fix a day. Thank you so much for everything. See you soon.’

  As I walked down the drive to where I had left my car Will came up behind me.

  ‘Are you OK? Do you want a torch?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, it’s a lovely moonlit night. Just look at the stars!’