The Last Baronet

by Caroline Akrill

  ‘How my mother would have loved this,’ Mary said softly.

  ‘Hey, Dad, this is a fantastic place!’ Tom had never sounded so enthusiastic and, as the Range Rover turned onto the carriage sweep in the front courtyard and a young man, darkly handsome, came down the entrance steps to meet them, Emily opened her mouth for the first time in almost three hours. ‘I think I might grow to like the country,’ she said. ‘The view gets better all the time.’

  *

  ‘I say, how very convenient! That’s well met, eh? Give me a hand with these boxes, would you, there’s a good chap? There’re not particularly heavy, just a dashed inconvenient size. I want to get them inside without being spotted by the other ranks. Just take a hold of that one, then, if I put this one on the top you can follow on like a good ‘un. Wide is the gate and broad is the way, and all that, eh?’

  Norman, having abandoned on the steps his own luggage (painstakingly selected as appropriate for the country by Yvonne and comprising a matching set of three canvas holdalls in a colour that could most kindly be described as mud green, bound with tan leather-look plastic) followed the stooped and elderly figure across the courtyard towards the east wing apartment, his progress and his vision much hampered by two enormously long and cumbersome cardboard boxes. It had not been the welcome he had envisaged but, on the other hand, he was flattered to be of use and also curious as to what the boxes might contain because the fact was that they were so light it was hard to imagine they might contain anything at all.

  ‘Feathers.’ Vivian, grappling with two large, square and only slightly less cumbersome boxes, might have read his mind. ‘Wings, to be entirely accurate. That’s why the boxes are such a devilish shape. Had to drive all the way to Norwich to pick them up. Damned long trip. I’d forgotten how far it was, to tell the truth. Wasn’t sure the old bus would make it. Still, we got back in the end. Mission accomplished, as they say. Lavinia! Lavinia, are you in there?’ He banged on a door with his elbow. ‘You can bet your bottom dollar she isn’t, you know. They’ve moved the piano again, that’s the rub. They’ve this wild idea she’ll play in the dining room for the punters. Well, she may or she may not. Difficult to say, actually. Never can tell with Lavinia. Might have to help out myself if the going gets sticky. Rather a fine baritone voice once. Might still have it, for all I know. Never tried it recently. Still, at least we’ll be able to let rip at the Carol Service. Looking forward to it. Organising the whole thing myself. Given a free rein. Make a joyful noise unto God, and all that. Open thou my lips and my mouth shall show forth thy praise. Lavinia! Lavinia! Damn and blast the woman. Tell you what, old chap, got a key in my pocket somewhere. Don’t suppose you could have a rummage? Got a spare hand, have you?’

  Norman had not, and freeing one involved a complicated adjustment of the boxes with due regard to the possible fragility of their truly astonishing contents. Feathers? thought Norman with incredulity. Wings? In due course the key was located in the inside pocket of Vivian’s ancient Barbour jacket (Norman was able to recognise the genuine article having tried one himself in Country Cousins before noticing the price and opting for a cheaper alternative) and the door was opened and the boxes manipulated through a small kitchen into a sitting room where they were deposited on the carpet with much relief and some agonised arm stretching to restore lost circulation.

  Norman was anxious to reclaim his luggage but Vivian was not inclined to let him escape without a reward in the form of a glass of whisky. ‘Can’t let you go off without a stiffener, old chap. Don’t know what I would have done without you. Not really supposed to have any spirits, actually. Have to resort to subterfuge. Have to nip down the cellar when nobody’s looking. Staying long, are you? Jolly nice jacket you’ve got; just the job for the country. Don’t suppose you fancy a spot of rough shooting whilst you’re here? Not everybody’s cup of tea these days, I know, but I daresay we could raise something for the pot. Might just be able to put my hand on a few cartridges my daughter doesn’t know about. Hides them from me, you know. Nose like a Labrador. Doesn’t trust me with a gun these days. Thinks I might shoot myself in the foot.’ Without any warning at all, the whisky glass fell from his hand. His face turned red, then white, and his breathing became laboured and ragged. ‘No cause for alarm,’ he gasped. ‘Happens all the time. Got a thingamajig somewhere. Blasted inhaler whatsit.’ He patted his pockets ineffectually whilst he struggled for breath. His face had turned purple. ‘Perhaps better raise the alarm, eh, old chap? Just in case. Lord, make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days…’

  Norman, who had helped him to a chair, captured the rolling glass and dried the carpet with his handkerchief, now found himself directed through a door which led, via a passageway, into a library devoid of any living soul. A door on the opposite wall opened into an equally unpopulated anteroom furnished with armchairs and a writing desk. Hastening onward he entered a great hall with a vast log burning in the fireplace. A dark-haired young man was coming down an impressively carved staircase. When Norman explained what had happened he ran towards the apartment. Norman was about to follow but something stopped him in his tracks.

  Norman heard music. He heard someone playing the piano. He heard someone singing. Not only that, but he had heard it before, that unmistakably light touch on the keyboard, that same sweet, clear voice, singing that same evocative song.

  ‘I remember you, of course I do

  Not just when church bells chime

  Dear, I miss you all the time

  I remember you.’

  The sound of it transported him back forty years; hit him like a physical blow. Norman forgot his errand of mercy. He forgot he was sixty-nine years of age because, for a moment, he was twenty-three again; he was third violin, playing his heart out for a vocalist who hardly knew he existed. He opened the door of the dining room and he looked at the woman seated at the piano. She looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘I remember you, of course I do

  Not just when skies are blue above

  Or when someone speaks of love

  I remember you

  Of course I do.’

  He saw perhaps, exactly what he wanted to see. He did not notice that the beautiful hair was frosted with grey, nor that the fine skin was no longer smooth and unlined, nor even that the clear, slate-blue eyes he remembered so well were perhaps a little empty now. Why would he? How could he? The memory of her had been lodged like a splinter in his heart for what seemed like an eternity.

  ‘Lilly,’ he said softly. ‘Lilly Lamont. Why, you haven’t changed a bit. I would have known you anywhere.’

  *

  ‘Left, Henry,’ said Penelope Lamb. ‘I said left at the junction, and you have turned right. You have taken the wrong road. You will have to go back.’

  ‘No, my dearest, it is a right turn at the junction,’ said Henry Lamb benevolently. ‘I expect you are reading the map upside down. Right is the correct route to take without a shadow of a doubt. Trust me, my darling. Have faith. Leave the navigation in my capable hands.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Penelope said dryly. ‘Henry the Navigator. How could I possibly overlook your unerring sense of direction, your inherent powers of observation, and your world famous map reading ability.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I think we are on the right track now,’ said Henry peaceably. ‘I think this is the right road.’

  ‘We may be on the right road; the point I am making is that we should be on the left road.’ Penelope adjusted her spectacles, looped their safety cord behind her ears and peered down at the map of East Anglia spread across her solid knees. ‘I am perfectly capable of reading a map correctly, Henry, perfectly, but this edition was a very poor choice, if I may say so; the print is so ridiculously small that I need a magnifying glass in order to decipher it. I really can’t be expected to strain my eyes like this now that it is beginning to get dark, and particularly so, Henry, particularly so, when you purposely choose to ignore my instructions. I am afraid we sha
ll have to abandon the map. We shall have to find someone who can furnish us with instructions.’

  ‘Someone to provide us with directions would be very handy,’ Henry agreed. ‘Some passer-by with local knowledge would be a most welcome sight. A house, in fact, would be singularly welcome, or even a farm. It is remarkably unpopulated in this area, is it not, my beloved, my precious sweetheart?’

  ‘The countryside is supposed to be unpopulated,’ Penelope said in a scathing tone. ‘The countryside consists of fields and trees and hedges, Henry. That is why people like it.’

  ‘Fields and trees and hedges can be very atmospheric,’ said Henry Lamb. ‘I find them very atmospheric indeed, especially in the fading light. Do you find fields and trees and hedges atmospheric, my dearest one?’

  ‘All I want to find at this particular moment,’ said Penelope sharply, ‘is the hotel.’

  ‘A certain atmosphere,’ said Henry Lamb thoughtfully, ‘and a sense of isolation. The sense of isolation is almost tangible, don’t you think, my treasure?’

  ‘I think we should turn back,’ said Penelope. ‘I think you should reverse into the very next gateway and drive back to the junction where you turned right instead of left. Do it, Henry, turn round.’

  ‘A most tangible sense of isolation,’ continued Henry Lamb, ‘and the slightest hint of menace in the air. Do you sense it, my darling? Do you feel the slightest hint of menace in the air, my own true love?’

  ‘If you would really like to know what I feel, Henry,’ Penelope said in exasperation, ‘it is lost. We are lost, Henry. You must turn back at once. You must do it immediately. You must turn back!’

  ‘I was just thinking, Penelope,’ said Henry Lamb, ‘what a perfectly appropriate setting this would be for a heinous crime; this terribly isolated spot amongst all these atmospheric hedges and trees would be most conducive to the very darkest of deeds, would it not? When one can almost sense malevolent forces at large; when one can so easily imagine that evil stalks abroad in such surroundings? Can you sense malevolent forces at large, Penelope, my love? Can you imagine that evil stalks abroad, my precious darling?’

  ‘Henry,’ said Penelope in a strong voice with only the very slightest trace of a falter. ‘You are behaving very oddly. I want you to stop it. I want you to turn into the next gateway and reverse the car. I want you to turn back.’

  ‘Oh, it is too late to turn back,’ said Henry Lamb. ‘I want to describe to you a murder, my sweet. I want to share with you a most particularly blood-curling and gruesome murder, Penelope. Is not your curiosity aroused? Are you not avid to hear more?’

  ‘No,’ said Penelope stoutly. ‘Most certainly not. I don’t know what has got into you, Henry. I don’t like it,’ and as something pale and huge flapped momentarily alongside her window, ‘Oh, my goodness gracious! Whatever was that? Henry, what was that?’

  ‘Just an owl, my dear,’ said Henry Lamb soothingly. ‘Just an old barn owl looking for his supper, looking for some small, furry, defenceless animal to pick up in his talons; to tear apart with his wickedly sharp beak. Just an owl about to commit a very tiny murder, my own sweet darling; a very insignificant murder in the scale of such things, Penelope, my love, nothing at all like the murder I, myself, have been contemplating, my dearest heart, nothing like it at all,’ and, as the car negotiated a sharp bend and began to descend a hill, ‘Ah, now this looks promising,’ said Henry Lamb with satisfaction. ‘This looks very promising indeed.’

  It looked, to Penelope’s immense relief, like a village. A painted sign announced its identity as Polstead.

  ‘There now.’ Henry Lamb, beaming, engaged a lower gear as they coasted along the dark and deserted village street. ‘Here we are at last. The very place where Maria Marten was murdered in the Red Barn. One of the most famous murders of all time, wouldn’t you say, my love, my own sweet darling? I planned this little detour to bring you to the very spot where the poor victim’s decomposed body was unearthed, shot, stabbed and strangled; in a crime so exceptionally foul and sensational that the executioner’s rope was sold for a guinea an inch, and the records of the trial were bound in the murderer’s skin. No!’ Henry lifted an admonitory hand. ‘Don’t try to thank me! This is my little treat. This is my surprise. Sit back, Penelope, my precious one, my treasure. Sit back and enjoy!’

  THIRTY ONE

  To the muted strains of Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, the family came down the great staircase in a cascade, each member adorned with a golden ribbon.

  ‘Good evening, Madam.’ Rupert stepped out from behind the Christmas tree. ‘May I presume that our furry friends will not be accompanying you into the dining room?’

  ‘You may presume no such thing, Mr Truscott,’ said Mrs Maitland-Dell. ‘Most certainly they will accompany me and they will be impeccably behaved, having dined themselves already. I did take the precaution of bringing with me today’s menu, but tomorrow at four I should like two boiled hens, a cup of steamed rice and one chopped carrot. Also, a little mild paté without garlic and eight slices of wholemeal toast. It is, after all,’ Madam looked down at the family with an indulgent smile, ‘Christmas.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ agreed Harry Featherstone. ‘And most congenial it is too, if I may say so.’

  Rupert favoured Harry with a steely look.

  ‘Room service, of course, Mr Truscott,’ said Mrs Maitland-Dell.

  ‘Room service, of course.’ With professional courtesy Rupert moved aside in order to open a door for Mavis who, in black satin leggings and perilously high heels, was bound for the library with a tray of drinks. ‘Room service, naturally.’

  ‘And Mr Truscott,’ Mrs Maitland-Dell placed a small but implacable hand on his arm. ‘Be so kind as to remove the crusts from the toast.’

  *

  ‘Have you seen this?’ Entering Tom’s bedroom without even a cursory knock, Emily threw herself down on the bed, displacing the plaid throw on the luxuriously quilted duvet. In her hand she held a card.

  ‘Have I seen what?’ Tom tossed a pair of trainers into the bottom of the commodiously fitted wardrobe. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a programme of events for the Christmas break. It was in my room so you must have one somewhere. Did you know there’s going to be a hunt on Boxing Day? Do you realise they’re actually expecting us to go to a hunt?’

  ‘So what?’ Tom shrugged. ‘We’re in the country now. Hunting, shooting and fishing are country pursuits. What did you expect? A visit to the Opera?’

  ‘But I can’t go to a hunt! I can’t! It’s against my principles! It’s a blood sport!’

  ‘If you quote Oscar Wilde again, just once, I might brain you,’ Tom warned. ‘Anyway, you don’t have to go, I’m sure it isn’t compulsory. Stay behind. Read a book; collect sticks for the fire; sew a fine seam, or whatever else people do in the country when they’re not actively engaged in the slaughter of innocent creatures.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant,’ Emily lay back sulkily. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Tom stared at Emily’s right ear. ‘You’ve had another hole punched! Five studs in one ear is grotesque, Em! What’ll you have done next; your nose or your nipple?’

  ‘I’d thought my navel, actually.’

  ‘Jesus! Wait until Dad notices! Is that a new tattoo on the back of your neck as well? God, he’ll go ape shit!’

  ‘He won’t notice if you don’t draw attention to it. Anyway, Dad’s far too taken up with Mum’s problems to worry about me.’

  ‘Not necessarily true; he just has to prioritise; so,’ Tom pitched his holdall neatly onto the top shelf, ‘what shall we do instead of going to the hunt then, any ideas?’

  Emily swung her legs, clad in black cobweb tights ending in black pointed shoes with death’s head buckles, off the bed. For the holiday, she had opted for the Goth look. ‘I haven’t decided, definitely, not to go yet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise going, Em; you’ll only wind yourself up. Better stay cool. Stage a silent p
rotest. Stay away.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I should stay away.’ Emily fingered the heavy linked chain around her neck that supported a giant crucifix of hammered metal. ‘I think I might stage a protest, actually. I think I might demonstrate.’

  ‘Now that really is a prat of an idea!’ Tom looked at his sister in exasperation. ‘What difference do you think one protester is going to make? Unless you’re planning to do something completely over the top like hurling yourself in front of fifty galloping horses like Emily Davison, you haven’t a hope of achieving anything! Think of Ma, Em. Say you got hurt! Say you were injured! Think what a great end to the holiday that would be! Forget the hunt. Think peace and goodwill. Stay away.’

  Emily got up from the bed and began to walk about the room, pulling at her dress of crushed black velvet which trailed on the floor behind her and was cut into jagged points at the bodice, each point ending in a red plastic droplet like a drop of blood. ‘I wasn’t thinking of anything as dramatic as that,’ she said crossly. ‘Nothing dangerous. I was just thinking I might put the hounds off the scent somehow; foil the line or whatever it is the antis do; lay a false trail or something.’

  ‘Lay a false trail of what?’ demanded Tom. ‘Emily, you don’t know the first thing about hunting or hounds. For Christ’s sake, knock it off! You have to know what you’re doing to be a hunt saboteur.’

  ‘I might not know anything about hunting!’ Emily’s voice rose in agitation. ‘But I know what my principles are! I know that killing animals for sport is gross! I know that it is murder!’

  Tom put his hands over his ears. ‘Hey, keep the volume down, will you; the people in the room next door will be calling the manager.’