Martha gave a theatrical groan. “You never hide your hatred of him, that’s why.”
“The funny thing is, she wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I told her I had killed him. It isn’t simply murder that interests her. She’s obsessed with getting inside the heads of people who commit it.”
“Like you, in other words. Promise to be careful.” Martha put down the hairbrush. “This is a dangerous pastime.”
Rachel shrugged her bare shoulders. “No more so than having a few drinks after a game of cricket, and then blundering around a private zoo full of ravenous lions.”
“Vickers’ mistake was not to trust you,” Martha said. “At least when Jacob gets himself into a mess, he knows where to turn.”
“Let’s hope he takes more care if he bumps into Major Whitlow than when he went to the Clandestine Club.”
“He’ll be on his guard with the major. It’s the sight of a pretty face that scrambles his brain. Did you notice how coy he was when he talked about the girl at the Dobell Arms?”
“And he thought he was being so discreet.” Rachel laughed. “You like him, don’t you?”
“So do you,” Martha said. “Stop pretending that you don’t.”
23
Sherry was served in the library by two nervous young maids. Felix Dobell insisted on being accompanied by Bernice Cope. Leonora retaliated by refusing to introduce the nurse by name. The lady of the house was wearing an evening dress in navy and purple tulle that might have been fashionable before the war.
Sylvia Gorrie dazzled in a white satin gown which left one shoulder naked. Her skin was tanned a light golden brown. Henry Rolland had buttonholed her, and she contrived to listen with an appearance of interest, while glancing around every now and then, as if in search of sanctuary.
Danskin whispered in Rachel’s ear. “Look at that old goat Rolland. He can hardly drag his eyes away from her.”
“Can you blame him?” she replied. “Mrs Gorrie is beautiful.”
“A good-looking woman, agreed,” he said judicially. “Statuesque, to coin a phrase, but she doesn’t hold a candle to you, my dear.”
Rachel took a sip of Bristol Cream. “You’re too generous, Mr Danskin.”
“Clive, remember.” He patted her hand. “Delightful dress you’re wearing, by the way. Just the ticket.”
“Thank you. Coco Chanel is the one who deserves congratulation.”
He shook his head. “No, you make it look…”
“Your glass is empty, Clive, we can’t have that!” Leonora nodded to one of the maids, who promptly spilled Bristol Cream over the floor while attempting to pour. Amid mopping up operations and apologies, the hostess said, “I trust you’ve recovered from your recent ordeal.”
Clive Danskin stared at his hostess for a moment before giving a little laugh. “Oh, at the Bailey? Goodness, it’s hard to credit that not much over a week ago I was in the dock. I’ve quite put it out of my mind. My motto is that one should always look to the future. And how better to celebrate my first full week of freedom than in such a lovely part of the world?”
“You know Yorkshire?” Leonora asked.
“Like the back of my hand,” Danskin said. “Not this area, obviously. Not a lot of business to be had in nooks and crannies off the beaten track. But Sheffield, Rotherham, Doncaster, Huddersfield, oh yes. Over the years, I’ve travelled all over England. Anything to turn an honest penny.”
“I’m impressed that you found so many customers in the poorer industrial centres,” Rachel said. “In hard economic times, surely people can only afford necessities?”
Danskin frowned. “Ladies love to look nice. Thank goodness for that, I say. Anyway, we mustn’t talk shop. Not often I get the chance to look inside an old mansion like this, let alone as an honoured guest. Marvellous library you have here, Leonora.”
“You’re a fellow book lover, Clive?” Leonora asked.
“Can’t say I do a lot of reading. No time, you see. I’m partial to a good thriller, nothing too taxing. Used to enjoy the Mackintosh Trueblood yarns, but I haven’t seen them around lately.”
Sylvia Gorrie had swept across the room to join them, with Henry Rolland trailing in her wake. “You must choose what you say carefully, Mr Danskin. Our hostess has already told us she attended your trial. I suspect her next project is to write up the blazing car case.”
Her white teeth gleamed in a smile, but her words cut like a knife. Danskin’s cheeks turned the colour of beetroot. Sylvia turned her back on him and on Leonora, giving her full attention to Rachel.
“Your name is very familiar.” Her gaze was cold and penetrating. “Are you also an expert in criminology?”
Rachel said calmly, “I can’t imagine where you heard that.”
“Society tittle-tattle, I expect.” Sylvia’s expression didn’t flicker. “One loses track. But I’m sure I’ve heard about you in connection with criminal investigation. Don’t you have connections with Scotland Yard?”
“Leonora is the specialist. I merely dabble.”
“An amateur in detection? How exciting.”
“I can’t claim any expertise. Think of me just as a nosey parker with a morbid streak.”
Sylvia turned to Leonora. “How marvellous that you invited Rachel along. When you first spoke to me, I expected our party to be even smaller.”
“It was a pure stroke of luck,” Leonora said. “While I was attending Clive’s trial, I bumped into a journalist who happens to know Rachel. He kindly passed on my invitation.”
“Fortuitous,” Sylvia said.
“Absolutely!” Danskin said.
“But you know,” Sylvia said thoughtfully, “I almost feel as if I should be on my mettle. Given my unfortunate past, that is. Talking to the country’s leading criminologist, and the daughter of an eminent judge. It’s rather like being on trial again.”
“You need have no fear,” Rachel said, so pleasantly that they might be discussing a charity bazaar. “You can’t be tried twice. The law forbids it.”
Sylvia finished her sherry. “As it happens, I found the court of public opinion more brutal than the Old Bailey. The authorities have installed a barrier protecting the stairs that lead from the dock to the cells. An accused person can’t throw herself to her doom. There are no such safeguards in the world outside. No earmuffs to blanket out the mocking whispers. No masks to prevent one noticing an old acquaintance who dodges round a corner so as to avoid a chance encounter.”
“You’ve hit the nail bang on the head,” Henry Rolland brayed. “Innocence is no defence. Face a capital charge, and one will be ostracised forever in certain quarters. The members of my club in Liverpool—”
“Dissecting a case in print prolongs the agony,” Danskin said. “Leonora, I’ll be blunt. I’m hoping that over the course of this weekend I can persuade you that it would serve no useful purpose to write up my trial. All that fuss about nothing, a case of accidental death! Not even a murder.”
Nurse Cope had wheeled up Felix Dobell’s bath chair. “You see, Leonora,” his scratchy voice shrilled. “I warned you this would happen!”
Leonora’s face tightened. “A man died in mysterious circumstances. We don’t even know his name, far less exactly how he met his end.”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Danskin snapped. “A victim of crime – yours truly! – was treated like a criminal. Justice? Don’t make—”
Felix Dobell took a gulp of sherry only to be convulsed by a fit of coughing. The nurse’s customary pat on the back only exacerbated the problem. At first Felix seemed to be choking. He began to wheeze loudly, but slowly quietened down. His head was bent over. He looked shrunken and sick and very old.
“He’s not in a fit state to eat his meal.” Nurse Cope spoke with barely suppressed fury. “All this excitement is bad for him.”
“You’d better help him upstairs,” Leonora retorted. “Make him comfortable, then take the rest of the evening off. I’m sure that’s what you want.”
The shuddering crash of a gong in the front hall shattered the unhappy silence.
“Time for dinner,” Leonora said. “Shall we go through?”
*
Yorkshire pudding, drenched in gravy, was served at the start of the meal rather than as part of the main course. In keeping with local tradition, Leonora explained. Making no concession to the heat of the day, the aged cook had produced roast beef, roast potatoes, and steamed vegetables, followed by jam roly-poly. Rachel nibbled modestly, and drank very little of the excellent wine. The room was stuffy, even though the fire was unlit and a mullioned window had been opened.
In the absence of her husband, Leonora sat at the head of the table. Rachel and Henry Rolland were opposite Danskin and Sylvia Gorrie. When Danskin’s toes touched hers, Rachel moved her foot away. During the dessert course, Rolland’s left hand found its way on to her thigh. She lifted it off as soon as his fingers began to stroke her, but gave no other sign that she’d noticed.
The conversation was stilted and confined to small talk. Rolland described his garden in Great Budworth, and Danskin chipped in to extol the virtues of allotments. Sylvia Gorrie reminisced about a cruise she’d taken around the Mediterranean, and the pleasures of travelling on the Orient Express. Rachel contented herself by asking an occasional question and listening to the answers with every appearance of interest. She noticed that Sylvia, like herself, was hardly drinking. Once or twice she asked Sylvia questions about her life since the court case. They were parried with practised ease.
Leonora and the two men made sure that their glasses were refilled at frequent intervals. Rachel calculated that each of them had put away a bottle of wine as well as the sherry. During a lull while the plates were being cleared and coffee served, Leonora leaned back in her chair, and reminisced about coming to Mortmain during the war.
“The library was the nurses’ station, the gallery was the main ward. In the front hall, those soldiers who were up and about played cards or listened to the gramophone.” She shook her head. “The billiard room became the operating theatre. I remember Felix being brought in on a stretcher. When poor Oswyn offered his home to the Red Cross, he never dreamed his younger son would be one of the casualties we treated.”
“War is vile.” Sylvia Gorrie’s jaw was set. “We need to be vigilant to secure the peace from those who seek to undermine it. We owe it to future generations to make sure the Empire remains so strong that nobody dares to pick a fight with us.”
“Take it from me,” Danskin said confidentially. “There won’t be another war. I’m no Conchy, but the simple fact is that the stakes are too high. No government would allow its people to be blown to smithereens.”
“We’d all like to think so,” Rolland said. “When I ran my business, I saw enough of the armaments trade to understand the havoc that the latest weapons can wreak. Yet who knows what the future will bring? We may have curbed unrest at home, but for how long? Mark my words. As a man of the world, I’m morally certain that dark forces are at work.”
“I’m sure you must be right, being a man of the world,” Rachel sighed. “We can’t have Britain at the mercy of dark forces.”
Sylvia Gorrie said, “I understand you spent most of your life on a small island, Rachel? How miserable, being so cut off.”
“That’s why I’m so gauche in company. Everything I know comes from books.”
“Bet you had a big library.” Danskin began to hiccup.
Rachel ignored him. “My maid is the same age, we grew up together. She used to test me on what I’d learned. I think of her as a friend and confidante, rather than a servant. That’s the trouble, you see, I was never taught how to behave properly in civilised society. I’m not country-house trained.”
Rolland forced a laugh. “Not country-house trained! Very good.”
Sylvia murmured, “I wonder if we all have more in common than we may realise?”
“I’m absolutely sure we do,” Leonora said. “In fact, that’s why I invited you all here.”
“The length and breadth of England, owners of great houses are entertaining fellow members of the upper classes. But they are a vanishing breed.” Sylvia gestured at her dining companions. “Look at the five of us. We’re different.”
“Tell us more,” Rolland said.
“There isn’t a trace of blue blood in any of our veins. None of us are ’varsity types, either. You were a nurse, Leonora. Henry, you raised yourself up by your bootstraps. You lived like a recluse, Rachel, despite having a wealthy father. Clive, you worked as a salesman. And I earned a living by tapping away at a typewriter.”
“Interesting.” Rolland enunciated carefully, as if afraid of slurring his words.
“We’ve not done so badly for ourselves,” Danskin said, fiddling with his bow tie. “School of hard knocks.”
Leonora cleared her throat, and lifted her glass of wine. “Through thick and thin, the Dobell family has been renowned for keeping a good cellar. This is a 1911 Burgundy. An excellent year, I’m sure you will agree.”
“Ages since I had a spot of ’11.” Henry Rolland sounded as though he’d been making up for lost time. “Damned fine vintage.”
“And now, if you’ll indulge an eccentric criminologist, a toast.” Leonora took a breath. “To partners in crime!”
The mood in the dining room was becoming febrile. Glasses were raised, but the guests’ words were indistinguishable mutterings. Only the voice of Rachel Savernake sounded loud and clear.
“To partners in crime!”
*
The little party adjourned next door in silence. The drawing room had French windows, thrown open to take advantage of the warm weather. The windows gave on to a small paved terrace, and beyond was the main path which wound around the headland.
As the men helped themselves to brandy and cigars, Sylvia Gorrie put a hand on Leonora’s arm. “I wonder if you and I could talk privately? It’s still so pleasant outside, and I’m feeling rather deprived of oxygen. I’d love to look over the grounds of the Hall. Perhaps you’d accompany me?”
Leonora threw Rachel a glance of triumph. When she moved, she was slightly unsteady on her feet. “That would be nice. Perhaps in a few minutes? I have something I’d like to say first.”
Sylvia’s expression gave nothing away. “As you wish.”
Leonora clapped her hands, and raised her voice. “I’d like to thank you all for accepting my invitation to come to Mortmain.”
Everyone was paying attention now. Rachel thought Jacob had been right to compare Leonora to a witch. She looked as if, at any moment, she would start cackling with malevolent glee.
“I’m sure you are all wondering why I asked you here.”
“Glad to be here, interesting part of the country,” Rolland said. “Don’t mind admitting, I was in two minds at first, given that you’d written about… that rotten business I was dragged into.”
“The Wirral Bungalow Murder, yes.” Leonora beamed. “I hope you agree that what I wrote was fair.”
Rolland pursed his fleshy lips. “Least said, soonest mended. I sympathise with Danskin here. I can see why he wouldn’t want you to write up his trial. Damned unfortunate mix-up. Simply because Scotland Yard fell down on the job.”
“You’ve all been caught up in unfortunate events,” Leonora said. “Sylvia and Clive were tried for murder, only to be acquitted. Henry would have suffered the same fate if someone else hadn’t conveniently killed himself and left a confession. Your circumstances, Rachel, were different. A life spent on a remote island, with only a deranged father and a handful of servants for company. The Judge died a matter of days after your twenty-fifth birthday, didn’t he? After which you inherited his fortune, and escaped to London.”
“Look here,” Rolland said. “I mean, damn it all, what are you implying?”
“I’m sure Rachel can spea
k for herself,” Sylvia Gorrie said coolly.
Everyone’s eyes turned to Rachel. “For the Judge,” she said softly, “death came as a merciful release.”
Danskin stared at her. “Do you mean…?”
Simultaneously, Rolland said, “You’re surely not admitting…?”
Sylvia Gorrie held up a slim hand to silence them. “Gentlemen, please. This is most regrettable. Rachel told us a few minutes ago about her unhappy upbringing. To me, it seems admirable that after such experiences, she is so… unflustered. It is neither right nor fair to suggest that she is guilty of some wrongdoing.”
“Please,” Leonora said loudly.
The drink is talking, Rachel thought. Their hostess, she felt sure, didn’t want anyone else to be the centre of attention.
“Please don’t think we are enemies. Nothing could be further from the truth. I want you all to understand that I am on your side. My curiosity is boundless. I’ve spent years studying the criminal mind. The four of you strike me as extraordinary men and women.”
“I’m flattered.” Rolland seemed to be sobering up. “But let’s not beat about the bush. I’m sure Rachel is as innocent as the rest of us. So if you think that we can assist your researches into criminal psychology, you’re much mistaken.”
“Well said,” Sylvia murmured.
“But are you all innocent?” Leonora asked.
“Well, really!” Danskin’s voice rose with outrage. “May I remind you that a jury found me not guilty? If you dare to suggest otherwise, you will be hearing from my solicitors.”
Leonora indicated their surroundings. The sun was low in the sky. “Though I say it myself, I wrote about the deaths of Phoebe Evison and Walter Gorrie with the utmost discretion. We are grown men and women. This conversation is just between ourselves. The servants are in their rooms. Nobody is listening at a keyhole.”
“What are you saying?” Rolland demanded.
“Simply this.” Her eyes glittered. “I want to salute your extraordinary achievements, to share in them. That is the truth of it. That is why I begged you all to come to Mortmain Hall.”
Mortmain Hall Page 24