In Search of Love, Money & Revenge

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Annie. ‘Somehow it does.’

  ‘Perhaps you won’t want to go on being a restauranteur for much longer,’ Vanessa said doubtfully. ‘You might want to go back to the history—’

  ‘I don’t know any more than you do,’ Annie said. ‘You might marry Ben and he might get a job somewhere else in the country. But it’s so far, so good—’

  ‘Think how lucky we’ve been,’ murmured Vanessa.

  In this reconciled mood they left the Arcadia and walked quietly back through Foxwell High Street. They were asleep before the big town hall clock struck one.

  28

  The Temple of Mammon

  Sam Anstruther of Watney Aspell, New York, dealers in rare books and manuscripts, had intruded through the back door of Froggett’s on a fine afternoon in early September and caught Juliet Browning making plum jam. This time she could not invent an excuse and escape him because the jam had reached the stage where, if left to cook for even a few more minutes, it would turn into a toffee-like mass.

  ‘Mr Anstruther,’ she was saying, stirring the large preserving pan with a ladle. ‘I can’t discuss it now.’

  ‘I have a letter of authorisation from the literary executors of your aunt’s estate,’ Anstruther repeated. ‘I have to tell you now I have a legal right to examine the contents of the suitcase containing Christian Cunningham’s effects.’

  ‘Who does it really belong to?’ Juliet dropped some jam on a saucer and examined it closely. ‘Wonderful colour,’ she said, ‘streaked, with a visible texture, if you can say that.’

  ‘To your aunt’s estate.’ Anstruther sighed inwardly.

  Juliet glanced at the American as he stood on the flagstones of her kitchen, tall, pale and tidily dressed in a shirt, sports jacket and green trousers. She looked back at the pan and stirred again.

  ‘I question that,’ she said. ‘The case was left with Howard. He recalls reminding Dorian Jefferson about it later. He says Jefferson asked him to look after it. You must admit the case could belong to his estate, or Christian Cunningham’s, or to us.’

  ‘There are fine points involved,’ agreed Anstruther. ‘But in simple practice you are Christian Cunningham’s niece and, as I recall, you gladly handed over various letters and writings of hers to the custodians of her estate at her death.’

  ‘A couple of letters about a vase she thought was hers – her letters to me were few and far between. I’m sorry, Mr Anstruther. I don’t intend to hand over the case.’

  ‘I shall have to inform the executors—’

  ‘Inform anyone you like,’ Juliet said briskly. She took jam pots from the table, put them on the draining board and began, carefully, to ladle in the jam.

  Howard Browning, a book in his hand, came in to the kitchen from the inhospitable parlour. He glanced at Sam Anstruther and sat down.

  Juliet said, ‘Annie and Vanessa are coming down tomorrow with Alec and Joanne – and Vanessa’s boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Howard. ‘I could do without that.’

  ‘I really think you should go and stay with Nell—’

  ‘I refuse to go all the way to Wales at this stage.’

  Sam Anstruther said, ‘Mr Browning. I wonder if you realise I have a letter of authorisation from the literary executors of the Christian Cunningham estate.’

  ‘Yes, we had a copy. Juliet may not have mentioned it. But I’m writing a novel, almost finished, centred round that suitcase.’

  ‘Then you know the contents,’ Anstruther said.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Howard said in alarm. ‘I’ve invented the contents. I’m thinking seriously, Juliet – I’ll have to finish the book by tomorrow.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll be up all night again?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he observed gloomily and left the room. Juliet, rapidly filling the remaining five jam jars, said, ‘That’s the point, you see. I couldn’t really tell you. Howard’s been hesitating over his next book for years. Suddenly he began to think he wanted to write a novel concerning the Cunninghams – that set – and ourselves to some extent – about art and the lives of people who produce it and the history of the times. That unopened case became a talismanic object as he wrote – a kind of symbol of the novel. I hope I’m making some kind of sense.’

  ‘I believe I’m a person who can understand matters of that nature,’ Sam Anstruther said with some dignity.

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Juliet quickly. ‘I hope you understand now why we couldn’t yield it up.’

  ‘He’s almost finished, Mrs Browning,’ Anstruther reminded her.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Juliet agreed. ‘But the trouble with you is that you don’t really care what a living writer is doing now. Only what a famous dead one did years ago. You’d rather have Christian Cunningham’s old holey stockings, or an unpaid bill or a scribbled note from Dorian Jefferson to some woman saying he couldn’t see her tonight, than see a real book by a real live author finished—’

  Anstruther broke in, saying emphatically, ‘Mrs Browning, I am not – I would not, ever, insist on the case being handed over in such circumstances. Of course your husband must finish his book. I would never have been so pressing if you’d told me the facts.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad we understand each other,’ Juliet said briskly. ‘By the way,’ she added, ‘I’d get out of Durham House pretty quick if I were you. I expect you’ve heard Sim and his wife are coming.’

  ‘I’m leaving this evening,’ Anstruther told her. ‘I felt it would be inappropriate to stay. Mrs Browning, have I your word that when this book’s finished you’ll allow me to examine the contents of the suitcase?’

  Juliet replaced the ladle and took the pan to the sink. She ran hot water into it then led Anstruther to the door. She walked him across the lawn in the sunshine, talking as they went. ‘Of course you can have the damn thing. But I’m going to sell it to you. Howard and I are getting older, and we may need the money for our old age. I know Rupert wants to sell it on behalf of the estate, but that’s so he can get some of the money himself. Also he likes to be in a position of power over his great-aunt’s work.’

  ‘You’ll have to prove it’s yours to sell,’ Anstruther said.

  ‘I won’t have to,’ she said. ‘I’ve taken advice, and there’s a strong case for Dorian Jefferson’s children, not that the profits would do them any good. Not one of them has done a stroke of work in their lives. They take it for granted they live off the fruits of their father’s short, drunken life. I find it tragic.’

  They paused, looking down the slope to the river, the lake, to Durham House itself on their right, glowing in the autumnal sun.

  ‘You seem,’ Anstruther said drily, ‘to be fairly confident that the case contains material which could be sold. Not old stockings.’

  Juliet Browning winked at him. ‘There are loose pages, dated and part of a diary. Would you believe Christian Cunningham had an affair with Margot Asquith? There’s an interesting set of notes for a novel. There’s a poem to her by Jefferson, comparing her with a gaunt goat and a black and white drawing of two somewhat hieratic figures, arced, hands touching, presumably bought by Jefferson or Christian Cunningham or, I suppose, in the case of Jefferson, stolen – in my opinion the drawing may be by Aubrey Beardsley. Now, questions of ownership are difficult – does the poem belong to Christian Cunningham or Jefferson, for example? Did the sketch belong to either of them or is there still some owner wondering what happened to it?’

  Anstruther was moved. He stopped dead under a loaded apple tree and gazed at her. After a pause, he asked, ‘Can you guarantee I’ll be first in on this?’

  Juliet Browning nodded. ‘You certainly deserve it,’ she said.

  Anstruther exhaled. ‘It’s been a humiliating experience,’ he stated. ‘In fact I’ll go so far as to say most of the time I’ve felt like shit.’

  ‘Been treated like it too,’ Juliet said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well,’ he held out his ha
nd. ‘I’ll call you on Monday, around twelve o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  A car drew up at Durham House from which figures could be seen emerging.

  ‘I think it’s time I left,’ said Anstruther. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Browning. It’s been a pleasure. Hope the jam turns out well.’

  ‘I’ll save a pot for you.’ Juliet smiled.

  Anstruther loped off down the slope then turned. ‘Mrs Browning – about your husband’s manuscript, it could prove a valuable part of the archive.’

  Juliet nodded. ‘I know.’

  The American raised his hand in greeting and quickly strode away.

  In the hall at Durham House, Anstruther was very much aware of voices, raised in dispute, coming from the half-open door of the drawing room. He quickly gathered up his luggage and made his polite but brief farewells to Lady Mary, got into his small hired car and set off for the road. At one point he had to pull over as a Bentley passed him on its way up to the house.

  At the bottom of the drive, Al Dominick leant against one of the pillars, smoking. Anstruther slowed down and called out, ‘Hi, can I take you anywhere?’

  ‘Why not?’ answered Al and got in, dropping his cigarette and stepping on it.

  ‘Anywhere, or just somewhere?’ Anstruther asked.

  ‘How about the next pub you’re passing?’ Al said.

  ‘Suits me,’ said Anstruther and restarted the car.

  ‘You look like the cat that just got the canary,’ Al said. ‘Did you get to peek in Mrs Browning’s suitcase?’

  ‘No, but I have a deal. Some time next week I get to look at it.’

  ‘Really?’ Al asked with some scepticism.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Anstruther as he drew up at the village pub. ‘Really.’

  They sat on a bench overlooking the village green and a great chestnut tree in front of the old church.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ Al said. ‘It’s like an art form in its way. Some people have temples, great paintings. The British have these houses, gardens, cottages, village greens.’

  ‘You’re escaping one of these pieces of art momentarily, I guess,’ Anstruther said. ‘It’s certainly been a little tense at Durham House.’

  Al regarded him steadily, ‘Come on, Sam, you’re in love with the house and the aristocrats who live there, but you’ve got to agree with me, and I’m a doctor, they’re all mad in there. They’re suffering from a condition we psychiatrists describe as having too much money.’

  ‘All families go through times of crisis.’ Anstruther sounded defensive.

  ‘Sure,’ Al agreed. ‘But here there wouldn’t be a crisis if it weren’t for the money, the land, the shares—’

  ‘Are you giving it as your medical opinion that money makes people insane?’ Anstruther asked.

  ‘Yep,’ Al said crisply.

  ‘So we have Freud on the unconscious, Jung on archetypes and Al Dominick on bank balances?’

  ‘You said it.’

  The two men sat in silence, though not much in sympathy. Anstruther envied Al his access through Claudia to the centre of a way of life, it was true, he admired, even coveted. It annoyed him, however, that Al thought he was an American dedicated to European snobberies, a man repudiating his origins.

  Al said, ‘Maybe you think I’m a toad to be saying all this about my hosts. But I’ll be honest. I really don’t want to be here. I came over to be with Claudia because her father died. And now I find it wasn’t just the simple matter of a bereavement. It all goes on and on and I don’t consider this is any way to spend a vacation. Originally, we were going to the funeral, then Claudia would spend some time with her mother, and then we’d go to France and Italy. On the plane coming over we even discussed asking Lady Mary to come with us, if it would help. Nothing so simple was possible. Claudia’s sueing the estate for her rights and I believe she should do that. Lady Mary is keeping something back, I know that. Nigel’s disturbed, Jasmine also has something on her mind, now the son’s returned, the men of business are arriving in big black limos – I keep wondering – did I see this film already?’

  Anstruther laughed in spite of himself. He surprised Al by doing a good imitation of Marlon Brando as the Godfather and added, slightly jealously, ‘Have you thought of leaving?’

  Al shrugged. ‘It’s a temptation, but Claudia couldn’t handle it on her own.’

  ‘Well,’ Anstruther said, standing up. ‘I have to be going. Can I take you back first?’

  Al shook his head. ‘I’ll take a look round the church. Look at the tombstones in the graveyard, get a sense of perspective, take the annual bus back, or hook a ride.’

  Anstruther nodded. ‘Well, goodbye, Al – and good luck.’

  ‘So long, soldier,’ Al said.

  When Sam drove off he was still sitting on the rustic bench, staring across the village green.

  ‘Don’t try to do that yourself, Mary. It’s too much for you.’ Lady Mary Fellows, observed by her sister, was tugging at a sycamore sapling which had grown up by the kitchen-garden wall. As she spoke, Lady Mary staggered back, nearly losing her balance, the uprooted sapling in both hands. She looked behind her in dismay.

  ‘There you are. You’ve broken a tomato plant,’ said Lady Margaret.

  ‘Damn,’ Lady Mary responded, picking a few ripe tomatoes from the damaged plant. ‘Perhaps I should pick the green ones – oh, what’s the point, really? I suppose with Sim back I’ll be leaving the house. It’s no moment to start making chutney.’

  Lady Margaret sighed. ‘Thank goodness Jessop’s already here.’

  Lady Mary said nothing. She dreaded her sister’s domineering and, if the truth were told, not very intelligent husband. Handing Lady Margaret a few tomatoes and picking the remainder, she straightened up and said, ‘I think I’d better get back and ask about tea.’

  As they walked towards the kitchen Lady Margaret murmured, ‘So wonderful about Sim.’

  Lady Mary smiled. ‘Isn’t it? I feel as if a great cloud I’ve been living under for years has suddenly rolled away. I’d forgotten what it was like to wake up happy.’

  Lady Margaret knew that the return of her eldest son was more than ample consolation for the loss of Sir Bernard. ‘But what a crowd it’s caused.’

  Lady Mary didn’t point out that her brother-in-law Jessop was one more. She said mildly, ‘I did suggest to Nigel that the discussions might be better held in London. I wonder where Mrs Bleasdale’s got to? I’ll start getting the tea myself.’

  Lady Margaret had opened the door into the passageway. Now she said, ‘My God, Mary. They’re quarrelling – I can hear them.’

  ‘I imagine they are,’ remarked her sister calmly.

  In the drawing room Sim was shouting, ‘I suppose I can do what I like with my own money, Nigel.’

  Nigel replied, ‘No, Sim. Not really. It’s been taken care of for generations, for generations to come. And you’ve no right to deprive your own children or anyone else’s because of a personal decision. As it happens, Jasmine’s told me this morning we’re having a child.’

  Congratulations were murmured. Nigel himself was delighted, almost bursting with excitement, pride and relief. His happiness was only subdued by his failure to understand Jasmine’s attitude. He’d been urging her for some days to return from London, saying she ought to be at Durham House during the family discussions, though not saying that he needed her moral support in what, according to the family solicitor, Sir Hugh Brown, looked likely to be a very sticky family encounter.

  ‘Sim’s new wife, I’m sure, would appreciate your being there,’ he’d said. ‘And it’ll look a bit odd if you’re not at home to greet the prodigal brother.’

  Jasmine’s instinct was to stay away from the conference, which she was sure would upset her and, she suspected, might put Nigel in a bad light in her eyes. She also felt she wanted time to think about her pregnancy. She stayed on at Annie’s but actually, being in the torpid first months of pregnancy, thought nothing and
decided nothing, just wanting to be left alone in peace. Finally she could think of no more excuses and, recognising Nigel’s need of her, came down to Durham House.

  On the morning of Sim’s arrival, Nigel surprised Jasmine in the bathroom, her back turned, wrestling her way into a light cotton skirt. Forgetting what he meant to say he stared, suddenly aware that his slender wife had put on quite a lot of weight around the middle.

  ‘Jasmine?’ he said on a mild, interrogative note.

  She rounded on him. ‘Oh, God, Nigel. Do you need to sneak up on people?’

  ‘I only opened the bathroom door,’ he said pacifically. ‘Your skirt doesn’t fit.’

  ‘I know,’ she responded, looking at the bathroom floor.

  ‘Well – what is it? You’ve been sick a lot, too.’

  He was becoming surer by the moment that she had a secret, a little secret in fact.

  ‘Come on, Jas,’ he said in an encouraging tone, ‘Are you or aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I think so,’ she said. Then sulkily, ‘Well, I might as well put on something loose and flowing.’ She moved into the bedroom. Nigel followed.

  ‘Jas! This is great news! Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Shut up, Nigel,’ she said as he moved to embrace her. She pushed him with her elbow.

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  Jasmine put on a dress and looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror. She patted her stomach. ‘Oh, well, that’s that, I suppose. Goodbye, stomach, hallo, huge bulge.’ Then, to Nigel’s surprise, she went out of the room. He found her downstairs at the breakfast table, talking to his mother.

  ‘Good news, Nigel,’ Lady Mary said. ‘But Jasmine says she doesn’t want to talk about it at present. I hope you’ll consider her feelings.’

  ‘Whims already,’ he remarked discontentedly. ‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘Where’s The Times?’ He got up to fetch the newspaper. ‘Perhaps I should just jump out of the window and run into the lake. I’m only the father, after all.’