Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman Read online

  “Not at all, m’lady, everything is at its best.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Anything horrid I should know about, any last-minute surprises?”

  Clementine seated herself in a comfortable chair by the window and Mrs. Jackson took two steps toward her so that she wouldn’t have to raise her voice. There was a surprise, Clementine thought. She could tell by her housekeeper’s hesitation, but she knew Mrs. Jackson would have a solution to go with it, as no problem was ever mentioned without one.

  “Mr. Evans of the Market Wingley orchestra sent a message over last night: his first violinist has sprained his wrist and is unable to play.”

  “There’s always something at the last moment, isn’t there? How many violinists do they need, for heaven’s sake?” Clementine did not allow herself to overreact, but patiently waited for Mrs. Jackson’s way out.

  “The Market Wingley usually plays with three, m’lady. I sent Dick over to Mr. Simkins, as the schoolmaster is a very accomplished player, and he sent word this morning he would be happy to join the orchestra tonight.” Mrs. Jackson produced her perfect resolution to the problem with pacific calm, and Clementine made sure it was properly acknowledged.

  “Oh, well done, Jackson, five steps ahead as always. I thought we had a real problem on our hands for a moment. Mr. Simkins? Why, that’s Violet’s father. If she’s up-to-the-moment on her duties, will you make sure she spends some time with him?” Clementine relaxed and then tightened up again. “What about oysters—did we manage to get some?”

  “A bit difficult at this time of year, m’lady, but we were fortunate. They arrived from Billingsgate on the early train with the other fresh fish this morning. We are completely prepared in the kitchen.”

  “Well, it appears we are on top of things. I’ll join you and Hollyoak after luncheon for a quick walk-through, if you are sure you will have the flowers done by then.”

  Mrs. Jackson assured her that she would.

  “Now here are my lists, no real changes.” Regardless of how unnecessary she knew it was, she went about the task of updating her long-suffering housekeeper with her annotated lists of last-minute needs and wants. Her annual summer ball must always surpass the spectacle of luxury and the cachet of previous years and nothing must be overlooked. But what Clementine did not foresee was that it would become one of the most talked-about events of the season.

  Chapter Two

  Ralph Cuthbert Talbot, the 6th Earl of Montfort, did not share his wife’s unrestrained enthusiasm for their ball. Lord Montfort was tucked away from the commotion of preparations in the house and was enjoying the solace of the morning room. Sunlight poured in through the leaded panes of the large stone-mullioned windows, creating a comforting pool of warm light where he sat at the table. One of the casements was open a little, and he briefly became aware of the pleasant sound of bees working sturdily among the wisteria blossoms in the quiet of the room. He was enthusiastically applying himself to a large and substantial breakfast of the sort that was referred to in Europe, and especially by the French with a slight shudder, as the “Englishman’s breakfast.”

  The thought that half of London society would turn up at his house this evening dressed in costumes so ridiculous that it would take days for him to eradicate them from his memory caused him to snort with irritation. He firmly believed that costume balls had the tendency to make fools out of most of his friends. All the more reason, he said to himself as he stretched his legs out under the table, to enjoy this quiet hour and the luxury of uninterrupted thought. Lying open on the table to his right was a copy of The Times. He read ominous reports of the ferocious opposition by Ulster Unionists against the latest Home Rule Bill, as he champed stoically through a plate of the fried, the grilled, and the scrambled. On his left, a neat pile of the morning’s first post awaited his attention.

  As James poured a second cup of coffee, Lord Montfort turned with irritation from a particularly depressing editorial on trade unions and opened the letter on the top of the pile. It was from the proctor of Oxford University, Dr. Everard Bascombe-Harcourt.

  As he cast his eye over Bascombe-Harcourt’s opening lines, the day quite lost its beauty. The initial flash of alarm and anger as he took in the sentence that began, “I regret to inform you…” was replaced with the dull and miserable acceptance he often experienced when he was informed of the more distasteful exploits of his ward and nephew, Teddy Mallory. He read on to the foot of the page, conscious of a twinge in his stomach where his grilled lamb chop and sautéed mushrooms had landed with such contentment a few moments ago.

  The warm, sunny room pleasant five minutes earlier now felt confined and airless. With the beginnings of severe indigestion and memories of Teddy’s past indiscretions, Lord Montfort felt trapped and suffocated. He got up from the table, stuffed the letter into his coat pocket, and left the house, walking briskly toward the stable block. He always did his best thinking on the back of one of his horses.

  Less than an hour later, he crested the ridge of Marston Downs astride his favorite hunter, Bruno. A stiff southwest breeze picked up and he jammed his hat down tightly on his head. His horse’s ears pricked back, asking if he was ready. Lord Montfort leaned forward and gave him the go-ahead and felt the animal’s stride lengthen in a powerful thrust of muscle and intention. All thoughts were mercifully blanked from his mind in a rush of cold air as his horse stretched out in a long, measured gallop. Horse and rider raced along the top of the ridge as one in the pure physical enjoyment of the moment, without a thought between them. Ahead was a wide ditch brimming with rainwater, followed by the fallen trunk of a beech tree, and, farther on, to the right a hedge with a barred gate. Lord Montfort usually slowed his horse for these obstacles, but today he felt reckless, and his horse, familiar with them all, covered the ditch, took three strides, cleared the log, and went on to lift effortlessly over the five-bar gate. “Now that,” Lord Montfort said to the horse as he clapped him on the shoulder, “is more like it.”

  Half a mile on, his mind returned to Dr. Bascombe-Harcourt’s regretful letter. He knew there was nothing he could do about his nephew’s present dilemma; Teddy had apparently run the full course of his self-destruction. And really when it came down to it, what was there to do, except maintain as much dignity as he could in the face of his nephew’s coming ostracism and disgrace? The proctor’s letter had been formal and to the point, but his son, Harry, when he arrived for luncheon would be able to fill him in on Teddy’s latest fiasco. And more than likely Teddy was also on his way to Iyntwood, so he had that interview to look forward to as well. There was no point in ruining his wife’s enjoyment of her ball, so he decided to wait until Monday before he told her, if he could. He turned his horse and they cantered back along the gallop.

  Returning to his house, he chose to enter the park by the southeast gate. He trotted his horse alongside the drive, passing under the spread of immense chestnut trees with their white candles still in bloom, the filtered shade of beech, and the deeper shade of elms. At the edge of the park they broke clear of the woodland, and his horse briskly increased the pace, snorting rhythmically down his nose in anticipation of oats.

  When they came to the south edge of the lake, which curved in a crescent up and around the base of the gardens and the northeast side of the house, he slowed Bruno to a walk and crossed the bridge where the lake narrowed into a shallow bed of water lilies fringed with flag iris. And here the principal facade of his house came into view: sunlight glinted on the handsome Elizabethan stone mullioned windows which formed such a feature of the house. At the sight of the familiar mellow stone walls glowing against a backdrop of dark Lebanon cedars, Lord Montfort halted his horse to enjoy the contentment this scene always instilled within him. The sun was warm on their backs as horse and rider cantered forward, followed by a flock of swallows skimming along the surface of the turf behind them to catch the insects that flew up from the grass disturbed by Bruno’s hooves.

  * * *
r />   Just before luncheon, Clementine was on alert to the arrival of their son, Harry. She heard the rough purr of the two-seater Bugatti long before the butler came to announce that Lord Haversham had just arrived and to ask if they would need to hold luncheon.

  She said no, she felt sure that Lord Haversham and Mr. Ellis would be quite ready to eat at one o’clock, and walked out to greet her son as he pulled up at the east portico of the house with a spray of gravel and a shout of greeting.

  Used to her son’s habitual energetic exit from his motorcar, she was surprised to see him open the door and climb out with what appeared to be the burdened weariness of a middle-aged man. Intrigued, she immediately glanced at Ellis Booth, whom she regarded as a steadying influence on her son’s often exuberant and unchecked disposition, but Ellis’s round and rather placid face was studiedly noncommittal. There was a brief, muttered exchange between the two young men as they divested themselves of caps, goggles, and the huge gauntlet gloves they insisted on wearing whenever they traveled in Harry’s open motorcar, and she caught a rather admonitory glance pass from Ellis to Harry before her son walked up the steps toward her.

  She noticed that as he grew older Harry resembled his father more closely. They were both tall men, athletic in build, and had the same high-crowned shape to the head and the dark, almost-black hair of the Talbot family. But most of all she realized that they shared the same air of authority that riches, rank, broad acres, and ancient lineage bestow on men with the providence to be born first in line to the right family. Harry certainly resembled his father, she thought, but there the similarities ended. Her son differed from his father’s entrenched traditional views, and like many young men of his generation he had a fascination for the modern world and a love of mechanized speed and motorcars; whereas her husband viewed all change with concern and, if given time, with some sort of reluctant acceptance.

  “Well, here you are, and so admirably early.” They were already half an hour late. “You look like you were certainly spanking along in that motor of yours, what’s it called again?” She could never manage to remember the stupid thing’s name.

  “A Bugatti T-22, Mother. It goes like the devil, did close to sixty the other day up the Great North Road.” It didn’t take much to restore Harry’s good humor, she thought. But goodness, why were they both so disheveled and dusty with their hair all over the place? She laughed as if she approved of Harry’s rather dangerous love of speed, which she didn’t, as she was determined not to appear too critical when he had only just arrived.

  “We are taking luncheon outside by the lake, so we can keep out of the way of the final flurries to get us ready for the ball tonight. Join us when you’ve had a moment; your father is outside already.” She knew he would understand her polite code for Don’t keep him waiting; cut up to your room for a wash and brush-up, and be quick about it.

  When Harry and Ellis came down to join them they were almost on time for luncheon. Clementine was sitting under the loggia, enjoying the business of doing nothing as she watched her husband encourage his Labrador to retrieve a small tree limb, twice the dog’s length, from the center of the lake. At her feet lay Harry’s old dog, Percy, asleep with the sun on his belly, his feet twitching as he dreamed of past quests for game birds.

  Lord Montfort turned to greet his son with a welcoming, “Harry, well here you are.” He placed an affectionate arm across his son’s shoulders and walked with him to the loggia to say hello to Ellis.

  “Good drive down?” he asked them both. “You’re on time for once, must have been cracking along! What’s that new motor of yours again?” Harry and Ellis rushed to interrupt each other as they related the glories of the motor and what it was capable of, until Hollyoak bent to inform Clementine that their luncheon was ready.

  When they had finished their meal, she was pleased to see that all three men were relaxed and enjoying the afternoon. There seemed no trace of the ill humor Harry had displayed upon his arrival, or of her husband’s grim preoccupation when he had returned to the house after his morning ride. If their son seemed a little inattentive, his father seemed not to mind. He had glanced in Harry’s direction several times during their meal, obviously as happy as she was to have him home for the summer.

  “Always feel I might be in Valtravaglia when we eat out here; we should perhaps go back there.” Her husband turned to look at her as he sat back in his chair and reached for a delicate peach from the estate’s glasshouses.

  “I’d love to. Let’s make a plan for next spring. It will be beautiful then,” she said as the butler bent to speak in her ear. “The first of our guests have arrived, sadly too late to join us. Teddy and Oscar Barclay are being given something to eat in the house; I’ll pop in on them later.”

  At the mention of his cousin’s arrival, Harry came out of the preoccupied state he had fallen into since they had finished their meal. “Father, perhaps I could have a word before tea?”

  “Yes of course, why don’t you walk over with me to the estate office. I have an appointment with our new agent, Archie Pommeroy, and it would be a good time for you to meet him. Ellis, what about you, want to walk along?”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll run up to the house and say hullo to Mallory and Barclay.” Ellis was already on his feet.

  Their luncheon over, her husband and son left in the direction of the estate office in the stable block and Ellis wandered off in search of Teddy Mallory and his friend Oscar Barclay, leaving Clementine to join the butler and housekeeper for one last walk-through of the house.

  * * *

  With her inspection complete to her utmost satisfaction, Clementine decided to take a stroll before her guests arrived at five o’clock. She put on her hat and set off in the direction of the lime walk to spend a happy hour with Mr. Stafford, discussing under-plantings for shade and to see what was happening with the new garden before she had to change for tea.

  On her way back to the house she chose the path that came from the lake through a dense shrubbery of tall rhododendrons and azaleas. Their somber, heavy foliage concealed her approach as she came up to the back of the boathouse building. But as she drew closer she heard, quite distinctly, voices lifted in anger. She stopped, uncertain for a moment what to do. She listened as the shouting started again and was surprised when she recognized one of the voices as Harry’s. Walking forward, she could clearly see into the boathouse garden while remaining well hidden among the tall shrubs.

  Standing on the back steps of the building were Harry and Teddy. Teddy had his back to her, but she saw Harry’s face and he was furious. She had never seen her son so angry before.

  She watched Harry haul Teddy toward him by his shoulder and shirt collar with both hands. Harry’s face was red and distorted with anger and at that moment he appeared immense, almost unrecognizable. He shook Teddy so hard that his cousin would have fallen if he had not been held in such a strong grip. Seeing them close together, she realized how much taller and heavier Harry was than his cousin; his anger seemed to have increased his size. His hostility was so palpable that she felt a thump of adrenaline surge in her stomach. He’s going to hit him! she thought. This simply can’t be happening. But it was happening. In one lunging, stiff-armed push, Harry shoved Teddy down the boathouse steps and onto the lawn. Teddy sprawled on the grass, drew up his legs, and raised his arms over his head. He cringed as Harry bore down on him from the top of the steps. Harry pulled him to his feet and started to shake him again. He was even angrier now and gave Teddy a shove back toward the path leading into the orchard.

  In considerable alarm, Clementine withdrew into the shrubbery and retreated down the pathway. What on earth was happening? This was quite awful. Harry’s voice was so magnified by rage that even at this distance she clearly heard some of the words he was shouting.

  “… Get out of here … you bloody little swine … I’ll break your damn neck…”

  Despite her horror and disgust, Clementine couldn’t help but walk f
orward to see what was happening. Harry was at least making a supreme effort to pull himself together: he had turned from his cousin but was still beside himself with rage. She watched Teddy brush grass and dirt from his trousers, saw him shrug his shoulders back into his coat and reach into his pocket for his cigarette case, bending his head to light a cigarette. He threw a nervous look at Harry and, reassured that his fury had passed, sauntered off through the boathouse garden-gate into the orchard and disappeared in the direction of the adjoining stable block as if nothing in the world had happened. Clementine was aware that her heart was beating rapidly and her throat felt tight and dry.

  She was not so naïve that she didn’t understand that young men sometimes fought, but she imagined that by their early twenties they would surely have outgrown adolescent posturing and moments of mad violence. She was frightened to see her considerate and civilized son behave so brutally, and couldn’t begin to imagine how Teddy could have had such a profound and ugly effect on him. Something had gone quite terribly wrong between them. She stood still for a moment, trying to make sense of what she had seen. She fervently hoped this was the end of their quarrel and not the beginning of something more disturbing.

  Chapter Three

  When Clementine came downstairs to join their guests before dinner, the red drawing room was thronged with glossy, glittering, and impressively attired men and women, all of them the product of the minute attentions of their valets and maids. She briefly tuned in to her husband’s conversation with Colonel Jack Ambrose and Sir Hugo Waterford—on Purdy’s or Holland’s for guns—and quickly walked farther into the room.

  There was an exclamation and a shout of laughter from her son, Harry, and she turned to see him with Oscar Barclay, Ellis Booth, and Lucinda Lambert-Lambert in a tight group at the far end of the room, having the time of their lives. How loud they were! What on earth could they be drinking? She signaled to Hollyoak not to serve them any more. At the rate they were going, they would be pickled by midnight.