Murder at Maddingley Grange, page 19
She was in a state of feverish excitement, having just examined her new hand and discovered that she was only one card short of a royal flush. This delightful revelation was all of a piece with the story so far. Things were going supremely well. Six games had been played; five had been won. On fortune’s cap Mrs. Saville was the very button. The dark forces, on the other hand, having won the toss and the first round, were definitely on the skids.
Not that the five games had been easy. On the contrary. In spite of her experience Mrs. Saville had felt herself to be occasionally on dizzyingly unfamiliar ground. Sometimes almost on the verge of losing control as if a tugging, dancing spirit were abroad and leading her astray. Yet still she was winning, subjugating that humped, toadlike shape opposite that had hardly raised its eyes since play began.
“I shouldn’t have any truck with her, missus.” Fred’s voice finally penetrated this flood of self-congratulation. He leaned over the table and picked up the deck.
“What do you think you’re doing?” cried Mrs. Saville. Then, when he showed signs of stowing the pack away: “They belong to me.”
“Beg your pardon.” Fred put them back. “Only you’re out of your class, Mrs. S.”
“She’s doing very well,” said Sheila.
“He doesn’t mean to be rude, dear,” said Violet. “But there’s no point in playing against someone who’s got the gift.”
“I might be more impressed by that sort of superstitious mumbo-jumbo if I wasn’t winning. And five games to her one.”
“You’re on the seventh now?”
“Yes. And don’t waste your time exchanging significant glances.” Mrs. Saville reached out, briefly touching the five twenty-pound notes tucked under her aperitif glass. “I have no intention of giving up at this stage, I assure you.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly,” retorted Mrs. Saville. “You bring her down here, you neglect her dreadfully, going off boating or whatever, and then, when I take pity on the poor old thing and try to give her a little pleasure, you feel guilty. Never mind, Mrs. Gibbs.” Mrs. Saville forced herself to reach out and pat the gnarled old fist, all knobs and bones. She didn’t want the old lady to think her family’s aspersions had fallen on receptive soil. “I’m discarding.” She pushed out the rogue card. “If you would be so kind?”
Mrs. Gibbs, with a token and patently insincere cringe away from her son, dealt a replacement from the top of the pack. Her whiskery chin rested on her breast and her lip quivered. “Never have any fun…”
“Aren’t you ashamed?” said Mrs. Saville, turning over her card. “Your own moth—” Her eyes widened. Sheila Gregory gave a low whistle and Mrs. Saville turned and glared. “You must never do that. The whole point of poker…” But she spoke to empty air. Sheila had spotted the drinks trolley and wafted off.
Everyone started to sit around the long table, and a moment later Simon joined the gamesters. “We’re having lunch now, ladies.”
“Ohhh…” A fan of cards pressed against her bosom, Mrs. Saville turned an expression of exquisite suffering upon her host. “Not now. We’re in the middle of a game. And I have—” She struggled to modify the strength of feeling in her voice, “…quite a good hand.”
“I got to check on the cellar. See if Flash Harry’s back.” Mother started to struggle up from her seat. “Gizza lift, daughter.”
“Wait! Simon—couldn’t you be a sort of referee…?” Mrs. Saville thrust her five cards at him. “Keep them in your pocket and then bring them back when we’re sitting down after lunch. So we can continue the game with the same hand.”
“Happy to.” Simon stored the cards away. “I’d better keep yours as well then, Mrs. Gibbs.”
“Shouldn’t we get someone else?” said Mrs. Saville quickly. “You might just forget which hand is in which pocket.”
So Gilly was asked and put Mother’s cards away carefully inside his blazer. Assisted by Violet she disappeared into the house, Fred and Simon joined the others and Mrs. Saville was left briefly alone at the far end of the terrace.
She sat, her back to the rest of the company, restively alert, her stomach churning. Little point in trying to tackle food; she would not be able to swallow a single mouthful. She closed her eyes, seeing again the three stylized royals with their ginger scrolls of hair and pinched, weak mouths. And the nine and ten pips attending. A straight flush! When she discarded the three of clubs she knew, even with her present run of amazing luck, what her chances were of picking up the nine of hearts in return. Yet pick it up she did.
The only hand that could beat her now was a royal flush. Ace high. And while Mrs. Saville appreciated that the odds against her partner’s holding such a prize were phenomenal, such prodigious coincidence could occasionally occur. There was, of course, one way of finding out.
Mrs. Saville hesitated. She had never cheated at cards in her life and regarded anyone who did as disgracefully dissolute. Never, ever, not under any circumstances, could she have imagined herself belonging to that number. Yet could the step she now realized she was seriously considering be called cheating? Not really. Technically it was more sort of… checking. It would not tell her what cards Mrs. Gibbs held. (That really would be cheating.) Simply the ones that she did not.
And after all, Mrs. Saville argued with herself, had she not experienced something very strange, something alien and disturbing emanating from her partner during their half-dozen games together? Nothing so ridiculous naturally as superhuman power, but was there not a talent there (Mrs. Saville thought of Mother’s tricks) that was altogether out of the ordinary? And consequently a need—one might almost argue a duty—to redress the balance somewhat? To make things a little more fair.
Mrs. Saville’s hands stole out toward the cards. She watched the fingers, encouraged and dismayed. Watched them pick up the deck and flip quickly and quietly through. All four aces were there. The hands crept back into Mrs. Saville’s lap.
She expected to feel triumph. Or shame. Or pleasure and excitement. Instead, she felt an instant, deep, abiding calm. When Rosemary called: “Mummee,” she calmly left the table and calmly joined the others and in no time at all was calmly enjoying an aperitif.
The first course had been served and was being zestfully dispatched before Violet and Mother rejoined the company. Violet slipped quietly into her seat. Her face was pale, stained with Dutch-doll circles the color of foxgloves. She caught Fred’s eye and, as he made to speak, frowned, shaking her head. A bare movement.
Mother came to rest more noisily, wheezing and puffing. She looked fierce: suffused with energy and satisfaction. The salmon arrived reposing on a sea of aspic the color of butterscotch and surrounded by rosettes of mayonnaise and transparent slices of cucumber. Bennet brought out the sauce, new potatoes and salad and everyone helped themselves to wine. Today there were no place cards, so people sat where they liked, Mrs. Saville, in spite of her virtuous concern for Mrs. Gibbs’s well-being, coming to rest as far from the family as she possibly could.
Simon at the head of the table inquired courteously after the ghost hunters’ results (Mrs. Gibbs looked waggish, Violet shrugged), then turned to his younger companions. Rosemary, petulant at losing his attention even for a moment, paused in the act of lifting a silver fork weighted with saumon à la sauce verte to her lips and spoke.
“Don’t you just adore rusticity, Simon?”
“In moderation,” replied Simon, pleasurably aware of the pressure of Sheila Gregory’s calf against his own.
“You can’t adore anything moderately, silly,” giggled Rosemary. Her tongue, prettily pink like a cat’s, slipped out, catching a tiny rivulet of straying sauce.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Sheila. “I adore some things, and some people, very moderately indeed.”
Gaunt, still sluggish but fairly frisking along in comparison with his earlier revs per minute, grabbed at the occasional shoulder for support as he attempted to top up the guests’ glasses.
“I think,” said Simon, “that people can continue to help themselves, Gaunt. Less chance of flooding.”
“If you say so, sir.”
As the butler staggered off, Fred called down the table:
“You get him from Battersea Dogs’ Home, Simon?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Him being a lurcher, like?” Delighted with his wit, especially when Martin as well as Violet laughed, Fred cracked his knuckles and helped himself to more potatoes. “Nothing like dining ay la fresco, is there, Martin?”
“No.” Martin smiled, but absently. He had gradually become aware that ever since he woke, overshadowed by all his aches and pains and the upset with his ex-fiancée, there had been at the back of his mind a quiet but persistent desire to see Laurie again. He was disappointingly conscious of the empty chair facing Simon at the other end of the table but had no intention of asking his host where his sister might be. Apart from a natural disinclination to draw attention to himself, such a query might well evoke some sarcastic response from Rosemary. He watched her now, her hand on Simon’s arm, prating on about the landscape.
“You must need absolutely oodles of staff.” She dragged out the “oo” through a scarlet rosebud.
“Just a couple full time. And there’s a boy.”
“I can’t be doing with gardening,” said Violet, looking slightly more like her old self. “Too much like outdoor housework. And talk about language. All that pricking out and hardening off. There’s a time and place for remarks like that. I wonder that man in the muddy wellies at Pebble Mill can look his neighbors in the face.”
When Bennet came to remove the plates, Martin caught her attention and, keeping his voice low, asked the whereabouts of Miss Hannaford.
“She’s up to her eyes at the moment, sir. What with Gaunt being one leg short of the pair, so to speak. She’s eating on the wing. That’s why I didn’t lay her place.”
“Then who—?” Martin watched the wreckage of the salmon being borne away. He glanced around the table. The alfresco lunch was plainly a success. Flushed from smiling mouths by copious drafts of wine, streams of easy chatter flowed. Even Mrs. Saville, no doubt recalling her stunning collection of cards in Simon’s pocket, parted with a modicum of steely bonhomie. It was getting quite bacchanalian. But where in this merry throng, thought Martin (having comprehended the reason for the empty chair), was Derek?
There was Mrs. Derek, giddily throwing back her head and laughing at one of Simon’s sallies. And there was everyone else apparently having the time of their lives. But of the great detective, no sign. Martin wondered if the other guests knew something he didn’t. If some plan encompassing Derek’s disappearance had been made earlier when he, Martin, was still asleep. Surely it was not possible that no one had noticed the man’s absence? Much more likely, assumed Martin, feeling a pang of sympathy for the ridiculous sleuth, that it had not been considered of sufficient interest to spend time discussing. He waited for a bit of conversational slack, then said very clearly:
“Sheila? What on earth’s happened to your husband?”
“You’re the third person to ask me that.” Sheila looked down the table, bored and a little vexed. “I expect he’s hot on some trail or other.”
“You missed breakfast, Martin, so you wouldn’t know,” explained Fred. “But the idea was that he’d give us till one o’clock to murder him and if we hadn’t managed it by then, he’d won on points.”
“You’d think,” said Mrs. Saville, “that someone would have done it by now. There are nine of us after all.”
“But only one would be looking,” Gilly pointed out.
“The murderer…” Fred’s voice throbbed. He rose, hunched his shoulders, spread his arms and made his horror noise. Violet said: “Stop acting so daft,” and pulled him back into his seat.
“It’s now half past…” Gilly’s Adam’s apple bobbed excitedly. “You’d think, given his temperament—no offense, Sheila—he’d have been here on the stroke, thrilled to bits because he’d beaten us.”
“All congratulatious,” said Mother.
“Unless he’s been…well…” Martin tailed off delicately.
“Done,” said Mother with great relish, and her eyes shone.
Mrs. Saville didn’t like the way things were going. The last thing she wanted, with the state of play extant, was her partner gallivanting (well, shuffling) all over the place hunting a murderer. Money was around to be won—the currency bankroll came vividly to mind—and Mrs. Saville had no intention of letting it permanently disappear into that poult de soie duffel bag.
But the slight eddy of concern whipped up by Martin’s question was vanquished by the arrival of a huge white china dish of strawberries Romanoff.
“Don’t you just adore fraises du bois?” cried Rosemary, clapping her hands.
“I do,” said Sheila. “Not that these are they. Far too large. Cream?” She passed the jug, watching, brows raised, as Rosemary lathered the fruit. “Goodness. Right over the million cal mark.”
“Oh, I can eat what I like.” Rosemary touched her waistline and smirked.
“Mm. It’s either the figure or the complexion that goes, isn’t it? Of course, makeup can work wonders.” The ladies exchanged golden syrup smiles.
“I think,” said Simon, “that I should go and look for your husband. He may not have heard the gong. Of course, there’ll be plenty of food left but I do feel guilty that he’s not enjoying lunch with the rest of us.”
“I’ll go.” Sheila got up. “He may be in the kitchen, grilling the staff about last night.”
“Grilling the staff,” called Fred. “That’s a good ’un.”
“I expect she’ll be glad of the exercise,” said Rosemary loudly as Sheila walked away. “After all those potatoes.”
When Gaunt had staggered around with narrow-stemmed glasses and the guests had helped themselves to Château d’Yquem, a haze of contentment spread around. Everyone savored the berries lying in an exquisite minglement of strawberry and orange juices and curaçao, and Fred raved about the wine.
The silence became heavy and still, owing something to the enervating sun and more than a little to the alcohol already consumed. Second helpings of pudding were offered and devoured. The dishes were being scraped clean again and Fred had just said, “Mind out, Violet—you’ll have the pattern off that plate,” when Mother dropped her spoon with a loud clatter. She turned her haglike profile, frozen into a strained, compressed gravity, toward the house. A second later, ripping through the still warm air, came a terrible piercing scream.
MURDER
Chapter Eighteen
Everyone leaped out of their seats, shocked into instant sobriety. Startled stares were exchanged, genuinely fearful until Violet cried: “It’s the body! She’s found the body…”
“He’s copped it after all then, old clever dick,” said Fred. “Come on…”
An unnecessary directive. Already Simon and Rosemary were halfway across the terrace, the rest streaming behind. Even Mother managed, with a crablike scuttle, to almost keep up. Mrs. Saville was last, looking down her nose and concealing her concern at this unexpected turn of events.
Uncertain of the precise location from which the fear-filled scream had emanated, the guests came to a halt in the hall. Simon had just said, “We must spread out,” when Laurie, almost lost behind a vast blue-and-white-striped apron, and the vestibular Gaunt appeared, both looking extremely alarmed. Simon had just started to reassure Laurie when Bennet ran into the hall, crying: “Oh, sir! You must come. It’s in the conservatory…Oh, sir! It’s Mr. Gregory—he’s dead…”
“Avanti!” cried Simon and they all charged off. Laurie, having observed the pale and dreadful stamp of Bennet’s countenance, followed more slowly. By the time she reached the conservatory the others were bunched together just inside the door staring in an impressed and exhilarated manner at a gorily dramatic tableau.
Derek Gregory was lying on his back, eyes wide open, mouth agape. The front of his shirt was splashed with red. There was also a long streak of red, glaringly vivid, down the front of Sheila’s dress. And terrible sticky stains the same color all over the long knife she held in her hand. Just behind Derek a huge pot had fallen over and earth and chunks of terra-cotta were spread about. Sheila stood staring at them all, an expression of absolute horror on her face; then she dropped the knife and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders twitched and shook and she started to cry.
“That’s a bit of all right, ay, Violet?” asked Fred. “You can’t fault that. She’s as good as some of them on the telly.”
“Better,” improved Violet, starting to applaud. All but Laurie and the servants joined in and the place fairly rocked. Someone whistled and Gilly called “encore,” only to be told by Fred not to be gormless, they hadn’t solved this one yet.
Throughout her warmly enthusiastic reception Sheila had continued to evince signs of the most acute distress. Now, as the last smattering of applause died away, she looked at them in turn with blank incomprehension.
“What’s the matter with you all?” she shouted. “Are you mad? I’ve told you my husband’s dead and you’re…you’re… Oh, God—won’t someone please do something…Help me… please…”
“She’s getting a bit carried away,” said Fred. One or two people started to look rather uncomfortable. The group drew a bit closer together. Glances were exchanged along “now what?” lines. Simon left the audience and crossed over to the actors. He studied Sheila’s trembling lips and wild eyes, then knelt down by Derek, felt his pulse and leaned his head against the splotched shirt. He ran his hands over the body and, to Laurie’s horror, closed Derek’s eyelids before standing up, face deathly pale.
“I’m afraid Sheila’s right. He is dead.”
