A Dark and Stormy Night (3 page)

‘I'm not in the least tired,' I said when we were out of there. ‘But thanks for rescuing me. I couldn't figure out how to escape tactfully.'

Lynn sighed. ‘Tact isn't really necessary anymore. Joyce is used to Dave and the effect he has on civilized people.'

‘And she's thoroughly fed up with him,' added Tom. ‘Are you up to the stairs, D., or do you want to use the lift? I warn you, you have to go back through the drawing room to get there.'

‘The stairs, by all means. They're not at all steep, and up is always easier than down, and I wouldn't go back in there if the alternative was climbing to the top of the Statue of Liberty. Is he always like that, or is he drunk?'

‘Not drunk yet, probably, but he soon will be,' said Tom. ‘And yes, he's always like that, drunk or sober. I met him something over twenty-four hours ago, and the acquaintance has already been about a week too long. And his wife is just as bad.'

‘Oh?' I said. ‘She didn't say a word in there.'

‘She will,' said Lynn, and I had seldom heard her sound so cool. ‘She's a whiner, not a blowhard. She'll be launched by now on a steady trickle of complaint about weak tea, dry sandwiches, the wrong kind of jam tarts, and hard chairs. I'm sure she'll throw in a few jabs about the village, too. The essential message will be, if it's English, it's inferior. Dave agrees, but louder.'

‘So why did they come to visit, if they hate it so much?' I had reached the top of the stairs and could stop concentrating on making my knees do what they were supposed to.

‘We haven't figured that out yet,' said Tom. ‘You still need an arm?'

I shook my head.

‘We thought at first,' said Lynn, ‘that they came to sponge on Joyce and Jim. But Dave keeps telling everyone how rich he is, how he could afford to retire young because he was smarter in business than everybody else. So either he's lying or there's some other reason they're here. I don't know how Joyce and Jim put up with them.'

‘Jim isn't going to, much longer,' said Tom. ‘I overheard him—' he looked around and lowered his voice, ‘talking to Joyce earlier this afternoon, and he's about had it. Says they can stay through the weekend, because of the big doings on the fifth, but after that he's kicking them out. I think he'll do it, too. I got the idea, from the tone of the conversation, that the two sisters have never hit it off, and one reason the Moynihans moved to England was to get away from the Harrisons. So I suspect he'll happily give them their walking papers.'

We had reached our bedroom. ‘Let's go in and have some privacy,' I suggested. ‘I guess there aren't servants listening in every corner, like in the old books, but I'd feel more comfortable behind a good solid door.'

We settled in front of the fire and Tom found some sherry in a cupboard. ‘Good hosts,' he said, pouring us each a glass. ‘They think of everything for a guest's comfort.'

‘Dorothy, it's pathetic,' said Lynn. ‘Joyce and Jim are so proud of their house. They've put so much time and effort into fixing it up – and money, my word, tons of money. Everything was to look authentic, but at the same time be modern and labour-saving. They went so far as to take out a perfectly good Aga, because it was an old solid-fuel one Joyce wasn't sure she could make work right, and put in a state-of-the-art electric one – but specially designed to look just like the old ones. They wanted this first big party to be perfect. I gather they've been planning every detail for weeks. And then a couple of days ago sister Julie barged in with her impossible husband and went about alienating everybody in the house. Joyce was in a rage this morning over Dave's criticisms of the house. He doesn't know a thing about the subject, but that doesn't keep him from holding forth. And Julie saw Mike yesterday making eyes at Laurence—'

‘I forget who Laurence is.'

‘Upshawe, who used to own the place. Such a nice, easygoing man, and absolutely brilliant – he's a retired surgeon. And good-looking, even if he's not very young. Anyway, Julie saw them, and made the most awful remarks. I won't even repeat them, they're so foul, but let's just say they represented her views about gays, foreigners, dancers, and the English in general. And Laurence, poor dear, isn't in the least interested, but he's kind, and didn't tell Mike to go peddle his papers. But Julie went straight to Joyce to tell her all about it.'

‘I'll bet she just laughed. She looks like the unflappable sort.'

‘Well, she didn't take it seriously – not in one sense. But she was upset all the same, because of Julie's sheer malice. Julie actually tried to get Joyce to kick Mike out of the house for “flagrantly immoral behaviour”.'

‘When all he did was look at the man?'

‘That's all. And half of that might have been acting. Mike's a trifle . . . dramatic.'

Some of my sherry went down the wrong way. ‘Yes, I'd noticed,' I said when I could speak again. ‘A necessity in his profession, I'd have thought. And anyway, who cares, nowadays? Well, it's all going to make for an uncomfortable weekend. I wonder if we—'

‘Oh, Dorothy,
don't
think of leaving! For one thing, Tom and I need someone to talk to if everyone else stops speaking to anyone. For another, Joyce is almost at her wits' end, and you and Alan can be counted on to behave yourselves. Besides, everyone is interesting except the Horrible Harrisons.'

‘I'd say Dave Harrison was interesting,' said Tom thoughtfully. ‘In the sense of the old Chinese curse.'

‘It's a strange mixture, certainly,' I said, relaxing as the sherry took hold. ‘For an English country-house weekend, there's a remarkable shortage of Brits. Let's see.' I began counting on my fingers ‘Two, four, six, seven Americans – no, eight, I forgot Walinski, the famous photographer – and just three Englishmen, the dancer – Mike – and Laurence Upshawe, and Alan. Oh, and the Bateses.'

Alan came in just then. ‘Someone taking my name in vain? I'll have one of those, Tom, if you're pouring.'

Tom poured Alan's sherry and then went to put more wood on the fire, and I stretched my legs out to unkink my knees. ‘So did you enjoy your tour of the house, love? You weren't very long about it.'

Alan took a sip of his sherry. ‘The tour was curtailed by Mr Harrison, whom we encountered in the oldest part of the house, the only remaining part of the original Abbey. He imparted a great deal of misinformation about the building materials, style, and construction methods of the period, contrasting them unfavourably to the . . . er . . . dwellings he was responsible for building before he retired from business. I believe he called them “manufactured homes”. It seems an odd term.'

I shook my head in disbelief. ‘They're houses built in trailer factories, using many of the same materials and methods. They aren't bad-looking, some of them, but they tend to crumple like paper in bad storms like tornadoes and hurricanes. The mind boggles at the idea of comparing them with a building that's stood for – what? – seven hundred years.'

‘That, in rather more colourful language, was what Walinski said. The disagreement became rather heated, whereupon Walinski called Harrison a damned idiot and punched him in the nose.' Alan tossed a handful of cashews into his mouth.

‘He
hit
him?' I said in disbelief. ‘What did you do?'

‘The man didn't seem to be in need of medical attention. So I shook Walinski's hand – gently, in case he had injured it on the idiot's face – and found my way back here.'

Lynn broke into song. ‘“Hooray and hallelujah, you had it comin' to ya”,' she carolled. ‘I mean he had it coming, but it doesn't rhyme that way. Anyway –' she raised her glass – ‘here's to Ed Walinski and his strong right hand.'

Alan grinned. ‘I might have done it myself if Walinski hadn't got his licks in first. More sherry, anyone?'

After Lynn and Tom left, I put my feet up for a few minutes with ice-packs on the knees, which were protesting a little about recent activity. But I was restless, and it still wasn't anywhere near time to get ready for dinner. ‘Do you suppose,' I said to Alan, who was absorbed in
The Times
crossword puzzle, ‘that it's safe to wander around and explore a little? I really, really don't want to run into either of the Horrible Harrisons.'

‘He's probably retired with aspirin and a case of the sulks. That blow to the nose was painful, and when he fell he hit his head against an oak door jamb. As to his wife, I couldn't say.'

‘I think I'll chance it. Coming with me?'

‘Thanks, I'll finish this, if you can cope on your own. What on earth can they mean by “He touches with a pot, pleadingly”?'

I thought a minute. ‘How many letters?'

‘Ten, beginning with a P., I think.'

‘Eureka! I finally got one. Panhandler.'

‘Hmm. It fits, but what's a panhandler when it's at home?'

‘A beggar. An American term. Pot equals pan. Touch equals handle, and also ask for money, and the whole thing means pleading. Ta-da!'

I'm no good at the English ‘cryptic' crosswords, so I was ridiculously pleased to have solved a clue Alan couldn't. He grinned and saluted as I picked up my cane and left the room.

I walked, carefully, down the beautiful Georgian staircase and turned right, since I had seen nothing of that side of the house, the oldest part, if my vague idea of the layout was correct. Leading out of the entrance hall was a lovely panelled door, with an elaborate cornice over it and a massive bronze door knob. I turned it, pushed the door back, and stepped into a different world.

This had surely been part of the cloister of the old abbey. It was now an enclosed hallway, dimly lit. Arched windows on my left looked out on the gloomy November afternoon. Darkness had fallen early, as it is wont to do in the autumn in these northern latitudes. (The coming of short days still catches me by surprise in my adopted country. Because of England's mild climate, Americans tend to forget that all of the UK lies farther north than any point of the Lower Forty-Eight.)

By the light of a lamp outside, I could see through the diamond panes the shadows of trees and bushes, tossed fitfully back and forth by the increasing wind. Above me, the fan-vaulted roof stretched ahead perhaps forty feet to another doorway, this one pure Gothic, with a pointed arch.

On my right, small but sturdy buttresses supported a wall pierced by two similar arched doorways. The door in the nearer one was slightly ajar, and through it I heard voices.

The male voice was loud and bombastic. I would have recognized Dave Harrison anywhere. I hadn't heard Julie speak, but I assumed the petulant female voice was hers. Alan had guessed wrong. They were up and about, and in foul moods, and their bitter quarrel was getting closer to the door.

I loathe embarrassing encounters, but all the escape routes were too far away for a person with healing knees, so I took the coward's way out. Sliding behind one of the buttresses to wait in the shadows until they had left, I hoped devoutly that they wouldn't glance my way.

‘. . . why we had to come to this pile of garbage in the first place! There isn't even a TV in our room. And the food!'

They were in the doorway now, their shadows bulking large in the light from the room.

‘Well, we didn't come to watch TV,' said Dave, ‘so just shut up about it. And you could stand to lose a few pounds, babe.'

‘Me!' Julie's voice rose to nearly a shriek. ‘What about that beer belly of yours? And you put away Jim's Scotch just fine. With no ice, yet. God, I hate this place.'

‘Keep your voice down! Do you want your sister to hear? You came, sweet cakes, for a loving family visit, and don't you forget it. And we're staying till we get what we want. And till I get even with that dumb Polack!' The last came out in a vicious whisper, as they moved past me up the hallway toward the main house.

Once I heard the connecting door open and close, I breathed again and moved on down the corridor. But as I explored the old abbey rooms, I wondered mightily. The Harrisons could have bickered and complained anywhere. Why had they chosen Branston Abbey?

THREE

I
had been unsure about the clothes I would need for the weekend. ‘Are we going to have to dress for dinner?' I had asked Alan, and he'd been mildly amused.

‘Only as formally as you'd dress for a meal at a good restaurant. I shall certainly not take my dress suit.'

So it was a ‘little black dress' I wore that first night, with a pair of small diamond earrings Alan had given me one Christmas, and a string of pearls. I regretfully left my frivolous black cocktail hat in its box. I may be the last hat wearer in the UK, barring the Queen, but there are limits to what one can get by with in a private house.

We gathered in the drawing room for a pre-dinner drink, and my hopes that the Harrisons would absent themselves were immediately dashed. There they were, standing by the fireplace. Julie's dress was of gorgeous dark green satin, well-cut, but not quite concealing those extra pounds Dave had mentioned. Still, she looked quite nice, and would have looked nicer if her face had not been set in a scowl. Dave, with a large Band-Aid across his nose and two black eyes beginning to develop, was waving a glass of Scotch around as he lectured Jim Moynihan on something or other. Plainly the drink was not his first since he left the cloister. His speech was slurred and his discourse rambling enough to be incomprehensible.

‘You said he hit his head,' I said to Alan in an undertone. ‘Should he be drinking?'