Death Sits Down to Dinner (2 page)

Clementine walked over to her bedroom window and pulled back the heavy velvet curtain. The draft creeping in around the edges of the window frames struck cold against her bare arms, but she leaned forward to look down the street in time to see a quick blue flare at the bottom of the square as the lamplighter lit the last lamp. She watched him climb down his ladder, swing it up onto his shoulder, and stagger into the wind, his cap pulled down on his head and scarf tied tightly up around his neck. In the light from the lamppost outside Montfort House she watched the last of the leaves that had blown off the plane trees in the center of the square fly upward, as if trying to reattach themselves. She let the curtain fall back and with an exaggerated shiver turned back into the welcoming brightness of the room; a log fell in the grate and a pretty gold and ormolu clock chimed a silvery half past the hour. The door opened and Lord Montfort walked into the room

“What a wretched night,” Clementine said and recognized, too late, her husband’s raised eyebrows and slightly downturned mouth—customary indications of reluctance and resignation in the face of duty—and realized she had said the wrong thing.

“‘Wretched’ isn’t what springs to mind. ‘Unbearable’ is more like it.” Her husband walked over to the fireplace and, flipping the tails of his coat out of the way, sat down in a chair, his legs extended and crossed comfortably at the ankle. He must have heard his tone and decided it sounded ungracious because he looked up at her with an appreciative smile and said, “You look rather nice. Is that new?”

She cast an assessing glance at her dress in the pier glass. She thought the color beautiful, a shade of rich, old gold, the narrow skirt falling in three diagonal layers of lace-edged tulle from a fitted bodice of pomegranate-red silk velvet, with delicate gold tulle split sleeves to just above the elbow.

“Yes, it’s from Worth. Like it?”

“Yes, very much, perfect color for you.” He always appreciated the trouble she took to dress in elegant clothes with simple lines.

She smoothed down the front of the dress and went to sit at her dressing table, head tilted to one side to put on her earrings.

“How’s Olive bearing up?” He was making a supreme effort to shake off low spirits as he politely inquired after her afternoon round of visits.

“She’s in a bit of a fluster over poor old Sir Thom.” Clementine laughed as she referred to one of her closest friends and patron of the arts, Olive, Lady Shackleton, and her ongoing fascination with Sir Thomas Beecham, conductor and director of his own symphony orchestra; he was also the managing director of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden and impresario of His Majesty’s Theatre, and privately referred to by the three of them as Sir Thom, because of his tendency to stray, like a male cat when the moon was full, from his current mistress, Maud, Lady Cunard.

“Oh, and the Shackletons will not be with us for dinner tonight,” Clementine said, delivering what she knew would be bad news.

“Shackleton not coming to Hermione’s tonight?” His dismay was palpable. The last lifeboat onboard the sinking ship of his evening had been found to have a hole in its bottom.

Clementine did what she could to reassure: “But Henry and Emily Wentworth and Aaron Greenburg will be there. And do you remember Lady Ryderwood? We met her at the Waterfords’. No? Yes, of course you remember her. She is the widow of Sir Francis Ryderwood; they lived on the Continent.”

The company of Lord Montfort’s good friends Henry Wentworth and Aaron Greenberg, with the added attraction of one of London’s most lovely widows, did little to dispel gloom that had probably been building all afternoon. Clementine knew what was causing her husband’s despondency, but she did nothing more to try to convince him that their evening would be enjoyable. It was too late: his morale had already taken a nose-dive, so all efforts would be wasted.

At tonight’s dinner there could not be enough old friends to make the evening palatable for her husband. The principal guest, the man whose birthday was being celebrated at the house of their close friend Hermione Kingsley, was the First Lord of the Admiralty; a man whom Lord Montfort had never approved of and whose company he took considerable pains to avoid. There were plenty of men who held positions of power and responsibility in government with whom Lord Montfort got on quite well, in spite of differences in their politics. Winston Churchill was not one of them.

“The one thing I can never forgive Churchill for is his treachery…”

“Treachery”? Surely this was a bit steep? All the man had done was leave one political party to join another. He had merely left the Tories to join the Liberals.
Clementine prepared herself for a long list of Churchill’s many faults.

“Treachery rewarded by a meteor-like career from a lowly undersecretary,” her husband reminded her, as if she could possibly ever forget, “to home secretary in just six years … not to mention his self-aggrandizing and grandstanding.”

Well, of course he has a point. Winston Churchill’s habitual indulgence in passionate rhetoric can be rather trying.

“But worst of all is the man’s complete nincompoopery and his … well … his showing off.”

Clementine tried to find patience.
Please, not the Siege of Sidney Street again.
She sighed as she recognized the prelude to her husband’s favorite diatribe toward a man he despised.

But she was evidently not to be spared. The slums of Whitechapel, made notorious by Jack the Ripper twenty-five years earlier, had provided the backdrop for a calamitous incident in Winston Churchill’s early career as home secretary. The police had made a telephone call to Churchill for permission to call in military support in the arrest of a gang of desperate Latvian thieves who had killed three policemen in an armed robbery and were now trapped in a dilapidated, terraced house in Sidney Street.

“What I can’t begin to understand is Churchill’s determination to thrust himself forward and rush off to join a scene which was already verging on the edge of violent disaster. It was an action most unsuited to his position. Dispatching the Scots Guards from the Tower of London should have been enough. But his appalling display of eagerness to
personally
direct their efforts in storming that shabby little house was undignified.” Like most men of his background, Lord Montfort despised public displays of enthusiasm, he thought them vulgar and demeaning. “And he used field artillery, for God’s sake!”

He stared ferociously into the flames leaping in the fireplace and Clementine knew he was not quite finished.

“Of course the house caught fire and the fire brigade was called. And what did the ridiculous man do?” He gave his wife a look of outrage, as if she had been responsible for egging on Churchill’s childish behavior, and she sighed.

“He refused to allow the firemen to put out the fire! What could he have been thinking? When the house was a smoking wreck, two pathetic bodies were found charred beyond recognition and the rest of the
gang
had miraculously
escaped
. All of this watched by a growing crowd of Londoners
and
the newspapers. I am not surprised public and official outcry was tremendous.”

Clementine knew her husband would never forgive or forget the incident, as it served as an indication of Churchill’s true character.

“I’ll never forget the sheer arrogance of Churchill’s self-justification after the Sidney Street debacle or forgive his outrageous encouragement of brute force and violence. What did he say when pressed for a reason for this deplorable display? That he thought it ‘better to let the house burn to the ground than risk good British lives in rescuing rascals.’ And then a year later the blighter is made First Lord of the Admiralty—unforgivable!”

He shot his wife a look confirming that his usual good humor had left him hours ago.

“However much I am devoted to Hermione Kingsley and her selfless efforts on behalf of her charity, I simply can’t imagine why she would have to court a friendship with someone as detestable as Churchill. I find him to be a pugnacious and wholly obnoxious bore, he monopolizes all conversation. The thought of an evening celebrating his birthday makes me want to hop on a train for Iyntwood and give my guns a thoroughly good cleaning.” He caught her eye and laughed, and to her relief he shook his head. “Yes, I know, I know … the man somehow manages to bring out the worst…”

“Yes, it’s rather unfortunate. I had hoped that everyone else would provide a buffer. I’m sorry, darling, but you simply must—”

“Get a grip. Yes, I know I must, and I will. Of course I will. But I am not happy about it. Feel I’ve been put on the spot.”

She turned back to her dressing table and picked up her gloves and evening bag, as a signal that it was time for them to go.

“Aaron Greenberg is lovely company, and so is Henry Wentworth in his own way.”

“Yes, you are right, Clemmy, but neither of them is as dynamic and witty as Churchill. So they won’t get a word in all blasted evening.”

Clementine sought a distraction; it wouldn’t do for him to keep on in this vein.

“Olive told me this afternoon that Lady Ryderwood is to sing a duet with Nellie Melba at Hermione’s charity event next week; such an honor for her. Melba only sings privately for royalty now and is celebrated across the world—her season in America was a colossal success. And Olive says her temper is even more terrifying now that she is famous and she still absolutely refuses to sing at Covent Garden. How long has her feud with Sir Thom been going on for now? Is it two years since he told her she was ‘uninterestingly perfect and perfectly uninteresting’?”

Lord Montfort shook his head and chuckled. “You can be quite sure he has said far worse than that to her. Melba may have a silver voice, but she has a tongue of brass and she loves a good scrap with her conductors. Just pray she behaves herself at Hermione’s charity event and doesn’t feel the need to shriek directions at the pianist.”

“Oh, she will be quite the grande dame; the Chimney Sweep Boys charity event is heavily attended by royalty. Lady Ryderwood is going to sing for us tonight, a sort of informal dress rehearsal for the charity event. Olive says she has an exquisite voice, and you have to admit she is very lovely.”

“Yes, I remember her husband well. Nice chap, terrible health after the Boer War. Didn’t they spend the rest of his life somewhere in the Balearics? Died recently, didn’t he? I heard that he was confined to a wheelchair, awfully bad luck for an ex-cavalry officer. Shame really, horses were his passion.”

“All I know is that she returned to England this spring, recently widowed. We met her at the Waterfords’. I rather took to her.”

More chimes announced the hour. Pettigrew arrived to wrap Clementine up in her sable fur, pulling its deep collar high up around her ears. Even with this layer of insulation around her she could still hear her husband’s voice quite clearly as they walked downstairs to the hall.

“Do you know the swine has commissioned two more super dreadnoughts at two million blasted pounds a throw? Heard about it in the club this afternoon, the wretched man is collecting battleships like a damn schoolboy. I have never known anyone as hungry for war as Churchill; Kitchener can’t hold a candle to him.”

The butler helped him on with his coat and handed him his scarf and hat. He turned at the foot of the stairs, held out his arm, and walked her to the front door. She rather wished that they were not going out after all.

Clementine buried her gloved hands deep inside her fur muff as the butler opened the outer door and let in a draft of air so frigid that husband and wife huddled together as they went out into the night. Clementine raised her muff to shield her face. “Thank you, White; looks like winter is finally here,” she said through clenched teeth.

“It’s bitterly cold out there, m’lady, but Herne has a foot-warmer and plenty of rugs in the motor. There will be a thermos flask of hot coffee for you on the way home.”

On the way home.
She sighed as she thought of the evening ahead and was quite envious of White, no doubt anticipating a cozy evening of leisure in the servants’ hall eating coq au vin.

“Good heavens, White, we are only driving half a mile; we’ve hunted in worse weather than this.” Lord Montfort took his wife’s arm and she marveled at his determination not to be swerved from his dislike for the evening, it seemed that he was determined to wrong-foot everyone tonight.

Chapter Two

Hermione Kingsley’s dinner party was a glittering affair of sumptuous food, faultlessly served to an elegant gathering representing those who patronized the arts, who came from some of the oldest families in the country, or who were merely astonishingly rich. Hermione had chosen her guests carefully, Clementine thought, as they were ushered from the bitter night air into a drawing room thronged with beautifully dressed men and women, each one of them a sure touch for Hermione’s Chimney Sweep Boys, the largest and most prestigious charity in Britain for the orphaned children of the destitute.

But, as predicted by Lord Montfort, Winston Churchill, at his most expansive, did indeed monopolize the conversation at dinner from his place of honor at the head of the table throughout a procession of eight delicious courses.

Clementine had had the privilege of being taken in to dinner by the First Lord of the Admiralty and seated on his right. Mr. Churchill was in fine form and kept them all entertained with an effortless flow of convivial chatter. He dwelled at considerable length on his tussles with the leaders of the suffragette movement. His determination not to be henpecked by the formidable Mrs. Pankhurst and the most intimidating of her three daughters, Cristobel, was another anecdote deftly recounted from his days as home secretary.

Halfway through dinner, Clementine glanced at her husband to see how he was faring. They had finished some poached turbot and empty plates were removed to make way for tender slices of roast duck in a red-wine sauce with game chips. She was grateful to see he had turned from Lady Cunard, who always seemed to believe it was her duty to fascinate everyone in sight, to Lady Ryderwood on his left.
Oh the relief of it
, thought Clementine.
Lady Ryderwood is a perfect dinner companion for Ralph.
Indeed, the lady in question was lovely to look at, attentive and intelligent, and if she flirted she did so with subtlety and restraint.