Death Sits Down to Dinner (27 page)

Clementine remained impassive. Silence lay between them for a moment.

“Trevor will be twenty-four next month and I feel that I must be firm with him in a way I have not been before. His affairs are in a lamentable state, he drinks too much, smokes too much, and I dread to know how he fritters away his allowance.” Hermione paused, and Clementine felt as if she were listening to the late Queen Victoria complaining petulantly about Bertie’s antics in Paris. She assumed an expression of sympathetic understanding, encouraging the elderly spinster to continue.

“I put it to Trevor this morning that his present way of life must end. He must marry Jennifer, give up all these awful gambling houses, and join an appropriate gentlemen’s club. If it’s too late for someone with influence to put him up for White’s, then Boodle’s will do. And he must prepare to take a seat on the board of governors for the Chimney Sweep Boys. Or…” and the querulous old voice became quite steely and the aging face screwed itself up so tightly that she no longer resembled a benign old tortoise but an ancient gargoyle made of ivory leather, “or I will disinherit him and appoint Mr. Aaron Greenberg as chairman for the charity’s board of governors.”

Clementine was fascinated; her speculations had been spot-on, it seemed. But she noted with interest that there had been no mention of Trevor’s twenty-four-hour detention at Scotland Yard, and there probably never would be.

“What was Trevor’s response?” she asked.

“Trevor said that he would be quite happy to be on the board for the Chimney Sweep Boys, but that he could not possibly marry Jennifer. That as much as he liked her, he was not fond enough of her for
that
. And then, Clementine,” the old lady’s voice shook, either with age or rage, it was hard to tell, “he told me that he couldn’t marry Jennifer anyway, because he was already married!”

Clementine actually heard herself gasp, and though it wasn’t a loud inhalation, it was enough to make her pull herself together. She made herself keep quite silent, bent a look of inquiry on Hermione, and waited.

“I told Trevor that he was a snake in the grass and that I was done with him.” The old lady was so overcome that she relinquished her upright posture and actually sank back against the cushions in her chair and closed her eyes.
She is quite done in, poor old bat
, thought Clementine as she trotted over to Hermione and sat down next to her on a little footstool by her chair, in time to hear Hermione say under her breath, “It is enough to be double-crossed and fooled by Reginald, but to have one’s own flesh and blood, and the last remaining member of my family, be so deceitful and treacherous, is too much.”

Double-crossed and fooled by Sir Reginald?
Clementine’s mind positively shouted these words as she dutifully asked, “Did Trevor tell you whom he was married to?”

“No, my dear, he did not. He said that if I was done with him, then he had no further obligations to me.” Her voice was faint, and Clementine decided that it was time for a little brandy; she got up and rang for the butler.

Chapter Twenty-two

Dancing until the early hours of the morning is always so thrilling when you are twenty, thought Clementine, as she crawled into bed after Gladys Ripon’s fete for Nellie Melba, but when you have brought out two daughters in almost as many seasons it becomes quite punishing.

If only they could end these things just after midnight, she grumbled to herself as she fished around with her tired feet for her hot water bottle and shook her pillows to better support her weary head, it would be a far more pleasant experience.

I simply must decline a few invitations, otherwise I will be good for nothing
,
she promised herself when, still wide awake three hours later, she watched the gray light of eight o’clock in the morning lighten the edges of the curtains.

I am getting to that age when staying up into the small hours means I don’t sleep at all
.
She sighed as the images of the evening receded and she dropped into a deep sleep.

It was after noon when she woke. The room was dimly lit by winter sunshine and she reached out a hand to the bell pull. Ten minutes later her breakfast tray was brought in, and propped up against a wall of pillows, she sat up in bed, sipped her tea, and wearily considered the night before.

The ball had been like all London balls at Claridge’s, attended by everyone who was anyone. A profusion of flowers decked the great ballroom, the anterooms, and the smaller salons; hot and cold buffet suppers were offered in the dining rooms, champagne was served from start to finish, and a thoroughly modern band played a variety of tunes from waltzes to the fox-trot. An affair exactly like the previous ball she had attended there, almost down to the same flowers and the same food.

Clementine had stood up for one dance with her husband’s old shooting pal Jack Ambrose, and then they had joined Gertrude Waterford, Mr. Aaron Greenberg, and a Mrs. Crawford-Beamish for a glass of champagne and a bite of supper.

Clementine, who had been listening with half her attention to Jack Ambrose quarreling gently with Gertrude about how obnoxious Germany had been in trying to muscle in on the port town of Agadir in Morocco, felt she couldn’t take another evening dedicated to the belligerent kaiser’s aggressive quest to snap up previously unheard-of tin-pot towns that no one could possibly find on a map.

“I was disgusted with our Foreign Secretary, Grey was a complete pansy about the whole thing … we should have gone in there and trounced the lot of them,” Jack Ambrose said in summation of the Agadir Crisis; a career in the cavalry with active service during the Boer Wars had made him an addict for the glorious splendors of a full cavalry charge.

Clementine sighed and looked around for a distraction as Gertrude said coldly, “What nonsense, he did everything right and kept a cool head and Germany backed down. How could you say—?”

“All I
am
saying is that the Moroccans and the French were not saved by
Grey,
for God’s sake, they were saved by the German financial crises, that’s the only reason they went away.” Jack’s eyes bulged, and his face turned red. “I hope to God the man shows a bit more backbone when Germany starts throwing its weight…”

Oh for heaven’s sake
, thought Clementine,
more obsession about war with Germany
. She had endured fifteen minutes of Lady Busborough triumphantly recounting how she had caught a German spy red-handed, when in actual fact she had merely packed up her personal maid and sent the poor Fräulein back to Berlin because she had caught her reading her private correspondence.

As she cast about for a distraction she heard Mr. Greenberg’s voice behind her mentioning Hermione’s party for Winston Churchill.
We are not supposed to refer to that,
she thought. And without turning her head, she tuned in.

“… Still active in her charity … supportive of the arts. Her new companion…” Clementine detached herself from Colonel Jack Ambrose, who was embarking on another anecdote, which featured a game of polo at Hurlingham where nine ponies had been lamed, and edged into Mr. Greenberg’s conversation with Mrs. Crawford-Beamish.

“… Most accomplished … such a remarkable repertoire … unassuming and with such musical ability…”

She laughed to herself; Aaron Greenberg was positively gushing, another conquest chalked up to the lovely Lady Ryderwood.

“Her father was a violinist
and
composer…” Mr. Greenberg prattled on, and Clementine realized he was not talking about Lady Ryderwood. “… Miss Gaskell played for us, quite superbly I thought, as she accompanied Lady Ryderwood, whose voice is really quite nice.”

Lady Ryderwood’s voice is quite nice?
Clementine was about to turn and laughingly protest when she realized that Mr. Greenberg’s voice was expressing tremendous appreciation; praise was simply flowing—for Miss Gaskell!

“Hermione encourages Miss Gaskell to take lessons from Alfred Engleward and it is she who will accompany Melba at the charity evening, that is how good her playing is,” she said in a voice dripping with admiration.

Clementine couldn’t believe that he was chattering on about Hermione’s upcoming charity event, it was courting disaster especially with someone as thrusting as Mrs. Crawford-Beamish. And sure enough, he was to be punished.

“I would love to hear her play and I have always admired Miss Kingsley’s charity … the, er … Chimney Sweeps. And of course we are complete devotees of Miss Melba. I would be more than happy to make a contribution to the organization.” It was obvious that Mrs. Crawford-Beamish had not been invited to the charity evening, but as it was becoming the most fashionable event that December, she was determined to find a way to wriggle in. “Perhaps I might join
your
little party, Mr. Greenberg!” This was said with a fluttery little laugh that wiped the besotted smile right off Aaron Greenberg’s face.

“Oh, unfortunately I’m not in a position…” he floundered, but Mrs. Crawford-Beamish, a woman of impressive size and with a voice as strident as that of a barker at a fair, would hear nothing of it.

“Oh nonsense, Mr. Greenberg, I know how close you are with Miss Kingsley, I am sure you could find a place for little me!”

Mr. Greenberg had been put thoroughly on the spot; he was not at liberty to invite her and here was this determined woman crying out at the top of her lungs for an invitation. He glanced at Clementine, his expression rather frantic, and she rescued him from further embarrassment by interrupting them, swiftly changing the subject, and then, recognizing an old friend across the room, steered him to safety.

As they made their escape to join Olive Shackleton and Lord Herriot, Mr. Greenberg smiled his thanks and went on to say what a jolly nice young lady Miss Gaskell was, so ready to please and eager to make things right. His relief was palpable, and to cover his humiliating near brush with disaster he continued to natter on about Miss Gaskell.

“Miss Gaskell was not well the other night, you know. But there she was, determined to be useful. I found her running around downstairs after dinner on an errand to find pure spirit, with no one to help her. We found some in the end in the laundry rooms belowstairs.”

Clementine was stunned at this new intelligence, uttered quite without thought on his part, no doubt after too much champagne and the relief that he had been rescued from producing an invitation to an event that was not his to extend invitations to. She had to inhale her almost blurted,
But you said you were keeping Mr. Tricklebank company in the outer hall, until you came up to the salon.
To cover her confusion she turned away to talk to Olive, determined not to alert Mr. Greenberg to the fact that he had related a completely different account as to his whereabouts on the night of the dinner party than he had earlier.

It was this that she was still mulling over as she ate her toast and marmalade the next morning, Aaron Greenberg’s uncharacteristic lie. Aaron Greenberg, whom she had grown to rather admire and like; courteous, thoughtful, and considerate Aaron Greenberg, who made the Sir Thoms of this world, with their paramours, their affairs with other men’s wives, and their double standards, seem shallow and empty.

If Aaron Greenberg had been helping Adelaide Gaskell find pure spirit for Miss Meriwether’s spoiled dress, then this gave Adelaide an alibi for the time she had been gone from the salon. But it also blotted Aaron Greenberg’s copybook, as he had been careful to establish an exclusive alibi with Trevor Tricklebank. She had taken Mr. Greenberg for a truthful and straightforward man, but perhaps this was rather naïve of her, considering the massive fortune he had made despite the banking sharks of Istanbul and Paris. Perhaps she had completely underestimated him.

She ruminated on this new information as she crunched toast and sipped tea and her mind went back to a chance remark that Hermione had made yesterday afternoon about being betrayed by Sir Reginald.

Hermione had obviously had a falling-out with her old friend, before his death, and since then had decided that her nephew should take his place on the board of governors. Now with Trevor having severely disappointed her, and with an important place to fill on the board, she had resorted to Aaron Greenberg. Being made the chairman of the most influential charity in England would be a plum indeed, especially if it led to a peerage. Perhaps it was Mr. Greenberg who had told the police that Tricky had not gone on with Jennifer Wells-Thornton that evening but had walked off alone into the night. Thereby ensuring Trevor’s disgrace with his aunt, and securing his place as chairman of the charity—the only suitable male for the job. She did not like the idea at all, but it did make sense.

She set down her teacup with a clatter on the saucer at her next thought. Mr. Greenberg was certainly fit enough and agile enough to span the gap between portico and windowsill quite easily. And little Miss Gaskell could have ably contributed by making sure that the window was unlatched in the dining room. It was a possibility, and one she did not like.

Trevor Tricklebank as a suspect was home free and clear. The police had not charged him, as his new wife had probably given him an alibi, since this was undoubtedly whom he had been with for those two missing hours. But his lie and his clandestine marriage had put him in a bad position with his aunt.

But on the other hand there was the Clumsy Footman, who had spilled coffee on Marigold’s dress to give him the opportunity to leave the salon, and who had spent the crucial time of the murder belowstairs, outside at the bottom of the area steps, possibly to keep watch while his accomplice had gone in through that window into the dining room. Or, if he’d had the time, had run up the area steps, gained entrance to the dining room from the portico, and done the deed himself. Was the footman’s accomplice someone inside the house, or had he been planted there to help someone from outside who had climbed in through the window to murder Sir Reginald?

And finally there was this pleasant young woman who hadn’t the courage to tell her employer that she was too sick to play for her recital, but who was running around the house at the crucial time of the murder and who had kept a photograph of the dead man under her pillow and then later had torn it in two and thrown it away. Mrs. Jackson had told her that Miss Gaskell worked hard for the charity and that she cared deeply about the work it accomplished, which rang true considering that Adelaide was an orphan. But she didn’t have a hope of being appointed to the board of governors, as Hermione Kingsley was hardly a modern-thinking woman who supported other women’s right to govern and not just serve.