Death Sits Down to Dinner (6 page)

With perfect timing, Mr. Churchill was back in the drawing room before the policeman had a moment to introduce himself. Clementine was once again reminded of Churchill’s extraordinarily assertive side when it came to directing the efforts of others as he assumed control of the policeman’s arrival. He quickly made introductions, scrupulously correct with the order of precedence, she noticed with some amusement. Standing among them, chin thrust forward, gesticulating with a pink pudgy hand, Mr. Churchill intoned their names, watching the young policeman to make sure he was impressed by the elite throng he found himself among. It was only later that Clementine was to understand the importance of Churchill’s involvement and the effect it would have on the nature of the Metropolitan Police inquiry.

“And unfortunately three of us are no longer here for you.” Churchill waved a majestic arm around the room as if to conjure those missing to their places. “Miss Kingsley’s nephew, Trevor Tricklebank, left immediately after dinner with Miss Wells-Thornton to go…?” He turned to Miss Kingsley, who answered that her nephew had gone on to a ball at the Desmonds’ with Miss Wells-Thornton.

“And Lady Cunard left well over an hour ago,” put in Marigold Meriwether, coming off as rather pert. “She asked us to tell you that you are welcome to call on her next Wednesday if you think she can be of any help.”

Mrs. Churchill expressed her disapproval of Marigold’s determination to insert herself by fixing the girl with a long, thoughtful stare calculated to silence her. It had its effect.

Clementine was surprised at how young Detective Inspector Hillary was. He was a pleasant- looking man, about the same age as Captain Vetiver, and tall with broad shoulders, which she noticed he had squared as he walked into the room.
Probably feels a bit overwhelmed by Churchill,
she thought. Hillary was wearing a well-cut suit and looked as freshly turned out as if he were off to dinner at one of the nicer gentlemen’s clubs. He had looked them all over thoroughly during Churchill’s introduction and now he said, “Thank you, sir,” to Mr. Churchill before turning to address them all. “I would like to talk to each of you, separately, before you leave. And please make arrangements to stay in town until this investigation has reached its conclusion, or I have given you permission to leave. There is no doubt I will be following up with each of you within a few days.”

He turned to Miss Kingsley and asked which room he could use for his interviews. She was about to reply when Churchill started toward the door, left hand extended, and shepherded Hillary out into the hall and left to the library.
He has magnanimously decided to share his headquarters,
thought Clementine,
and obviously his is the first appointment with Detective Inspector Hillary.
It was a full twenty minutes before Mr. Churchill appeared among them again.

“I must away from you now, my dear Hermione, but I will return in a few days to see how you are doing.” Churchill crossed center stage, exhibiting a blend of solicitous concern and reluctance to leave, thereby depriving the old lady of comfort and reassurance. “Come, my dear,” to his wife as he extended a husbandly arm.

“Thank you, Winston, but I think I will remain with Hermione tonight, if you would send the motor back for me tomorrow morning.”

Clementine was impressed with Mrs. Churchill’s independence and her husband was obviously used to it. He paused only long enough to make a little speech to all of them: regrettable and tragic circumstances, absolute faith in the Metropolitan Police force, best in the world—the sort of heartening twaddle that was expected to soothe troubled souls. Clementine recognized the measured tone he had used earlier at dinner. His politician’s voice, she remembered. “It would … be … in
everyone’s interests
 … to those of us here … and in the …
criminal investigation department
 … to maintain complete … and …
absolute silence
about what has happened …
here tonight
.”

He strode out of the room, leaving them to their cold coffee and curling sandwiches.

A police sergeant came into the room and stood portentously in the doorway. “Miss Kingsley?” he asked, looking around the room for the butler to help him. “Inspector Hillary will see you now, please.”

“I think it would be better if he spoke with Lady Montfort first.” Hermione did not get up from her high-backed wing chair. She reminded Clementine of an old tortoise sticking her head out of her shell to see if winter was over.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but Inspector Hillary asked for you, so would you mind stepping into the library?”

Hermione rose from her chair and crossed the room, and the others sat on and waited.

Clementine was called next.

*   *   *

Clementine felt as if a year had crawled slowly by before she could lay her tired body down in her bed at Montfort House. It had certainly taken an age before Detective Inspector Hillary had allowed them all to go. His thoroughness had known no bounds, and Clementine was still considering her interview as Lord Montfort tucked her up in the back of their motorcar.

Detective Inspector Hillary’s manners had been faultless, but she had felt clumsy and unprepared. As he took her through the events of the evening, Clementine noticed that his notes, which lay before him on the surface of the desk, were neatly organized in columns. She could see the information he had written down from his session with Hermione in the second column and couldn’t help but wonder if this method was a useful way of tracking where suspects were at the crucial time. She narrowed her eyes but still could not decipher his handwriting.

The questions began. Clementine strove to be as accurate as she could with her answers. Finally, the inspector’s quest for detailed minutiae was over. He put his pen down, and his sergeant drew a heavy line in pencil across his shorthand notebook. Lord Montfort’s interview, which had followed that of his wife, was far shorter; they were released from Chester Square with further reminders from the sergeant to contact Detective Inspector Hillary if they remembered anything more. Certainly they must expect a follow-up interview within a few days.

They were driven home to Montfort House through silent, empty streets slick with ice. A heavy frost glazed pavements and rooftops, glittering dully under the light of a full moon. The wind having cleared the sky of clouds had died away, leaving a black night bright with stars. The going was treacherous and they heard Herne swearing softly to himself as he carefully negotiated a turn in the road. Swathed in travel-rugs in the back of the motorcar, their steamy breath fogging its chill interior, they sat in silence. They had been under way only five minutes and already Clementine’s feet were numb and her face was stiff with cold. As she stared out of the window at the bare boughs and branches of trees crystalline in the streetlamps, she felt she had been transported to another world, a world of black and silver, a metallic world with deep, dark shadows and glittering hard-edged surfaces.

“We are nearly home and then we can warm you up a bit.” The grumpy man who had reluctantly spent an evening in the company of someone he didn’t approve of had disappeared. She turned away from the window and looked into her husband’s tired face and thought what a dear he was underneath his well-bred courtesy and careful reserve. She put her hand in his and leaned back against him. His arm came around her shoulders, pulling her close. She turned her head and buried her cold nose in the astrakhan collar of his coat.

“More than anything, I want to be in bed. I’m not sure I can sleep, but most of all it would be nice to have you close.”

“When ugly things happen in life, wretched, wasteful, and senseless things, I always find myself profoundly grateful for what I have,” he said, and she realized how comforting the sound of his voice was in the dark. “I’ll tell White to make sure we are not disturbed and we can sleep late.”

They drew up outside their house, and Clementine felt she was sleepwalking up the steps to the front door. When she finally gained the warm sanctuary of her bedroom, Pettigrew, who had been sitting by the fire, stood up and, tutting with disapproval at the hour and Clementine’s ice-cold hands and feet, came forward to help her out of her clothes. With deft, kind hands she put Clementine into her nightgown and dressing gown and sat her down by the fire to warm her feet.

And then with relief and joy, Clementine found herself being helped into her bed.
The bliss of smooth sheets and soft blankets.
She leaned gratefully back against familiar pillows and her feet found, and sandwiched themselves on either side of the hot water bottle. A cup of warmed, malted milk was carefully placed between her hands and as she sipped, she felt the tension begin to ease. Between half-closed lids she watched Pettigrew moving quietly around the room. And then her maid was gone and her husband was climbing in beside her. She put down her cup and switched off the light on the table next to her bed.

Ah, the blessed dark,
she thought, as she closed her tired eyes and let her limbs become heavy.

Her husband pulled her close and buried his nose into the nape of her neck. After a while he said, “Will you call on Hermione tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes, I suppose I’ll go round and see how they are faring, poor things.”

“I thought Adelaide Gaskell looked quite ill.”

“She has not been too well just recently. Mr. Churchill decided to invite the young marine captain, so poor Miss Gaskell had to make up the numbers. Then Hermione decided she was a better accompanist for Lady Ryderwood.”

“Well, that was rather one-sided of her. I thought Maud Cunard was going to do the honors.” His tone made it clear that he thought Hermione selfish.

“Well, that would explain why Maud was in such a bate. She was a positive viper about Hermione’s poorly trained servants.” Clementine remembered the complaints about inadequate butlers.

“She’s always a positive viper. Probably Sir Thom has been wandering in the moonlight again. I’m surprised he wasn’t there, must have been his night off.” They giggled and Clementine felt her world right itself.

She was drifting off to sleep when he spoke again.

“How did your interview with Hillary go?” His voice was quite bland.
Just a polite question then,
she thought, as she replied, “I thought he was a bright sort. Not like our brush with the Metropolitan Police at Iyntwood.”

She remembered with unwelcome clarity an earlier summer when Lord Montfort’s nephew had been murdered at Iyntwood, and their house overrun with policemen, interviews, suspicion, and interminable fuss.

“Yes, I thought he was more than competent. Well educated, too, went to Stowe actually and Cambridge.” These were important elements to a gentleman’s existence, and they were ones that reassured her husband that they were in the right hands.

“Oh, good for him.” She was falling asleep now.

“So I was hoping you could leave it all to him.”

“Leave what to him?” She was wide awake.

“The investigation into Sir Reginald’s murder, my darling. Will you promise not to interfere and let the nice, bright boy work without benefit of your help?”

The trouble with marriage,
thought Clementine,
is that after decades of sharing life’s woes and successes, of forgiving each other’s frailties and coming to rely on each other’s understanding, we end up knowing too easily what the other is thinking.
She experienced a moment of duplicitous guilt.

Her feet had warmed and her nose felt less like a peak of ice on her face. With these minor comforts in place, she had been pondering on the events of the evening. Prompted by Hillary’s earlier questions, her stunned mind was now finally obliging by beginning to piece together the evening. There were still some blank bits, but she knew if she allowed herself within the next days she would remember everything she had seen or heard tonight.

She slid her now-hot feet off the hot water bottle and tucked them into the cool sheets at the edge of the bed.

“You see, you are off in your own world.” There was a slightly censorious tone to the voice in the dark. “You haven’t even heard my question. I hope you are not planning on involving yourself in this investigation, Clemmy, there’s no reason to.”

“I’m not off in my own world. I was thinking about Hermione and her musical evening for the Chimney Sweep Boys. I expect she’ll have to call it off.” A little ripple of guilt as a plan started to form itself.

“Oh I don’t think so. That would upset Nellie Melba and most of all her greatest friend, Gladys Ripon. Anyone who enjoys going to the opera or the ballet does not upset London’s most powerful patroness, the Marchioness of Ripon.” He was laughing now. “God forbid, we might be barred from either place. No one would dream of doing that without thinking through the consequences quite carefully. Hermione has an able butler, and Adelaide Gaskell will rally after a few days’ rest. Anyway she could always move the whole thing somewhere else. Claridge’s does a good job.”

“Jenkins is not up to organizing an event of that size and importance.” She remembered Maud Cunard’s scornful observations of the aging butler’s incompetence. “And by the time Adelaide recovers it will be too late. It’s less than a week away and it’s the greatest event of the year for the charity!”

She could tell he was losing interest; he gently slid her off his lap and rolled over onto his left side.

“I think I’ll offer Jackson’s help, she could organize the charity evening standing on her head. Anyway, she has nothing else to do at Iyntwood with both of us in town until this is over. She’ll have plenty of time to organize things for the hunt ball when we return to the country.” She was thinking out loud, a huge mistake. Lord Montfort was instantly alert and turned back to face her.

“Why drag the poor woman up to town in this weather? I think housekeepers prefer to stay on their own patch, and not gallivant around the frozen countryside in November.”

“Nonsense, Ralph, she’d love it. We are just around the corner from Harvey Nicks; perfect place for her to potter around and criticize the price of everything and say how much better Selfridges is for a bargain.”