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The luncheon gong was rung at one o’clock, which might as well have been half past midnight for the darkness outside. Maurice Haworth did not join them.
“Where is Maurice?” the Earl enquired of Lady Anna.
She shrugged. She had a higher colour than normal and a self-satisfied look. Pat wondered if one took drugs at midday or waited for the cocktail hour. “I’ve no idea. He often misses luncheon. We shan’t wait.”
After that, the meal was conducted mostly in silence, as might be expected given the broken engagement and, Pat thought unkindly, the financial blow it represented to the Wittons. Jack Bouvier-Lynes made some light chat about theatre and night-spots, which Preston did his best to turn into a conversation, with limited support from Victoria. Fen stayed quiet; Jimmy barely ate.
They dutifully trudged to the drawing-room for coffee after the meal. Fen sat with her elbows in and her ankles together, taking up as little space as possible, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Pat breathed evenly and wished they were leaving together. She didn’t want to be in this wretched house, this poisoned atmosphere, for one more minute.
The clock ticked on; the rain drove down. Jack, Jimmy, Preston, and Bill went off to play cards. Lady Anna announced she had a headache, with no great effort at verisimilitude, and left them to it. At two, Fen asked, with just a hint of desperation, “Might I enquire about the car?”
“I did expect it to be ready before now,” the Countess said with a frown. “Ring the bell, please, Victoria.”
Victoria did so, walking across the room, then stopped. “Where is the kirpan?”
“On the wall, dear.”
“It’s not.”
Pat followed Victoria’s line of sight to the wall, where the beautifully carved, Indian-looking knife had hung. Only the sheath now remained. “Oh, the knife? What did you call it?”
“A kirpan. It’s a Sikh weapon.”
“Kirpan,” Pat repeated, memorising the term. “It had an elaborate metal handle, yes? It was definitely in its sheath when I arrived, I noticed it particularly.”
“How odd,” the Countess said. “I expect it’s being cleaned. We like to keep the decorative weaponry in good order. Oh, Henry,” she added as a footman came in. “The car for Miss Carruth to the station, please. Pritchard should have it ready.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Do you also keep the firearms in working order?” Pat asked, for something to say. “Including that marvellous old blunderbuss in the hall? Can they be used?”
That made the Earl perk up, and he was enthusiastically describing his experience of trying out various ancient guns and fowling-pieces when the footman Henry returned.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. Unfortunately, Pritchard says it won’t be possible to take Miss Carruth to the station.”
“Why on earth not?” demanded the Countess.
“Because the rivers have burst, madam,” Henry announced, with lugubrious enjoyment. “The man came by from Stonebridge just half an hour back. The line is flooded.”
“The railway line?” Fen said with open dismay. “But how will I leave?”
“You can’t, miss. It’s ankle deep on the roads and Pritchard says he can’t answer for the Daimler till it goes down. You could ride down to the village, perhaps, but then you’d just be stuck there instead.”
“All right, that will do,” the Earl said testily. “Of course you will stay with us, Miss Carruth. We must be informed immediately the situation improves.”
Henry shot a glance at the window, which was sluiced by water as though someone was throwing buckets at it. “Yes, my lord.”
“Well,” the Countess said. “That is...unfortunate.”
“Nobody can leave.” Pat glanced around the room, seeing her own dismay reflected on every face, guests and family alike. “We’ll just have to wait for the rain to pass, then.”
The Countess rose. “I think I shall lie down. I hope you will order tea and so on as you please. James?”
The Earl accompanied her out. The three remaining women looked at one another. Victoria summed matters up with a heartfelt, “Bother.”
“Quite,” Fen said. “Were you hoping to go too?”
“Strongly.”
“That man again?”
“I haven’t seen him all day, thank goodness, but I should like to keep it that way. Preston offered to escort me back to London.”
“I thought you were going to stay, for the Countess.”
Victoria made a face. “I concluded it was doing more harm than good. Preston is very keen to get away—he is self-conscious about assaulting his hosts’ son-in-law. And we want to tell our families, of course. But it hardly matters what we want if the railway is out of action.”
They chatted about Preston’s family and Victoria’s plans for a while, then as the conversation became more general, about books, mutual acquaintances, almost anything except the fact of being trapped in this house with Maurice Haworth. Victoria rang for tea around three, and had the fire lit. Pat nibbled a scone, letting herself enjoy this: Victoria’s unguarded face, Fen curled up on the sofa, their smiles. This was the aspect of Rodington Court she’d remember and cherish, she decided: a cosy room keeping the weather out, and a new friend, and Fen. It was only everybody else that appalled.
This was underlined a few moments later when Jack Bouvier-Lynes and Lady Anna came in. He was saying, “Well, since the cat’s away, the mice may as well play,” in such a flirtatious tone that the meaning could not be mistaken. Lady Anna wore a seductive expression that seemed to Pat oddly unreal, as though she had painted it on. It faded almost at once as she took in the scene.
“Good heavens,” she said. “Miss Carruth. I thought you’d gone.”
“The railway line is flooded,” Pat said.
“How unfortunate.” Lady Anna’s expression didn’t allow much room for doubt as to what she found unfortunate. “And how unpleasant for my brother.”
Fen rose. “I’m sure you want your tea. I’ve had mine, so I shall leave you.”
“I’ll join you,” Pat said.
“I think I will find Aunt Mattie,” Victoria agreed, and the three of them walked out of the room in an icy mutual silence interrupted only by rustling skirts.
In the hallway, Victoria put a hand to Fen’s arm. “Are you all right?”
“I could hardly expect her to take my side,” Fen said. “But I might go and hide somewhere now.”
“Very wise,” Victoria said. “I’ll find Preston, I think.”
Pat slipped her arm through Fen’s as they made their way through the dark corridors. Fen leaned into her with a sigh. “I’m awfully glad you’re here. I’m not glad we’re here, but I’m glad you are.”
“I’m glad I am too.” Pat could by now have throttled the entire Yoxall family without compunction. Fen deserved so much better. “Do you think we might hide somewhere until dinner?”
“Let’s. I honestly don’t know how much more I can bear of other people; I was so looking forward to getting away from here.”
“At least you know that you haven’t done anything wrong,” Pat said. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, which is more than one can say for others in this house.”
Fen snuggled closer, her fingers seeking Pat’s, and Pat held them with a bubble of joy rising despite the circumstances. It was grossly unfair that Fen should be in this rotten place, but at least Pat could be here with her, and if Maurice blasted Haworth had one word to say, she fully intended to drop all convention and let him have it with both barrels. “Let’s find somewhere quiet to lurk until the coast is clear.”
They headed for the East Wing once more. Pat had intended to try the room she’d sat in earlier, but Fen led the way up the stairs, shooting Pat a glittering look, and Pat followed. She’d have followed her anywhere.
They walked silently, almost tiptoeing. It was so much like playing truant at school that Pat felt a giggle rising. At the top of the stairs she considered her options and decided on the study rather than the empty room she’d seen before. After all, the study had a couch. She tugged Fen in that direction, received an excited nod, and twisted the door handle. It stuck, then clicked, and she threw open the door.
There was someone on the sofa. Someone naked—an expanse of pale skin, far too many limbs for one person, all scrabbling in hurried motion, and then the bewildering image resolved itself and Pat stood and stared at her brother and Jimmy Yoxall, bare and entwined on the sofa, staring back at her with expressions of pure horror.
“Oh,” Fen said from beside her.
“Uh,” Bill said.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Pat said. “We should have knocked.”
She shut the door carefully, and stepped away. Fen stared at the door, then up at Pat, then said, “Well. Your room, I think.”
She dragged Pat along the corridor, marching along until they reached her bedroom, where she pushed Pat towards the bed, shut the door, put her back against it, and repeated, “Well.”
“I had no idea.” Pat wasn’t entirely sure that was true now she came to consider it. It certainly made sense of a lot of things. “Good God. I suppose that explains Jimmy’s behaviour, doesn’t it?”
“His mysterious secret unattainable love affair was your brother?” Fen’s lips moved silently. “Goodness me. For heaven’s sake.”
Pat’s heart thumped, not pleasantly. “I’m sure you’re very annoyed—outraged, even, and you’ve every reason—but you know I’m awfully fond of Bill.”
Fen frowned. “Of course you are. I hope you aren’t suggesting that I’m about to rush off and call the police or inform the Wittons.”
“No, I didn’t mean that—”
“Then you were worried I might casually let it slip at the dinner table?” Fen looked offended, Pat realised with a sinking sensation. “I’m not entirely ignorant, or quite so careless either.”
“I really didn’t think that,” Pat said urgently, and guiltily, because the thought had been there. “Honestly. I know you wouldn’t set out to hurt anyone but it’s not unreasonable for you to be upset with Jimmy, and people do say things without meaning to.”
“If they’re silly little feather-heads, yes they do,” Fen snapped. “I thought you had a slightly higher opinion of me.”
“Of course I do. Fen, please. I didn’t mean to imply that at all, but Bill’s my brother, and Jimmy’s my friend, and what if that had been Haworth who walked in instead of us? I don’t want to be afraid for another brother.” The truth of that hit her with horrifying force as the words left her mouth. “Oh God, I don’t want to. Oh, Bill.”
“Of course you’re afraid. I didn’t think. How silly of me.” Fen spoke with quick sympathy, ruffled feathers settling at once. “Come here.” She slipped her arms around Pat’s waist, and Pat held on, breathing in her scent. “I do see this is a new worry for you, but I promise you needn’t worry about me saying anything.”
“I know. I didn’t think you would, really.”
“Well, now you have my word for it,” Fen said. “And I’m not outraged. I don’t think I’m even annoyed. I already knew Jimmy had a tendre for someone else, and it makes no difference to me who that is. Actually, this is probably better than a married woman, which is what I assumed, because at least he isn’t betraying someone’s vows.”
“Adultery isn’t criminal,” Pat pointed out.
“No, but I don’t see why they should be either. We’re not,” Fen said, with a matter-of-factness that took Pat’s breath away. “I can’t say I’m more impressed by Jimmy’s behaviour in the light of this, but it’s no worse. Oh, no, but it is though, because your poor brother has been looking like a kicked dog since he got here. Why on earth did he come? This must have been awful for him.”
Pat put a finger under Fen’s chin, tipped her head up, and kissed her firmly. Fen responded with enthusiasm. “Mmm. What was that for?”
“You are without a doubt the loveliest person I’ve ever met.”
“I know.” Fen dimpled. “And I certainly don’t—” The flirtatious look dropped away from her face. “Oh. Oh dear. Pat?”
“What?”
“Haworth talked about Jimmy’s illicit trysts. I remember because that was what made me think it must be a married woman. You don’t suppose he knows, do you?”
“Dear God.” Pat remembered—it seemed months ago, somehow—the conversation she’d heard. Haworth threatening someone with exposure. “Oh God, no.”
“No wonder Jimmy looked sick.”
“I can’t have this. I won’t. If Haworth threatens my brother I’ll shoot him myself.”
“Yes, but don’t,” Fen said firmly. “Not yet, anyway. We need to talk to your brother, to both of them. Preferably when they have some clothes on.”
Pat couldn’t help a splutter of laughter. Fen cast up a roguish glance and added, “I suppose it would be indelicate to comment—”
“Yes, it would.”
“But one sees classical statuary all the time. We’re positively encouraged to appreciate naked male bottoms.”
“Marble ones. Whereas that was Jimmy’s, and I have never aspired to see it, and I wouldn’t put it in a museum either,” Pat said, and couldn’t help but join Fen as she went off into a peal of laughter. Nothing about this was very funny at all, but she’d rather be laughing than crying.
***
THEY LURKED IN FEN’S room, alternating quiet talk, comfortable silence, and kisses until the dinner hour, then came down as late as they felt was compatible with good manners. Even so, only Victoria and Preston were in the drawing room, and the rest of the guests didn’t make an appearance until the dinner gong had sounded. They filed in silently and sat, with one notable omission.
“Where’s Maurice?” Jimmy asked after a few moments.
“I’ve no idea,” his sister replied with glacial disinterest.
“Perhaps he prefers to eat in his room,” the Countess said. Nobody chimed in to say they supported his preference, but the sentiment floated around the table like a ghost.
“Is Mr. Haworth eating upstairs?” the Earl enquired of the footman.
“I’m not aware, my lord.”
“Well, get someone to find out, and if he isn’t, let him know dinner has begun,” the Earl said. “And you may start serving now. We won’t wait.”
The soup was served, an excellent mulligatawny. The footman made a reappearance as they were finishing to say, “Mr. Haworth is not in his bedroom, my lord.”
The Earl humphed. “Well, he’ll have to fend for himself. There are plenty of clocks in the house if he didn’t hear the gong.”
Even without Haworth, the gathering was excruciating. Jack Bouvier-Lynes did sterling work to fend off the silence, telling perhaps a dozen clubland stories in a row without flagging. Preston, Victoria, Pat, and Fen made appreciative noises as best they could; the Yoxalls were entirely sunk in gloom. Bill concentrated on his food, but half way through the main course he did look up and catch Pat’s eye. She offered him a smile. He didn’t smile back.
The women retired after the meal as usual. The Countess looked wrung out as they settled in the drawing room. “Victoria, will you pour the tea? Anna, where is Maurice?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“He is your husband.”
Lady Anna lifted one elegant shoulder. Victoria said, “He wasn’t at lunch either.”
“Perhaps he went out for a walk?” Pat suggested, a remark which was greeted with the incredulity it deserved. “Yes, I know the weather is vile but he won’t melt, and he might have wanted a change of scene. Is there a public house nearby?”
“There’s nothing within twelve miles,” Victoria said. “I’m not aware he likes to walk.”
“Of course he doesn’t. Maurice finds the countryside as dull as I do.” Lady Anna sounded entirely contemptuous. “I don’t know why you’re making a fuss. He is a grown man; if he doesn’t choose to take dinner, let him be.”
“Yes, but has anyone seen him today?” Victoria pressed.
“Fen and I saw him around half past eleven,” Pat offered.
The other women shook their heads. The Countess shut her eyes. “Is there no limit— For heaven’s sake. Victoria, will you go back to the dining room and ask the gentlemen?”
Pat couldn’t help glancing at Lady Anna as Victoria left. It was tiresome to be called upon for every little task, as she well knew, but she wondered how it must feel when one’s mother always turned to her goddaughter instead.
Victoria was back a few moments later, frowning. “Nobody has seen him since before luncheon. And he didn’t express an intention to go anywhere to any of the men.”
The Countess’s eyelids drooped. “Ring the bell,” she told Victoria, and the footman from dinner duly appeared. “Dennis, thank you. Did you check Mr. Haworth’s room?”
“Yes, ma’am. He wasn’t there.”
“Find out if anyone in the servant’s hall has seen him this afternoon,” the Countess directed. “Or if anyone knows if he has left the house, or had any plans for the day.”
The footman cast a glance at the windows. “Not much of a day to go out, surely. Yes, my lady,” he added at her look, and withdrew.
“He can’t have gone anywhere,” Lady Anna said. “It’s pouring. He probably doesn’t want to spend time with people he finds uncongenial. You can hardly blame him for that. It’s not as though you’ve tried to make my husband feel welcome in this family.”
Fen’s eyes opened wide at that analysis of the situation, but nobody replied, and they sat in brittle silence until the men joined them perhaps five minutes later, bearing brandy glasses. “Has anyone discovered Maurice?” the Earl asked.
“I’ve asked the staff.”
“He was around this morning,” Jack Bouvier-Lynes said. “Has nobody seen him since?”
“When did you see him?” Bill asked.
Jack gave a gesture too elegant to be called a shrug. “Mid-morning. We had a brief chat about this and that, and then he looked at his watch and left me somewhat abruptly. Perhaps an hour before lunch?”
“Fen and I saw him going into the East Wing at half past eleven,” Pat said. “We didn’t stop to speak to him. Did he say anything to you about going out?”
“In this weather? Good heavens, no.”
“He must be somewhere,” Jimmy said. “If he’s not in the house he must have gone out. I’m not sure why this is difficult.”
The footman returned a moment later. “My lady,” he said. “I’m afraid nobody in the servants’ hall has seen Mr. Haworth since breakfast or is aware of any plans he may have had. The horses, bicycles, and car are all accounted for.”
That fell into silence. The Earl said, “What on earth?”
“If he’s gone out in this weather he’ll catch his death,” Fen said. “Suppose he did and hurt himself, twisted his ankle?”
Lady Anna sighed audibly. The Countess shot her a look of open dislike. “Dennis, see if his coat is there, and if any oilskins or galoshes are missing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We can’t send out a search party,” Jimmy said. “It’s dark as Hades and blowing a gale, the ground is flooded, and if we don’t know when he left, we can’t possibly judge how far he might have got.”
Pat waited for someone to protest. Nobody did. “But if he’s injured...?” she felt compelled to say at last, without enthusiasm.
“Jimmy’s right,” Bill said. “One couldn’t call for him over this wind, and it’s far too risky for searchers in the dark. We’d just be inviting more injuries, and that’s if he’s even hurt at all. He could have hitched a lift and be in the pub.”
“I doubt anyone is driving for pleasure today, but you’re right about the risk,” Jimmy said. “I don’t want Rodington Court men put in danger for Maurice. Or for anyone else,” he added, rather too late.
Pat didn’t argue. If Maurice Haworth had gone out for a walk in a storm without telling anyone, he was a fool and could take the consequences of his folly. She wasn’t entirely able to persuade herself he had, and the dropping level of brandy in Jimmy’s glass suggested she wasn’t the only one to feel unsettled.
Dennis the footman returned at last. He looked distinctly worried now. “We can’t see any things missing, ma’am. Mr. Haworth’s overcoat is hanging up.”
“Good Lord,” Preston said. “But—”
“Thank you, Dennis, you may go,” the Earl said. “Now, that is good news, surely? He wouldn’t have gone out without a coat, so he can’t have gone out.”
“Then where is he, dear, and why has he missed two meals?” the Countess returned.
Bill said it for all of them. “Ought we search the house?”
“I really don’t know why you’re all making such a fuss,” Lady Anna said. “None of you care for him in the slightest. He’s probably fallen asleep on a sofa and he won’t thank you for drawing attention to it.”
“He’s probably stuck a needleful of some garbage into his arm and passed out, is what he’s probably done,” Jimmy said, with sudden savagery. The Countess made a noise of protest. “We all know it, Ma, and someone had to say it. Blast the man. All right, let’s go and look. Preston, Jack, you check this wing. Bill and I will go to the East.”
They headed out, along with the Earl. Pat would have liked to go with them if only to be doing something, but she didn’t want to leave Fen with the Countess and Lady Anna. They sat and waited instead, making whatever pointless conversation they could for some minutes, and then slipping into heavy wordlessness again.
Pat scoured her mind for anything to say but found herself bereft of ideas. There was nothing but the wind and rain and the crackle of the fire, the ticking clock and the sounds of breathing, and as the minutes passed the build-up of hostile silence was excruciating. Would it be rude to go in search of a book?
She shot Fen a look. Fen met her eyes despairingly, took a deep breath, probably to embark on some effort at social lubrication, then swung round. “What’s that?”
Someone was running along the hall. The footsteps skidded to a stop, the door opened, and Preston Keynes looked in. His face was an odd shade, pallid and patched with red.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Lady Witton—Lady Anna—”
“What on earth is wrong?” the Countess demanded.
“It’s, uh—” He looked around desperately. “Perhaps I could speak to you in private?”
Pat, Fen, and Victoria all rose at once. “Preston, what is it?” Victoria demanded. “What’s wrong?”
He gave her a ghastly look. “I’m awfully sorry. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
“What do you mean?” Lady Anna sounded shrill. “What do you mean, an accident? Is it Maurice?”
Pat took one look at Preston’s face and said, “We’ll give you privacy.” She had no desire to find herself in the position of comforting a bereaved wife, particularly if that wife was Lady Anna. She hurried out with Fen at her heels. Preston closed the door behind them, and she heard the low sounds of his voice, then Lady Anna’s wail.
“Gosh,” Fen said. “Should we see if we can help?”
“If you mean, shall we find out what’s going on—”
“That was exactly what I meant.”
“Let’s.”
They headed for the main hall and into the East Wing. Jack Bouvier-Lynes stood on the staircase like a sentinel; Jimmy sat on a low step, head bowed.
“What is it?” Pat asked. “What’s happened?”
“I don’t think you ladies should go up,” Jack said, and for once there was no hint of a smile on his face. “There’s been an accident. A bad one.”
“Is that Pat down there?” Bill’s voice came from above. “Thank goodness. Pop up, will you?”
She hurried up the stairs, brushing past Jack’s protest, Fen at her heels. The study door was shut, but the door to the bare room next to it stood open. She went in.
The Earl was in the corner, leaning on or possibly holding onto the mantelpiece, trembling visibly. Bill stood by the desk, over which a seated man was slumped, face down. His back was clothed in a dashing grey twill, with a sort of long grey protuberance sticking out of it. The image made no sense at all for a couple of seconds, and then Pat realised it was the carved metal hilt of a knife.
“Oh,” she said.
“Miss Carruth, Miss Merton,” the Earl panted. “This is not a fit sight for you.”
“Not at all,” Bill said. “Perhaps you could take Miss Carruth out, sir. I dare say she needs your support.” He gave Fen a meaningful glance.
She stared back, then shook herself and leaped into action. “Oh yes, if you would be so kind, Lord Witton. I feel dreadfully faint. The poor man. Oh, the poor man!”
“Don’t distress yourself, my dear,” the Earl told her, looking more focused now he had a task. Fen took his arm, and a fair bit of his weight, and they proceeded out.
Bill’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Thank God he’s gone. Come here, old thing, I need some common sense. How long would you say he’s been dead?”
Pat had laid out four bodies in her time: her father, a kitchen-maid who had died of appendicitis, and two neighbours. It was more experience with corpses than she supposed Bill had. She approached, feeling as weirdly slow as a woman in a nightmare.
The knife jutted from Haworth’s back, obscene and wrong, surrounded by a small dark stain. He lay over the desk, face down in a litter of playing cards, black and red. The aces were a scattering of blood-drops, lone and garish against their white backgrounds, as if marked by a steady drip, drip, drip.
His hair was still swept back, kept in place by pomade. That was the most horrifying thing of all because he had combed it this morning, made it perfect, and its orderly arrangement had not slipped even when the knife brought fatal disorder to his suit, his back, his life.
“There isn’t very much blood,” she said, and was pleased to find her voice steady.
“The knife went in deep. I suppose he must have died at once. Or all the bleeding is internal. What about the time, do you think?”
Haworth’s neck was cold to Pat’s touch, and stiff. She pulled at his arm and felt the resistance. “Rigor has set in solidly. That means he must have been dead at least six hours.”
“It’s half past nine now. So he was definitely dead by mid-afternoon. But he could presumably have been killed well before then?”
Pat opened her mouth in instinctive revulsion at been killed, and shut it again. The knife protruding from his back didn’t leave much room for debate. “Yes. He must have died before, let’s say four o’clock at the very latest. Fen and I saw him at half past eleven, going into the East Wing—that was just after we left you. So it was between those times. Nobody else saw him after I did.”
“Nobody else has admitted to seeing him, you mean,” Bill said. “We’re going to need the police.”
“We’re not going to get them tonight.”
They looked at one another, then both turned sharply as someone entered. It was Jimmy, with a glass of whisky in each hand.
“Hello,” Bill said. “I thought you were keeping out the madding crowds.”
“Jack’s doing that. I’ve told everyone to have a stiff drink, thought you might need one. Sorry, Pat, I didn’t realise—”
Pat couldn’t imagine anything she wanted less than alcohol. She shook her head, and remembered the afternoon as she did so, with the dreamlike dizziness of a fact she couldn’t possibly have forgotten. Her brother and Jimmy. She couldn’t think about that, not in here.
“I need it urgently,” Bill said, taking the glass. “Do you recognise this knife? Rather odd handle.”
Jimmy peered closer, with obvious reluctance. “Yes, it’s— Oh.”
“What?”
“It’s the kirpan. Or at least, it looks like the kirpan. Or a kirpan, I suppose it could be.”
“And a kirpan is...?”
“A Sikh knife,” Pat said.
“That’s right. All the men wear one. Ours was a gift from Harpal Singh, Victoria’s father. It hangs on the drawing-room wall.”
“Not any more, I’m afraid,” Pat said. “Victoria noticed it had gone just after you went off to play cards.”
“Oh,” Jimmy said. “Hell.”
“When was that?” Bill asked.
“After luncheon. Perhaps two o’clock.”
“We’d better go and talk to the others,” Bill said grimly. “And we’ll need to lock this room while we do it. Is there a key?”