We went down the stairs all together like we were the stars of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
Our own blonde – Nel – looked the part in a baby-blue bodycon dress.
‘Drawing room first, I think,’ said Shafeen. ‘There’ll be a drinks tray.’
We went through the doors and a dude in white-tie was making up the fire. He sprung to attention when we came in and then melted away, leaving us alone with the drinks tray. Shafeen mixed us all gin and tonics and we sort of stood about by the fire, admiring the resplendent Christmas tree and classy swags of greenery hung about the mantel.
‘What do we do?’
‘We’ll be shown to the dining room,’ Shafeen replied calmly. ‘You can relax – someone will come get us.’ He seemed quite at ease in this world, and sipped his G&T with his back to the fire. Now the three of us were alone, I could tell my news. I filled them both in about Ty’s Instagrams. They were relieved that she was OK, and both, predictably, picked up on the last message.
‘Foxes?’ queried Nel. ‘That’s all she said?’
‘Yeah. See if you can find out about Foxes. Then she went offline.’
Shafeen looked thoughtful. ‘Do you have any idea what she meant?’
‘Well, funnily enough, there’s one in my room.’
‘What? How d’you mean?’ Nel asked.
‘You know in Longcross they have animals’ heads on the wall. Jeff— I mean, the stag in Lowther, for example? Well, in my room here – Henry’s room – there is a fox.’
‘I’ve got one too,’ said Shafeen. ‘It’s above the fireplace. How about you, Nel?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ she said. ‘And I think I would have noticed. But then again,’ she said bitterly, ‘I’ve probably got the servant’s room.’ Then her eyes got all big and round. ‘D’you think there’s something behind them?’
‘Like what?’ queried Shafeen.
‘Like tunnels. Like there was behind the portrait of Esmé Stuart in the library at Longcross?’
I was doubtful. ‘I dunno … mine’s pretty high up, and pretty small. You could basically hide a dinner plate behind him, if you wanted to. He has a little brass plaque though, if that helps.’
‘Mine too,’ said Shafeen, ‘but I didn’t get a chance to read it. I literally just spotted him before I came to get you.’
‘OK – that’s a job for later. Maybe we should –’
Then Bates came in, shutting us all up. He bent in a slight bow and greeted us all by name; all otter-smooth, emotionless demeanour once again. ‘Good evening, Miss Ashton. Mr Jadeja. Miss MacDonald. Dinner is served. If you would follow me?’ He led us down a marble-floored passageway to another part of the house, and as we followed him past another bunch of priceless pictures and porcelain, I wondered why he’d named us in that order. Then I clicked: he’d done it by seniority of age. But that just raised another question – how the hell did he know our dates of birth? We followed his upright back through another grand set of double doors to what was obviously the dining room.
Lady de Warlencourt was already there, at one end of the table, wearing this bizarre Chinese-looking silk housecoat covered with writhing dragons, and she was dripping with diamonds like one of the chandeliers. Once again there was a moment – just a heartbeat – before she clocked us, when she was staring into space, mouthing something, turning the diamond rings nervously on her fingers. But then, once she noticed us, she clicked into action as if she’d just been switched to hostess mode. She didn’t get up but smiled her charming smile and greeted us fondly as Bates pulled out the chairs to indicate where we were to sit. ‘My dears! I hope your rooms are comfortable.’
I could hardly go on about how lovely her ‘dead’ son’s room was, so I left the polite stuff to Shafeen. ‘Perfectly, Lady Longcross.’
‘Naughty!’ She wagged a be-ringed forefinger at him good-naturedly. ‘I said you must call me Caro. After all –’ she beamed at me – ‘we’re almost family.’
I hardly dared look at Shafeen in particular, who had nothing to say to this bizarre statement but waited for his hostess to unfold her napkin before unfolding his. I’d already unfolded mine – whoops – and I eyed Shafeen closely. I knew he was going to be trouble tonight. He wasn’t a big drinker, but he’d already downed his gin and was getting stuck into the wine the footman had poured. I swallowed a tiny sip of mine with a sense of misgiving. Shafeen could barely conceal his dislike of Call-Me-Caro; God only knew what he would be like once Rollo got here. After all, Lady de Warlencourt had not been named in the black hunting book of 1969; for all we knew, she’d never been involved in the whole huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ thing. But Rollo? Earl of Longcross, sire of Henry, nemesis of a beloved father? Shafeen was clearly ready to go all Gladiator on him. Nel watched him warily, but I was watching the door, my heart leaping every time some footman came through with a silver dish or a decanter. Where was the earl?
As if she’d read my mind, Caro said, ‘Rollo’s been held up a little. The sitting ran long – I think it turned into rather a bunfight. He said we should begin.’
It was almost unbearable. We sat through the interminable process of being served a creamy white soup, the ladle clashing against the fine china, in a counterpoint to the agonising small talk. I did, fortunately, think of one thing to say. ‘Thank you for the dress.’
‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’
‘The dress.’ I touched the red silk at my throat. ‘I love it. It was very kind of you to lend it to me.’
She turned her pale blue eyes on me and studied me closely. ‘I? I’m afraid I cannot claim the credit. I’ve never laid eyes on it before.’
I looked at the others. ‘Then who …?’
‘Haven’t the faintest, child. One of the servants, doubtless.’
In the awkward silence that followed I had time to fantasise that the dress was, somehow, from Henry, before shooting a glance at the door again. When was his father coming? But eventually, just as we were all laying down our silver spoons, he arrived.
Rollo de Warlencourt was all Savile Row tailoring and high colour. He looked like Charles Dance, not the homicidal-maniac-Tywin-Lannister Charles Dance but the suave, tuxedoed-to-within-an-inch-of-his-life White Mischief Charles Dance. He was slim and tall and held himself straight as a poker. He had blond hair like Henry’s, just whitening at the temples, and a noble Roman nose, and pale blue far-seeing eyes. He entered the room with the swagger and confidence of a man much younger, although if he was the same age as Shafeen’s dad, he must be pushing seventy. I’d say Lady W was much younger, maybe even by as much as twenty years. As he walked towards us I caught a whiff of his aftershave. It was sweet and bitter at the same time – the heady smell of the sandalwood that Henry always wore. It sent me reeling back to the hospital room at Alnwick Cottage Hospital, where Henry, or a vision of him, sat by my bed. How could a dream have a scent?
The first words he uttered were ‘Forgive me’ in the confident, slightly too loud tones of someone who didn’t think he needed to be forgiven for anything. He headed towards his wife, presumably to greet her, and then something caught his eye and he just stopped dead.
The something that caught his eye was Shafeen. Shafeen, who always displayed immaculate manners even in the presence of someone he despised, had risen to his feet when Rollo de Warlencourt had entered the room. I stayed sitting, because I didn’t know what to do in these situations. Nel stayed sitting too, as she probably didn’t know the form either. But Lady de Warlencourt, who most definitely did know the etiquette, stayed seated too, so that was all right. So it was just the two men standing, exactly the same height as each other, on the same side of the table, as we ladies watched like an invited audience. I’d been quietly dreading this moment, as I knew that Shafeen would struggle to mask his utter hatred of Rollo de Warlencourt, even in the cause of finding out what the heck was going on up at Longcross. But the encounter didn’t at all play out like I had imagined.
Rollo, statue still, just stared at Shafeen, his mulberry face draining of colour until it was as pale as the soup. Shafeen, totally taken aback, but taking refuge in good manners, put out his hand hesitantly as if for a handshake. Rollo’s firm lips seemed to have lost all form and were mouthing something. Eventually the sound came out. ‘Mowgli?’
I took in a little gasp of breath. Could it be – was it possible that the Earl of Longcross had just called Shafeen by the name of the loincloth-wearing boy hero of The Jungle Book? If so, that might be one of the most casually racist things I’d ever heard.
I looked at Nel, eyes wide, and she mirrored my expression back at me. Then it was all eyes on Shafeen to see how he would take this. His face hardened, his eyes burning like black coals. I don’t know what it cost him to keep his hand out in greeting, but he did, even though it shook a little. What happened next was almost unbelievable. Rollo slapped the hand away. Then he enfolded Shafeen in the biggest, tightest bear hug I’ve ever seen. If Shafeen was Mowgli, Rollo was playing Baloo the bear.
For a long moment Shafeen literally couldn’t speak – I think he’d had the breath squeezed out of him. When Rollo released him, I swear there were tears in those blue eyes. Shafeen, quite huffily, twitched his jacket into place and touched his tie as if to straighten it.
‘It’s Shafeen actually.’
‘Of course.’ He looked at Shafeen almost as if he didn’t believe him. ‘Of course. But you are his son, aren’t you? The son of Mowgli? Hardy, I mean?’
‘My father’s name is Aadhish Jadeja.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. But when I knew him, he called himself Hardy. Used to insist on it. I used to say, “Kiss me, Hardy.” But the others all called him Mowgli. Just as a little joke, don’t you know.’ I got the Jungle Book reference, because in 1969 the Disney animation must’ve just come out, but the Hardy thing went right over my head. I reminded myself to ask Shafeen later; right now, he was just coming to terms with his dad’s two new nicknames.
Rollo took Shafeen by both shoulders and gave him a little shake. ‘You have such a look of old Mowgli. I thought you were him for an instant. It’s uncanny.’
Of course. Shafeen now was exactly the same age as his father had been at Longcross, when he’d spent that fateful 1969 Justitium weekend at the mercy of Rollo, the Old Abbot and the Friars. No wonder Rollo was spooked. I shot a look to Lady W to see how she was taking all this. She had her hands clasped over her chest and was smiling with her head on one side, in the way people do when they think something is really cute. I’m not at all sure she didn’t have tears in her eyes too.
After this everyone sat down. Rollo kept chuckling and shaking his noble head, and patting Shafeen’s forearm as if he didn’t believe he was real. I noticed Rollo had a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, a little nugget of gold with tiny black antlers etched on it. I knew then, if I hadn’t before, that we were in the house of the enemy, of the Order of the Stag, and you may be sure I watched Rollo carefully. But he didn’t return the compliment. Just as Caro had targeted me and didn’t seem to see the other two, Rollo barely seemed to acknowledge me or Nel. He greeted us politely but abstractedly, and immediately turned back to Shafeen. He called for more wine – ‘This is something to celebrate’ – which came in with the next course, and I can tell you, I took a big gulp of mine when it came around. This was like one of those bizarre interactive theatre experiences, but it was absolutely free of charge. As the footmen left the room I found myself wondering what the hell we would talk about next. Once again, I was surprised.
‘I’ll never forget the time your father came to Longcross,’ said the earl.
Shafeen looked – and was – totally wrongfooted. If he’d expected Rollo to dance around the subject, he was wrong. ‘I don’t think he will either,’ said Shafeen grimly.
‘It was 1969. We all went down for Justitium weekend.’ The far-seeing blue eyes gazed off into the distance. ‘Yes, we were there for a spot of huntin’ shootin’ fishin’. Jolly good shot, your father, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said Shafeen, a touch of pride in his voice. That, I guess, was why Shafeen, too, was such a crack shot. It was in the blood.
‘Not much of a man for fish, Mowgli. But a hunter? Lord! What a hunter. I never saw anything like it.’
Now Shafeen looked surprised. ‘Really? My father?’
‘Good God, yes. He seemed to have some sixth sense for game. He had a real instinct for the kill.’
‘That I didn’t know,’ said Shafeen, sounding a bit bemused.
‘He had this thing that he did. He would sort of meditate. Real holy-man stuff. You have to remember this was the Sixties, peace and love and all that. He used to sort of go into a trance, and he could tell you where the deer was at bay, or where the pheasants were roosting, or where the hares were hiding in the long grass. They couldn’t hide from him. Nothing could hide from him.’ The earl went off into a bit of a trance himself at that point, and then sort of snapped himself back. ‘Jolly impressive it was. Turned our luck that weekend, I can tell you.’
I watched Shafeen trying to process this new picture of his dad. Not the craven victim, his rout recorded for all time in the game book, but a powerful predator.
‘We went up to Oxford together, you know. Then Sandhurst. Then he went back to where he’d come from. Damned shame.’
‘Yes,’ Shafeen supplied. ‘My grandfather died, and he had to leave the army and take over at home.’
‘Of course, of course. Nothing more important than your son stepping up when it’s his turn. Nothing more precious than an heir.’ Rollo looked glassy-eyed again, but I didn’t really get why. If Henry was alive, what was he sad about? ‘A pity though. How is he?’
‘He’s, er, fine. He’s fine. I’ll be seeing him, as a matter of fact, over Christmas.’
‘Capital!’ said Rollo. ‘Give him my fondest regards, would you? Will you remember? My fondest regards.’
Shafeen faintly agreed, but apparently this wasn’t enough for Rollo. He grabbed Shafeen by the wrist. ‘Promise? Promise you’ll remember me to him?’
‘I promise.’ Shafeen freed his hand and Rollo took up his glass, satisfied. I watched Shafeen, and Shafeen watched Rollo, and I was pretty sure he was thinking the same as me. Were Rollo and Aadhish actually friends?
Rollo forked up his fish course with quite an appetite. ‘For two pins I’d ask him back to the old place. D’ye think he’d come?’
Shafeen, who didn’t seem to know anything with any certainty any more, had no reply to this frankly bizarre enquiry.
‘As a matter of fact we’ve just been to Longcross, haven’t we, Caro? For the twins’ birthday. But you know the twins, of course, from STAGS. Growing into two very fine young people.’
This didn’t seem to quite chime with what Cass had said about sending Henry’s parents away. Then, it had seemed like there was beef between the two branches of the family. Now everyone was being nice as pie.
‘Did you meet Ty when you were up there?’ God bless Nel, bringing it all back to why we were actually here.
‘The coloured girl?’ asked Lady de Warlencourt.
All us guests flinched at the use of that word.
‘The black girl, yes,’ said Nel pointedly.
‘She seemed jolly attached to Lulu,’ said Lady W, looking to her husband for back-up. ‘Didn’t she, darling?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rollo. ‘Quite the romance of the century. She’s still there, I think, even though everyone else has gone.’
I had to do it. I had to ask. ‘Even Henry?’
The room suddenly went still. Then, I’ll be damned if Bates didn’t come rushing in again.
‘Your ladyship, Lady Whitehaven is on the telephone.’
I watched Lady de Warlencourt dab her mouth with her napkin, rise hurriedly and swish out of the room in that long Chinese coat. It occurred to me then that Lady Whitehaven was Henry’s grandmother, and if she was Henry’s grandmother, she was the twins’ grandmother too, and that set me wondering if she was the ‘Grandmama’ who had told Cass and Louis all about Nazereth de Warlencourt. But that wasn’t a question I could possibly ask right now. And anyway, there wasn’t time, because something properly weird happened. The minute, no, the second the door closed behind Lady W, the earl began to speak in a low and urgent voice.
‘I say,’ he began. ‘I must explain something. My wife. She’s … I’m afraid she’s not well. She’s had a few … funny turns.’ I thought this was probably the Medieval way of saying she had mental-health issues. ‘She’s become, I’m afraid, a little delusional.’
I knew then what he was going to say.
‘One of the forms it takes is, as you have already gathered, believing that our …’ He hesitated and his voice cracked a little. ‘That Henry is alive.’
No one spoke except the clock on the mantel, which gave tongue to a little silvery chime. Nel waited till it had finished, then said, ‘So he isn’t.’
The earl, suddenly looking very old, shook his head. ’I’m afraid not. It is all in her mind. She wants it so, you see.’
I did see. But at the same time my stomach felt like it was going down in a lift. Caro and I had a lot in common. I’d wanted to believe Henry was still around, so I’d never let him go either.
‘I’ve been advised by Doctor Morand – he’s our family GP, you know …’
I remembered Doctor Morand as the ancient physician who had patched up Shafeen after he’d literally had a shot in the arm.
‘Morand says it is best not to contradict her. It’s a fairly common symptom of grief, don’t you know: denial. She finds it easier to cope if she can tell herself it is not true.’
I understood this very well.
‘The old girl will come to it in her own time, he says. Realise eventually that he’s gone. So while you are staying here, you should know that our strategy has been not to attempt to correct her, but to merely change the subject as soon as possible, take her mind away from it, so to speak.’
Which explained Bates’s hasty entrances every time Henry’s name was mentioned.
‘I’d hoped to be here to greet you all – of course, as friends of Henry, you will always be welcome in our home …’
Shafeen leaned forward. ‘Ought we to go, sir?’
He sounded all sympathetic and deferential, not at all the combative Shafeen I’d expected tonight.
Rollo briefly patted Shafeen’s hand with his. ‘Not a bit of it, dear chap. I wouldn’t hear of it. I merely meant that I’d intended to be here, head you off at the pass, as it were, let you know the lie of the land, what. But that damned sitting at the House went on so long …’
I had so many questions, foremost among them: how did he even know we’d be coming here? Who had told him to expect us? And how could he possibly know what time we’d arrive? But Rollo wasn’t finished.
‘Forgive my haste, but I can’t ask this in front of … in front of Caro.’ He turned in my direction. ‘You were the last to see him, Henry – correct?’
My heart started to thud. I pointed at my chest. ‘Me?’
‘All of you. And his other friends. You were all at the lake that day.’
‘Yes. I suppose. I mean, yes.’ I wondered, with a certain dread, what was coming next.
Rollo hesitated, as if he didn’t quite trust himself to speak. ‘Was he happy?’
God. I thought of that last sparkling morning in the boat on Longmere with Henry’s arms wrapped around me as he helped me reel in the trout. His delight as I’d seemed, for that instant, to be a kindred spirit. Was he happy? ‘Yes,’ I said, with perfect truth.
Another pause. ‘And did you … did you see him fall? Did you see how it happened?’
I was back at the top of the waterfall, watching Henry fall back into space, my hand grabbing for his, only to grasp air. But I had to keep to our story. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’
This was awful. I never expected to feel sorry for Henry’s father. In this moment, seeing Rollo’s grief, the truth of Henry’s death seemed suddenly to become clear. And – underlying that feeling – I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself. Despite what I’d told myself in the hospital after hearing Leon Morgan’s story – that Henry was evil and it was Shafeen all the way – the finality of his death was still hard to take. This past week had been a rollercoaster of Flatliners emotions – Henry was dead, then alive, then dead again. I rubbed my marked thumb with my forefinger. It turned out I’d deserved to be tried and branded; I was a manslayer after all. I had had enough. I couldn’t do this any more. ‘What does it matter how he fell?’ I burst out. ‘Either way, he’s gone.’
Rollo looked straight at me with Henry’s eyes. ‘When the fall is all that’s left, it matters a great deal.’
He’d mangled the quote, but even so I recognised which film it was from. I was so conditioned to playing the movie game with my dad that I blurted ‘The Lion in Winter’ before I could stop myself.
I felt as if he saw me properly for the first time. ‘Yes,’ he said, almost enthusiastically. And then, more soberly, ‘Yes. The Lion in Winter.’ He could have been talking about himself. Once golden and vital, now grey and grizzled, his heir gone, his kingdom passing to another.
And then the door opened, and so, thankfully, the English Inquisition could stop.