It was the following morning.
Waking up in his bed at Mayholme Manor, Sir Seymour Tradescant grimaced with distaste. He had had a dream, in which his sister Bettina appeared, looking piteous and strangely diminished, her face uncharacteristically free of make-up, a mirror image of his own. Bettina stood beside his bed and held up her hands above her head in some kind of bizarre salutation, the wrists crossed. It had taken him a moment to realize that she had handcuffs on. No ordinary handcuffs, but rather dainty ones, made of fine gold and platinum and encrusted with diamonds. ‘The latest fashion accessory,’ Bettina informed him. ‘Everybody who is somebody has them.’ Then, for some reason, she became upset, started sobbing and covered her face with her manacled hands, but he knew she was only pretending—he saw her sly eyes peeping through her fingers.
Sir Seymour felt strangely unsettled by the dream. As it happened, his sister had been very much on his mind. He knew not only that she had come to Mayholme Manor the day before, but that she had been in his room. Nobody had said a word about it, but he found her velvet glove embroidered with roses, with her initials on the hem, on the floor beside his bed. (He’d pushed the glove under his pillow. Could that be the reason for the dream? Didn’t old maids put pieces of wedding cake under their pillows in the hope it would make them see their future husband in a dream?)
The illuminated face of the little leather travel clock on his bedside table told him it was twenty minutes past seven. It felt much earlier. It was dark in the room and no matter how he strained his ears, he could hear nothing but silence, the kind of silence described as ‘deafening’ or more commonly as ‘dead’. A bit eerie. Could he have died in his sleep and been transported to some kind of parallel universe—?
Poppycock. Why did he keep harping on death? He wondered if he was perhaps mortally ill, without realizing it, but thought it unlikely. His big toe was fine now. No more pain. Well, he felt a little off colour, that was all. Nothing to make a song and dance about. He always felt off colour in the morning. What was it he had for dinner last night? Quails roasted in a wrap of vine leaves, the blood still oozing from them when cut? Yes. That’s what must have given him indigestion. Perhaps he should have followed Henley’s advice and chosen something lighter? Oh well, too late now.
That young chap, Mowbray’s son, what was his name—Vic? Was he after Penelope? The way he’d kept coming to Half Moon Street. Always there, at one time, not saying much, making sheep’s eyes at Penelope. Got on his nerves! Sir Seymour shook his head. Young wife—he shouldn’t have got himself a young wife—always some kind of trouble—he should have known he’d reap eternal rue! Well, now that his mother was dead, there’d be no reason and certainly no excuse for Vic Mowbray to be at the house—
Why was he thinking about Vic Mowbray now? What he needed most of all at his time of life was tranquillity. He should endeavour to avoid any kind of worry. That was the way to live to a hundred. What was that joke Mr Lovell had made? Down with Methuselah! Frightfully funny.
Sir Seymour struggled up and turned on his bedside light. He would sit and wait for the steward to draw the curtains. He didn’t feel like leaving his bed, not yet. The steward should be bringing his tea any minute now. Tea and paper-thin buttered toast. He didn’t like the idea of his bare feet touching the floor. Bettina might have left something in his room—a venomous snake or a poisonous spider or the giant rat of Sumatra—he wouldn’t put anything past her. She was unpredictable, mad. After his money, like all of them.
Reaching out for the little porcelain dish that stood beside the clock, Sir Seymour picked up his ring and put on his glasses. Once more he tried to put the ring on his finger and failed. Same as last night, dammit. There had been no problem putting on his ring the day before. He flexed his fingers and peered down at them. They neither felt nor looked swollen, but they must be—otherwise why couldn’t his ring be fitted on his finger? The band couldn’t have shrunk, could it? Ridiculous. His fingers did look a bit swollen, as a matter of fact. Was it his heart—his blood pressure? Perhaps he could have a word with Henley, though Henley wasn’t exactly a picture of health himself. So fat!
Sir Seymour’s eyes remained fixed on the ring. The diamonds sparkled in the lamplight—an illusion of bursting rays—like a shimmering fireworks display. The ring had once belonged to the Duchess of Windsor. A Bond Street jeweller had estimated it was worth at least a million in today’s money. Sir Seymour’s father had been quite secretive about how he’d come to be in possession of the ring. There was some mystery attached to it. Had Papa perhaps stolen the ring from the Duchess?
Was it his fancy or did the diamonds really look dimmer than he remembered them—a little on the dull side? The diamonds appeared to have lost their sheen. Was that possible? Like flowers that fade overnight. No—that sort of thing didn’t happen to good diamonds. Perhaps there was something wrong with his eyes? He might need new glasses. He wasn’t heading for a stroke, was he? Were the first tentacles of Alzheimer’s already spreading paranoia and confusion through his brain? Must have a word with Henley. Damned nuisance. He felt … well, strange … Not himself … That bloody dream!
The Master hadn’t mentioned Bettina’s visit. Maybe he wasn’t aware of it, though the stewards were obliged to report all visitors to him. Or perhaps the dear fellow didn’t want to worry him? The Master had been extremely concerned when he heard about Sir Seymour’s swollen fingers. He had wanted to call Dr Henley at once, but Sir Seymour had assured him there was no real need for it. The Master was the only person who genuinely cared for him!
The night before, in the course of their after-dinner chat, Sir Seymour had been so moved by the Master’s concern that he’d hinted at the ‘personal consideration’ he was leaving him in his will. He had actually named the sum. The Master had inclined his head and his silver beard had bobbed up and down. The Master had been overcome with emotion. Sir Seymour had an idea the Master might be experiencing financial difficulties. He had seen a racing paper on the Master’s desk once and on another occasion had surprised him on the blower, placing a bet on Amber Arab. Sir Seymour had been surprised. The Master didn’t look like a betting man, but there it was.
Everything else—all his earthly riches—he would leave to Mayholme Manor. He’d meant what he’d said. All he needed to do was pick up the blower and contact Saunders, his solicitor. Money? Why was everybody so fond of money? Bettina kept pestering him for money for some tomfool magazine venture of hers. She expected him to cough up half a million at least. She seemed to believe he could produce banknotes out of a top-hat, like in one of those conjuring tricks, wad after wad after wad—
Sir Seymour started up as he saw a shadowy figure in an orange habit walking towards him. He hadn’t heard the door open. Like cats, these fellows. Though this one was more like a rabbit. Like a white rabbit. Sir Seymour peered above his reading glasses. ‘You are not Travis, are you?’
‘My name is Madden, sir. Your early morning tea, Sir Seymour.’
‘Don’t think I’ve seen you before.’
‘No, sir. I am new.’
‘Do the curtains, would you? Don’t stand there, staring. What’s the weather like?’
‘I am afraid it is rather cloudy, sir.’
‘Nothing to be afraid of.’ Sir Seymour raised the cup of tea to his lips. ‘Not your fault.’
‘Is the tea to your satisfaction, sir?’
‘Just the right strength.’
‘And the toast?’
‘Done to perfection. Thank you, Madden.’
‘Thank you, sir. Would that be all, sir?’
‘Yes. No—wait. Run my bath, if you don’t mind awfully.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Madden entered the bathroom and Sir Seymour heard the sound of running water.
Odd-looking fellow—red-eyed—bleached—like a white rabbit, yes. Was he an albino? Would be bad manners asking him, he supposed. A bit disconcerting, having an albino steward run one’s bath. What did the fellow want to thank him for? Expected to be tipped, no doubt. Well, I won’t tip him, Sir Seymour decided. Too early in the morning. Fed up with unctuous flunkeys!
When Madden reappeared several minutes later, Sir Seymour greeted him with a quotation. ‘Amat avidus amores miros, miros carpit flores.’
‘Sir?’
‘She avidly loves strange loves and picks strange flowers.’ Sir Seymour spoke petulantly. He felt a little annoyed that he needed to translate. ‘Strange flowers, Madden. That’s my sister Bettina. One never knows what she is up to. Like something out of that horror film we saw yesterday. She keeps changing her appearance. She doesn’t seem to be happy in her own skin. She calls it “experimenting”. You can go now, Madden.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting,’ Sir Seymour murmured. ‘Ha-ha.’
Rising from his bed, he put on his dressing gown and slippers. He was in an excellent mood now. He couldn’t quite say why. His moods seemed to change fast. What was that joke? Down with Methuselah! Frightfully funny. He picked up the detective story he’d started reading a couple of days before. He enjoyed reading in his bath. A murder mystery gave you rather a cosy kind of feeling. He was extremely careful about what he read these days. No one would ever catch him reading books about the secret disgraces of advancing age, nor about Canadian women finding succour with the pastors of tough industrial estates. There were certain subjects he drew the line at … What was a ‘tough industrial estate’?
Henley had told him not to overdo the hot baths. Henley was a fool. All right, there was a compromise—he’d make sure the water was not boiling hot. Lobsters hated boiling water. Ha-ha. The art of compromise. That was what his father had been frightfully keen on. Diplomatists usually were. Cautious fellows, frequently dull since they were always so circumspect. Never said anything amusing. Well, his father had been different. Far from dull. Quite a character, in fact.
It was ten minutes later.
The water, he reflected, was lovely. ‘I intend to put all my trust in you,’ Sir Seymour told the rubber duck. Jolly invigorating—these new bath salts—a mint-cum-angelica melange. Foam like whipped cream. He’d been extremely fond of whipped cream as a boy. Once his sister had pushed his face into a bowl of whipped cream, then laughed her head off. Made him look a fool.
The bathroom was beginning to steam up. He let the book drop to the tiled floor. Couldn’t see properly. He had reached the denouement anyhow. Such a simple explanation. He lay back motionless, eyes closed in ecstasy, thinking of breakfast. Felt ravenous, actually. He would phone Saunders after breakfast. Change his will. Should be as simple as falling off a chair—
He must have dozed off and slumped down a bit, his chin and then his lips submerging—the next moment he spluttered and gasped for breath. How easy it was to drown!
‘Why didn’t you warn me, you silly creature?’ Sir Seymour shook the rubber duck angrily. His heart was racing.
Suddenly he saw somebody standing on the other side of the semi-transparent curtain. He squinted. He hadn’t heard the door open or noted the sound of footsteps. He was a bit deaf. Figure in orange. The bloody steward! Couldn’t quite see his face—why had the silly fellow put up his hood? It was against the regulations, they were not allowed to wear their hoods inside.
‘That you, Madden? What d’you want? Made me jump. You have no business to be here while I’m in the bath. What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ Sir Seymour cried as the figure in the orange habit started lifting the curtain.
Gloves? Why was the fellow wearing black gloves?