I
The day of the dinner-party at the Hall dawned much the same as any other day. A feeling of pleasant anticipation was mine that morning. There were no grim forebodings or terrible premonitions. “Nobody knows what night will bring,” or similar gloomy phrases, never entered my head.
Half-way through the morning Ames rang with the suggestion that I should squeeze in a game of golf before the Squire returned. Mrs Ames would come to the Dower in the afternoon. Mindful of Ernest Mulqueen’s advice, I jumped at the offer.
Mrs Ames arrived a few minutes before the appointed hour. She wore the usual tweed coat with its big collar almost covering her face, and carried an attaché case. Robin was with her, one hand grasping a bunch of geraniums. Under his arm were a number of brightly coloured books. The flowers, it appeared, were for me, while the books were to form an overture to Tony.
I gave Mrs Ames a few instructions and slipped out unobtrusively.
The links were almost deserted. There was no one in the tiny office to take a green fee, so I moved off without delay. Greenkeepers have the habit of popping up at the eighteenth hole, just as you are congratulating yourself on getting a free game. I had a very brief run for my lack of payment that time. I approached the first green with stiff shots through lack of practice, and there was Ames seated on a diesel-driven mower on the other side of the pin. He dismissed my offer of payment with a word that Mr Holland would not like it, and cut off his engine to watch me drive off the second tee. It was not a very marvellous drive, but straight and true. I went down the slope, anxious to be away from his gaze. I knew he was as perfect a golfer as he was in his many other crafts.
About the fifth hole, when my muscles were starting to relax and the sound of a lark in the cloudless sky above was heightening my enjoyment, I stroked through another solitary female player. I was thoroughly delighting in one long unkind shot when I was hailed by name from a thicket where she had retired for safety.
As I approached I recognized a woman I had met at the Middleburn Community Centre—the one who adored children. She clapped her hands after my next stroke in earnest applause. I eyed her with a sinking feeling. My happy solitary game was going to be a thing of the past.
“Hello, Mrs Matheson. I’m so glad to see you. You do play well.”
It was the only shot she had seen me make and that was a fluke.
“Miss—” I began gropingly.
“Potts-Power. But please call me Daisy. Everyone does. I’m quite a figure in Middleburn. A gay spinster amongst all you young-marrieds. Tell me, how is my little Anthony?”
I winced throughout this speech. “He is Mrs Ames’ little Tony at the moment,” I said, glancing backward in the vain hope that someone might be wanting to drive off.
“Isn’t she a funny person? So hard to make friends with her. I suppose her poor face makes her shy. I do like to be friendly with everyone, don’t you?”
I began to edge away.
“Wait until I play this ball,” Miss Potts-Power begged. “We can go along together and have a nice chat. Unless you want to go ahead. I’m afraid I’m a bit slow.”
“Not at all,” I replied, feeling hemmed in.
“It’s so much nicer playing twosome, don’t you think?” asked Miss Potts-Power. I could not bring myself to even think of her as Daisy yet.
She bent down low and hacked at her ball. Incredibly it trickled onto the green.
“That just shows what the influence of a good player can do,” she remarked fulsomely. I made no comment as I moved after my ball and took up a stance.
Miss Potts-Power chatted on in an unconcerned fashion behind me. Ames was giving her lessons. Didn’t I think he was a frightfully nice man? So handsome and well-spoken. So utterly devoted to his wife and son, and to his poor old father, and, of course, the Hollands too. Indeed he was marvellous to everybody, even poor little her.
I made a swipe at my ball, hoping for the best.
“I don’t often get the opportunity to play golf, you know. But Mother was having a nap and I just felt I had to get out. She always has a nap when we are going out at night. I’m sure you can’t guess where we’re going. I’ll give you three chances.”
I glowered at the distance separating my ball from the pin.
“The Zoo!” I suggested.
“‘The Zoo’,” she repeated blankly. “Oh, you’re teasing me. All right, if you won’t play—”
“I’m trying to,” I muttered fiercely, following through the putt.
“—I’ll tell you. It is such a coincidence, really. It’s all over the village about Mr Holland’s party. You can’t keep anything secret in Middleburn. It is just as well Mrs Ames could mind Tony, because I was going to offer if she couldn’t, you know, and I never break a promise, even though it means doing without some outing more pleasant.”
I sank my ball at last and held the pin as Miss Potts-Power holed out in five or six putts. The last one ended on the tip of the hole. I gave it a surreptitious nudge with my toe to help it on its way.
“Mother and I have been invited to dinner at Holland Hall. There now, aren’t you surprised?”
“Very!” I said, knowing my cue. “But why should I be?”
“How silly of me! Of course you haven’t been here long enough to know. And actually it was Ames who issued the invitation, so it mightn’t count for anything.”
“You are holding me in suspense,” I said, speculating on the best way to cross the creek half-way down the sixth fairway. A discreet stroke to land just this side or a bold bid in the hope it might come off?
“You always lose a ball here,” Miss Potts-Power said happily. “Ames must find dozens in that creek.”
“He won’t find any of mine,” I said, playing the careful game. “You were saying about tonight?”
“Tonight? Oh, yes. So odd of Mr Holland. You see, he and mother haven’t spoken to each other for years.” She paused for effect.
I made some fitting sound of incredulity.
“What do you make of it, Mrs Matheson? You are a bit of a detective, I believe.”
I slammed my wood into the bag with unnecessary force.
Blast Connie and her prattling!
“On the face of it I should say the quarrel, if such it was, was going to be forgotten at last.”
“As a matter of fact,” Miss Potts-Power confessed, “I don’t know if there was any actual quarrel. You see, mother has never spoken of it.”
“In that case,” I suggested, “it would be better not to waste our time with idle speculation. I wonder if you’d think me terribly rude if I went on. I’m anxious to get back to Tony.”
“Of course not,” she said, looking hurt. “Anyway, I’ll see you tonight. Maybe we can have a nice long chat then.”
I finished the fifteenth hole and paused to add up my card. The result was not too startling; in fact, low enough to make the playing of another three holes interesting. A mist hung low over the creek again. I glanced up at the sky. It had become overcast with a thin layer of cloud.
I gave an undecided look at my watch, shrugged and climbed on to the next tee. I played the next two holes well and felt fully justified in stealing time. This self-satisfaction vanished when I lost a ball second stroke off the last fairway. The mist was creeping up steadily. Combined with the fading daylight, I was forced to abandon the search in disgust.
I took a mental photograph of the approximate position of the ball, determined to try the search again the following day. Golf balls were too hard to come by to go losing them through sheer stupidity.
II
It was after six when I turned into the gateway of the Dower. Tony was having tea in the kitchen with his new friend. Some lively and completely unintelligible conversation was going on between them. Mrs Ames sat between them, her head bent over some intricate fancywork. She looked up as I burst in, anxious to see Tony after what now seemed a long separation.
“I hope you had a pleasant game,” she remarked, bending her head again swiftly.
“Very pleasant, thank you. Tony, my lamb, not all that much in your mouth.”
Robin had finished his tea. He slipped from his chair, wiping a perfectly clean face on an equally spotless feeder. Mrs Ames came up behind him to untie it, while I poured more milk for Tony.
“Now remember, Robin,” I heard her say in a low tone. “Go home by the road and be very careful.”
“Are you sending Robin home by himself?” I asked, swinging round in surprise. It was nearly pitch-dark outside with that nasty mist coming up. Although the child seemed highly intelligent, he was not much more than a baby.
“Let him play with Tony while I get changed,” I suggested. “I’ll take him on my way to the Hall.”
She accepted my offer without hesitation. I caught the merest hint of a smile on her averted face and felt warmed by it. You would hate to think that a woman who had been looking after your child as competently as she seemed to have looked after Tony and to whom you felt indebted was incapable of any response.
The two children delighted in the unexpected prolongation and spent the time rushing madly up and down the passage. Their shrieks of delight at this energetic and purposeless form of entertainment came to me as I took a leisurely bath and changed into a dinner dress. It was fun getting into a long skirt once again. I topped off the black crepe with a candy-striped jacket, and went to the mirror.
I took a satisfied look at my reflection from every possible angle and then a dissatisfied one at the bedroom clock. John was cutting it fine. I laid out his clothes in a dutiful fashion, and leaving the bedroom light aglow, went down the passage to the lounge-room, switching on lights as I went.
Tony rushed headlong to meet me. I snatched him up for a minute. Mrs Ames had bathed him before tea and put him into striped pyjamas and a scarlet dressing-gown. He wriggled away and tore down the passage after Robin.
Smell when allied to instinct becomes a highly acute sense. I could always tell when someone strange had been in my house. I had felt that as soon as I had returned from golf. Even if I hadn’t known Mrs Ames and Robin were in the house, that sense would still have been mine. It was very strong as I entered the lounge-room. I smiled a little to myself. Not that I minded Mrs Ames using my sitting-room, but it did not seem quite in accordance with my conception of her. I wondered if she had inspected every room in the Dower. I could find out from Tony if I cared to pump a child in such a futile cause.
John came in just then. I was in the hall as soon as I heard his step on the flagged path. I hurried him off to change, and sat down to glance through the evening paper he had brought home.
There was a small oblong box lying alongside the paper. I opened it with the lack of conscience which wives seem to develop after a few years of married life. A dainty little corsage was inside. I pinned it onto the lapel of my jacket feeling abominably sentimental.
John came back presently, slipping cigarettes into his case. “Why is it,” he demanded in a resigned fashion, “women always mess up a newspaper?”
He started to clear up the sheets on the floor while I sat clinging to one, my eyes glued on an item in the personal column.
“Did you see this?” I asked.
“See what? By the way, you might wait until I give you gifts before you thank me for them.”
“Sorry, but I was overwhelmed. Have a look at this.”
He read above my pointing finger. I looked into his face to see his reaction. He smiled round at me gently and said: “Are you ready, Mrs Matheson? May I offer you my arm?”
I put the paper down. “You knew about it,” I accused him, rising and slipping a fur cape over my shoulders.
“Detectives always read the personal column. You never know what you may pick up.”
“Well, what do you think about it?” I asked, goaded.
“It is certainly an original way to ask anyone to dinner. Tell me, should I go and say something polite to the nursemaid?”
“No, but you could slip her the fee she expects and is entitled to. We are escorting young Robin home too. Find him while I tuck Tony in.”
My question had been gracefully but firmly evaded. John did not intend to discuss the item in the paper. I wondered if it was because I had been reticent about affairs at the Hall and he was piqued, or whether his attitude was becoming official. His remark was a fine example of understatement. To invite a man to dinner through the medium of the personal column was in itself odd, but when one knew that the proposed guest had disappeared in suspicious circumstances several days earlier the situation was even more out of the way.
“Will he be able to get himself to bed?” I asked Mrs Ames as Robin presented his hand in an enchanting fashion. His little fingers curled into mine without any shyness.
Mrs Ames watched him, answering my question with a nod.
“I hope you won’t be lonely here by yourself,” I persevered, trying to break through Harriet Ames’ reserve.
“No, I won’t be lonely,” she replied, waiting for me to go.
She stood at the end of the hall as John opened the front door.
“Good night,” I called, raising one hand.
“Don’t try so hard, Maggie,” John said, pulling the door to.
“Hullo. Who’s this?”
The gate of the Dower had opened, and a female figure picked its way over the flags.
“Why, Miss Cruikshank! Good evening.” I was surprised.
Miss Potts-Power had declared the Squire’s party was all over the village. “I’m afraid we are just on our way out.”
“Oh, dear!” Miss Cruikshank said. “I must be too early. She did say seven. The clock in the shop must have gained.”
John had sized up the situation. He inserted his key in the door and swung it open. I caught a glimpse of Harriet Ames still standing at the end of the hall.
“A caller for you,” John said pleasantly. He gently pushed Miss Cruikshank inside and shut the door again.
“But why didn’t she say she had asked someone to keep her company,” I exclaimed. “I would not have minded.”
“Mrs Ames does not waste her breath in superfluous explanations. You asked if she would be lonely and she said no. Reason why would have transpired.”
We followed the road round the curve to the entrance gates of the Hall, Robin still holding my hand in his engaging way. Further discussion on his mother’s supreme reticence was inadvisable. His fingers moved slightly at the mention of her name.
Light shone from the unshaded windows of the Lodge. We could see inside the cosy living room. Robin’s grandfather sat opposite another man at a table drawn up in front of the fire. One hand was poised over the chess pieces set out between them. He heard the steps on the stone porch and looked up. With a word to his companion he rose to his feet and disappeared out of vision. Robin loosened his hand and went forward eagerly as his grandfather appeared.
Old man Ames was as courteous as his son, but his manner held more warmth and sincerity. His attitude never conveyed the impression of a superficial correctitude as Robert Ames’ did. He thanked us for bringing Robin home and seemed quite prepared to chat for a while had not John drawn my attention to the time.
The porch light was left aglow as we went up the drive, but this was soon lost to view, smothered by the developing fog. The poplars growing on either side of the drive seemed more closely knit by night. It was as though we were walking through a deep tunnel.
I made one or two rhetorical remarks to John, but he grunted, and did not seem disposed to talk. I had lost some of my exhilaration too. It had changed into a nervous excitement. That silent walk in the darkness and fog did not inspire gaiety. On the other hand there was an anticipatory thrill about it, as if the stillness and gloom were a prelude to feverish activity.
But even through the darkness I saw, or else my imagination sketched, the vague outline of the square white tower of the Hall looking down on us as we approached.
I began to be foolish and glance over my shoulder. But my imagination had not gone beyond the bounds of reality.
“Mat,” I said suddenly, using an old nickname in my fright. John pulled me gently into the shade of the poplars. He seemed conscious of another presence too, and pressed my arm warningly. We stood there for one minute, two. Presently a shadow moved on the far side of the poplars. It moved quickly and quietly in the direction of the house. There was a slight brushing of the leafless branches. Except for that sound I might have imagined the dim form. But there was no breeze to make those trees move.
“Just another guest,” John said at last. I pulled myself together.
“It only remains for there to be thirteen guests and we go home.”
Even as I spoke flippantly in the endeavour to capture my first mood, something else happened. The light in the tower of the Hall began again to flash on and off. I pulled John along hurriedly. If we got near to the house there would be a good chance of seeing who was in the tower. We came into the open sweep of gravel below the terrace. The light had ceased to flicker. It shone steadily down, illuminating the marble pond in the centre of the oval. I scanned the windows of the tower keenly, but there was no one to be seen.
John followed my gaze. “A form of red carpet, I presume,” he suggested.
“Quite likely,” I replied.
The house was now brilliant with light. The front door stood wide open in spite of the inclement night. Music sounded—a sweet, hackneyed Strauss waltz, hard to give title to on account of the underlying similarity of many three-four time compositions, but nevertheless nostalgic and poignant. Somehow Strauss sounded quite at home in this strange house; as though the Hall belonged to the same era. The music conveyed the impression of corruption and tragedy beneath its gay polished exterior that must have existed in the Vienna of the Archduke Rudolph and his little Marie. That lilting melody was the leitmotif of the Holland case.
Ames, a picture of sartorial adaptability as usual, appeared as soon as we put foot on the top step. His role on this particular occasion, however, was rather confused. He seemed more a master of ceremonies than a butler. He took John’s coat, suggesting I retain my fur.
“Some ladies find the house a trifle draughty.”
His manner was perfect, but just the same I let slip my cape into his hands. He went on to say, without even blinking at my childish behaviour, “I regret that Mr Holland has not yet come in. He is expected at any moment. Will you come this way, please?”
He ushered us into the drawing-room, an apartment heavy with crimson and massive with mahogany. The Strauss waltz came from a Panatrope situated on the far side of the room. Daisy Potts-Power, dressed in shapeless draperies of flowered voile, was standing beside it. One hand hovered over the needle as the record neared completion, the other held back the loose sleeve which threatened to become entwined in the mechanism. Before I had time to greet her, a very deep voice spoke from behind the door.
“And again. Play it again, girl.” I swung round. An elderly woman of immense, almost revolting girth was seated in a wheelchair half hidden by the door. She was attired in a garment which might have been a remnant from the hangings at the windows, and flashed a quantity of diamonds in dirty settings on her balloon-like fingers. These lay loosely on her lap. The grotesque immobile body was rendered all the more conspicuous because of the eyes that darted to and fro in their yellowing balls.
She spoke in her deep voice without hesitation. “I always choose this position. You can catch people without their party faces on.”
Ames coughed. It was that deprecatory sound which is always associated with fictional butlers.
“Be quiet, Ames,” said the crimson-velvet woman as he began to make introductions. She surveyed John with a basilisk eye. “So this is our detective! Well, young man, show me how good you are. What is my name and who am I?”
I had disliked the old woman on sight. Now I loathed her. I stepped in front of John and said coolly: “I also consider myself a detective. I’ll show you I can be quite good too. Your name is Mrs Potts-Power and you are the unofficial first lady of Middleburn.”
She was immensely pleased and a spasm indicative of delight spread throughout the heavy body.
“Splendid! Give me some more. Come here and sit by me.”
I felt I could afford to punish the old woman. I shook my head. “Presently. I want to say good evening to your daughter.” Ames had already introduced John to Daisy and left the room. Mrs Potts-Power clapped her hands like an Eastern potentate. Daisy came up on the instant.
“Mrs Matheson wants to say good evening to you.”
“Oh—er—good night,” Daisy said with a nervous giggle. It was clear enough now that she lived in awe of the tyrannical old woman. This talk of staying at home to care for mother was just a product of her hungry nature.
I said: “I think I will get my cape. There is quite a draught in this room.”
As I left the drawing-room Mrs Potts-Power bellowed: “How long do we have to stay here before one of the Hollands puts in an appearance? I want my dinner.”
The hall was still deserted when I came out of the powder room. I wandered along, pausing with critical eyes in front of one or two of the massive and gloomy oil paintings on the walls. A small telephone switchboard caught my attention. It stood in the deep shadow of the stairs opposite the double doors of the drawing-room. I was examining it casually when a smooth voice spoke behind me.
“Do you wish to make a call, Mrs Matheson? The line is engaged at the moment.”
I turned swiftly. Ames was standing before the entrance to the drawing-room, a silver tray of drinks between his hands.
He waited, bland and impeccable, with his head tilted at just the right angle.
“Perhaps I should call the Dower,” I suggested.
Ames’ eyes went to the board again. “The extension is engaged also. I will try it for you presently.” He moved slightly aside to let me pass ahead of him.
“I’ll wait,” I told him. “I know how to operate the board.”
He inclined his head still further and went into the drawing-room. I leaned against the stairs and studied a gory painting of dead game. There was a brace of hares, blood bright upon their heads. They lay athwart a long-nosed gun, the redness staining the white cloth beneath. In the background leered a sharp-faced animal mask. A small window opened onto a darkling landscape.
My eyes were on the highlight of the painted gun barrel when reality and imagination seemed to coalesce. The sound as of a gunshot reverberated in the still deep mist outside the Hall. I heard it clearly, although it seemed far away in the night.
III
I hurried into the drawing-room. John met my anxious eyes with an inquiring look. I moved over to his side. Mrs Potts-Power and Daisy appeared unconcerned. The old woman was leaning back in her wheelchair, thick wrinkled lids half-hiding her restless eyes. Daisy was replaying the Strauss waltz. Then the sound occurred again. This time it was further away and not quite as full-bodied. Mrs Potts-Power opened her eyes wide and stirred irritably.
“Why must cars go backfiring just while I am enjoying the music?” she asked.
“Sherry, Maggie?” John said in my ear. Ames was bending the tray down towards me. I took a glass carefully. My hands were not quite steady. When Ames went out of the room for a moment I downed the sherry in one swallow.
“Bar-room manners,” John commented. “What’s the matter?”
“I thought the first one sounded like a gunshot. Silly?”
“Very silly.”
Daisy raised her voice from across the room. “Such lovely sherry. I do think it is a most romantic beverage, don’t you, Mrs Matheson?”
Mrs Potts-Power snorted. “Don’t be a fool, girl. Ames, find me some whisky. I can’t abide this wash.”
“Now, Mother, please. You know what the doctor said about spirits.”
“Daisy will pour the soda for me,” said the old woman, grinning. “You heard what I said, Ames.”
“Yes, madam.” He came over towards me. “Mrs Ames has just called from the Dower. Everything is all right.”
“Thank you, Ames.”
“At last!” said Mrs Potts-Power rudely as Yvonne Holland came into the room, followed by a mild-looking young man. She wore a dinner-dress made of fine crimson wool and looked pretty but painfully thin. Her nervous hands plucked and smoothed the draped basque as she stammered apologies to Mrs Potts-Power.
The old woman let her go after she had had her fun, and sat ready to pounce on the next person who entered.
Yvonne saw me and led the young man over to be introduced. His name was Braithwaite. I drew my brows together when I heard it.
He saw the motion and said: “We had some correspondence over the Dower House, Mrs Matheson.”
“Of course. How clever of you to guess I was trying to place you. I dislike a familiar name to elude me.” He was one of Mr Holland’s solicitors.
I introduced John and we chatted together for a while. Now and then Yvonne threw a glance in our direction. Daisy had claimed her attention, and was talking brightly about the weather.
Elizabeth Mulqueen entered a pace or two ahead of her daughter. Her studied entrance was upset by Mrs Potts-Power addressing her from behind the door and making her jump. She changed the sudden jerk into a graceful about-turn with praiseworthy aplomb.
“Dear Marguerite!” Mrs Mulqueen said sweetly. “How lovely to see you within these portals again. Do you remember my little girlie?”
Ursula was drawn forward. Beyond her mother’s pink lace figure, I saw that she was wearing a frock patterned with rosebuds and a string of seed pearls.
Mrs Potts-Power looked at the muslin frills and the bow in the hair with an unkind eye. “As well as the day she was born nearly twenty-five years ago. Tell me, Elizabeth, where is James?”
Mrs Mulqueen threw a vague glance around the room. It took me in with a slight look of recognition. Ursula had already shown her pink gums in my direction.
“Isn’t he down yet? I heard him moving around in his dressing-room some time ago.”
“No, he isn’t, and I want my dinner. You are all late.”
Mrs Mulqueen left her talking and continued around the circle like a royal hostess. It was a pity, as Mrs Potts-Power declared loudly, that she had not put in her appearance earlier.
Ursula moved towards me. We exchanged a few conventional phrases. Presently she claimed young Braithwaite’s attention. Again I observed young Yvonne Holland’s glances in Alan Braithwaite’s direction. A slightly clouded look came into her blue eyes when Ursula smiled at her sweetly.
Ernest Mulqueen entered in a surreptitious way. His could have been made a perfect entry had he been the type to wish it so. He appeared anxious not to draw attention to himself. I waved to him cheerily as to an old friend. Had he not borne me company during that first strange night at the Dower? I was surprised and more than a little embarrassed when he returned my wave with a blank stare. I dropped my hand and found John grinning at me.
Ames came to the doorway and announced dinner.
“Where is James?” Elizabeth Mulqueen asked in exasperation. “Ames, go up to his room and tell him we are all waiting.”
Mrs Potts-Power rapped her daughter on the hand with her be-ringed knuckles. It was a signal to start pushing the wheelchair.
“I don’t care where James is. I was invited here for dinner and I intend to have it.”
I whispered to Yvonne as we passed through to the dining-room. “How is your baby? Might I see him later?”
“Certainly. I’ll take you up to the nursery before coffee.”
I said: “Mr Braithwaite seems a nice person. We resumed our acquaintance capitally.” She flushed and glanced at me suspiciously. I retreated before she gave herself away any further.
That dinner was one of the most extraordinary affairs I have ever attended. To begin with, there was no host sitting at the top of the table. Ames had come back with the news that Mrs Mulqueen must have been mistaken. Mr Holland had not yet arrived. He had left a message previously that the dinner was to start punctually, even if he was not there.
“We don’t even know why James has been gone for the last few days,” Elizabeth Mulqueen said across the table to Mrs Potts-Power. “Do we, Ames?”
She invited his corroboration as he leaned down to pour wine into her glass. It must have been rather disconcerting for Ames to be addressed when playing his role of butler. But he replied without flickering an eyelash.
“No, madam.”
“The only word we have had is a telegram from some outlandish spot saying he would be home tonight at seven,” Mrs Mulqueen complained.
A second extraordinary thing about the dinner was an empty chair beside me with a place set opposite it. During the fish course it dawned on me who should have been sitting there. Once James Holland issued his royal command the guest should automatically be present, irrespective of whether he was dead, ill, or had lost his memory; one of which three misfortunes might be Mr Cruikshank’s excuse.
The table was fairly quiet. Conversation was not particularly brilliant when it did take place. John was doing his best with Ursula Mulqueen, but he was somewhat frustrated by the latter’s obvious desire to monopolize Alan Braithwaite to the exclusion of Yvonne, who sat on his other hand.
Ernest Mulqueen appeared completely crushed either by his stiff shirt or the company, and spoke little. He picked at the excellent dinner Mr Holland had provided to make up for his likely absence. I would have expected Ernie to be a hearty eater and a boisterous table-talker. Elizabeth Mulqueen sat on his right. She had ignored him from the time he had entered the drawing-room, and addressed most of her remarks to old Mrs Potts-Power. The latter was shovelling food down and not even bothering to reply to the smooth sweet talk.
The only thing outside her plate that she noticed was Daisy, who tried to remonstrate with her about either the amount, type or speed of dispatch of the food. She rapped her daughter’s hand in a gesture which must have been familiar to Daisy. I would have rubbed the old lady’s nose all over her face for humiliating me so.
“What an ill-assorted group of people we are,” I thought absently. Then the idea came to me that quite possibly we were all part of some scheme of our absent host’s. I glanced round again at my uncongenial table companions and felt an impotent rage spring up within me.
John and I, as newcomers, were included in the dinner party so as to feel the weight of James Holland’s would-be omniscience. Or so I reasoned. The fact that he had failed to appear at the head of his own table held, without doubt, some significance. We were to be impressed by Elizabeth Mulqueen, cowed by old Mrs Potts-Power, and rendered pliable by both operations in time for Holland to mould us to his own purpose and satisfaction.
As for the other members of the party, it was easy to see what would happen. The meal was heavy and rich, the atmosphere brittle with tension caused by uncongeniality. It would be a moot point whether impaired digestions would start the squabbling or the squabbling would be the cause of the dyspepsia. Either way friction was inevitable. And that, I reasoned again, was exactly James Holland’s aim.
Mrs Potts-Power belched long, loudly and with complete unashamedness. John’s eyes twinkled at me over the table. He had no intention of being awed or cowed by these people. I grinned back, raising my table napkin as I saw Ursula Mulqueen’s eyes on me. Even while she was trying to trap Alan Braithwaite into conversation she seemed to keep everyone under observation.
Yvonne drew me aside quietly as we left the dining-room. Instead of following the other women into the drawing-room we went upstairs together. Not until we were well out of earshot of the ground floor did she venture a remark.
“Nurse Stone may have gone downstairs to help the kitchen staff. Her room opens into the nursery.” The remark would have puzzled me had I pondered on it. She spoke in her usual nervous way.
“Which is Mr Holland’s room?” I asked, full of lively curiosity. The house and furnishings were magnificent even in their garishness. It was pointed out to me along with her own and Ursula’s. Elizabeth and Ernest Mulqueen had their individual apartments in the east wing of the ground floor.
Yvonne knocked on the door almost opposite her own. A tentative, timid tap with her finger-tips. There was a slight pause before her knock was answered. I heard the creak of a bed and a few hurried movements, then the door was opened.
Nurse Stone was another figure in James Holland’s interpretation of squirearchy—in appearance at least. She was fat, rosy-cheeked, grey-haired. A typical story-book English nanny. Her smile, I came to learn, was a permanent fixture. It didn’t deceive me even then. I had caught an odour of gin on her breath. We had interrupted Nurse Stone’s relaxation with a bottle.
Yvonne’s plea to see Jimmy, for such indeed it was, was foiled by a battery of smiles and a warm full voice protesting between “little pets” and “poor lambs” that he had just that minute popped off to sleep.
“But Mrs Matheson is so anxious to see him,” Yvonne begged. “Can’t we, for just one moment?” The woman’s face changed. She did not lose the false smile, but a look of hostility came into her eyes as she glanced at me.
“So you’re Mrs Matheson,” she said with a certain significance in her voice. “No, I’m sorry, Mrs Jim, but you can’t go in. Do you want to disturb him? You might frighten him if he awakened.”
“Surely, his own mother—” I began mildly.
She shot me another glance. There was unveiled enmity in it now. I was quite prepared to stay and open battle. Unfortunately, my ally was for retreat. She drew me away from the room, apologizing for disturbing Nurse Stone.
“Mr Holland thinks very highly of her,” Yvonne said. Her words were simple yet wholly explanatory.
I walked along the passage a few steps and then retraced them softly and swiftly. Yvonne stopped and gaped. I bent one ear to the door of Nurse Stone’s room. There was a chink of glass against glass, another creak of the bed and a loud sigh. I nodded to myself.
“What is it?” Yvonne whispered.
“Isn’t there another entrance into the nursery?” I asked softly.
“We could get in through the bathroom. The door may be unlocked.”
“This one?” I asked, pointing. Yvonne nodded. We opened it carefully in case of squeaks. The door connecting to the nursery was slightly ajar.
“Put on the bathroom light,” I told Yvonne. “It would be awful if we did wake him.”
The child slept on his side with a dummy lying slackly in his mouth. In the dim glow from the bathroom I saw his little cheek was hectically flushed and put one finger carefully into the limp hand. It was slightly damp to feel. His temperature seemed normal. I raised my head and sniffed the air. It was close and stale. The blind was drawn over the window. When I raised it I saw the window was shut.
“For Heaven’s sake,” I whispered to Yvonne savagely. “The child is sleeping in a closed room. No wonder he is flushed, breathing stale air all the time. Did you know of this?” I slid the window up, drawing back the curtain. The fresh sweet air flowed in like a stream. The baby stirred and whimpered a little. We backed hastily out of the room, but not before I had pulled that beastly dummy from his mouth, confiscating both it and the jar of comforter smear which stood on the table beside the cot.
We arrived back into the drawing-room as the party was being divided up for solo. The after-dinner male session had not lasted long. I was not surprised. Ernest Mulqueen, young Braithwaite and John would not be my idea of a convivial trio. Although John and the solicitor might have something in common insofar as both had been at the university about the same time, you could not blend shop talk with Ernest Mulqueen’s observations on gins and farming. Cruikshank, had it been possible or advisable for him to attend, would scarcely have made the party any more exciting.
Tempers became frayed during the card game. At my table Mrs Potts-Power picked continually at Daisy, who was a shocking player but held good cards and could not help but win—chiefly her mother’s money, too. Mrs Potts-Power was a bad loser. She considered even the turn-up had a grudge against her. Elizabeth Mulqueen interrupted the game constantly by inventing small absurd errands for Ernest to run whenever he was sitting out. He became exasperated after a while and suggested, red in the face, that she fetch her handkerchief when her turn out arrived.
I swivelled round in my chair to watch John, who was at the other table playing a tricky misère. Daisy had under-called her hand in a solo. If she didn’t walk it in with ten tricks, it wouldn’t be the fault of her outrageous luck. The hand would not be interesting.
John made his misere through one or two awful blunders on Yvonne’s part. Ursula, after the hand had finished, asked in her sweet girlish way why she had done such and such. Her manner was perfectly innocent, but it had the effect of making Yvonne both defiant and guilty. Alan Braithwaite intervened with legal tact, declaring that with such a big hand as his he couldn’t see how John could have failed to make his misère. Ursula gave her tinkling laugh at this.
“You’re not like poor Jim, Alan. He always pointed out Yvonne’s mistakes to her. He said it was the only way to learn, didn’t he, darling?”
Yvonne, who sat facing me, dropped her lids over sudden tears of distress. Young Braithwaite glanced from one girl to the other unhappily. Ursula was wearing her sweetest smile, as she cut the pack to John. He dealt a fresh hand without comment.
And so the party went on until the bickering developed near to quarrelling and the veiled barbs to open insults. Still James Holland did not appear. Ames hovered in and out, smooth with regrets, filling glasses, emptying ashtrays and adjusting cushions behind the ladies. If I had not seen Mrs Potts-Power hurl hers to the ground first I would have done the same. By the end of the evening everyone wore a look of hostility or malice. It developed into downright hatred when Elizabeth Mulqueen overheard me absently murmuring polite and untruthful phrases to Ames at the front door. I don’t know how I came to pass her by, but Ames did seem to be the proper person to thank in James Holland’s absence.