Chapter Six #2
I decided to step in. ‘Have you decided what you’ll be playing for us this evening?’
Clarice turned abruptly towards me. ‘Not yet, no. It might have to be something I can play without piano accompaniment if his lordship doesn’t stop sulking.’
Sidwell-Plant was listening in. ‘Lady Hardcastle was telling us she plays the piano.’
All eyes now turned to Lady Hardcastle, who affected an attitude of what I hoped only I knew to be entirely fake humility. ‘Well . . . you know . . . one dabbles.’
‘She’s actually rather good,’ I said, playing my part in the social charade. ‘She has quite the reputation round our way.’
‘Interesting,’ said Clarice. ‘And how’s your sight-reading?’
‘Well . . . I mean . . .’
They were going to see through this faux modesty if she laid it on any more thickly, but we all knew how the social game must be played.
Once more, my role in the game was to speak up for her. ‘I’ve seen her open the music for a brand-new piece and play it as though she’s been practising for months.’
Clarice smiled. ‘Would you mind sitting in as my accompanist, then? There’s no money in it, I’m afraid, but it might be a lark.’
‘It would be a pleasure,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And if Edgar reappears, perhaps we might play together some other time. I’d like that very much.’
‘It’s always nice to have someone new to practise with. Whether tonight or tomorrow, we shall play something together. I say, do you know any ragtime pieces? I’d love to have a go at some of those, but . . . well, he won’t let me. But if he’s not there . . .’
They began talking earnestly about Lady Hardcastle’s favourite ragtime composers. It wasn’t long before she’d moved on to how ragtime had even influenced Claude Debussy, and I turned my attention instead to Lily and Wilson, who were sitting the other side of me.
‘Was JB telling tall tales earlier?’ asked Wilson.
‘About what?’ I said, though I suspected I knew.
‘About you being born in a circus.’
‘Ah, yes, that,’ I said. ‘No, he wasn’t – that’s entirely true.’
‘It is not,’ said Lily, delightedly. ‘How marvellous.’
‘No, really. My birth certificate says I’m Welsh, and I certainly spent a decent part of my childhood in the Valleys with my mother’s family, but my twin sister, Gwen, and I were born in a circus wagon in England.
My mother designed and made the costumes.
Talented she was. No one’s ever properly explained why she was touring with them when she was almost due, but somehow she was.
But as soon as we were born they put the three of us on a train back to Aberdare and she registered our births there.
As soon as we were all fit to travel we were all back on the road, and that’s where I did most of my growing up. ’
She seemed thrilled by this news. ‘And your father really was a knife thrower?’
‘He really was. He taught me and Gwen, too.’
Wilson laughed. ‘Never mind Clarice’s beautiful playing – I want to see you do some knife tricks.’
I smiled. ‘If you can track down a decently weighted dagger, I’m sure I can do something.’
JB had been listening. ‘I have one or two knives in my collection here. I’m pretty certain I can find one that would suit.’
‘It doesn’t have to be a proper throwing knife,’ I said. ‘It’s not hard to throw a table knife if the need arises, but something with a bit better balance would allow some more impressive tricks.’
I wasn’t used to being the centre of attention at occasions like this and I found I was rather enjoying myself.
I confess that as dinner wore on, I might have begun to show off a little with my tales, though I was careful never to lie, or even exaggerate.
I really did pin that fellow to a wall in Budapest by his coat sleeve.
And I really did use a fruit knife to do it.
As before, we retired to the library after dinner, where Bridgewater poured Lady Hardcastle and me a large brandy each, and an even larger one for himself.
He saluted us with his balloon glass. ‘Chin chin.’
‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ I said, raising my own.
He laughed. ‘What in my what?’
‘It’s an expression my American friend used in one of her recent letters,’ I said. ‘I thought it might amuse you.’
‘It very much does. Mud in your eye, eh? I shall remember that one.’ He chuckled a little more. ‘I say, that reminds me of a story—’
‘We were talking to Sidwell-Plant a little while ago,’ interrupted Lady Hardcastle.
‘Were you, indeed? What nonsense has that old scoundrel been spouting now?’
‘I’m not sure it was nonsense. He was just saying that the two of you have been working for JB for a long time. You were JB’s solicitor when he needed an accountant and you recommended your pal.’
Bridgewater relaxed. ‘Oh, that. Yes, we’ve been friends for years, he and I. Dotty and I introduced him to the current Mrs Sidwell-P, don’t you know.’
‘Was there a previous Mrs Sidwell-Plant?’ I asked.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Just a figure of speech – Patience is his one and only wife. Our Bobby’s too lucky to lose a spouse to accident or illness, and too proud to divorce one. Quite the stickler, old RVSP. Not one to break the law, nor even the conventions of polite society.’
‘RVSP?’ I said.
‘Robert Victor Sidwell-Plant. I can’t believe his parents didn’t do it on purpose. Too close to RSVP, what?’
‘Ah, of course.’
‘It must be handy when you’re working on a deal for JB,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s like having the legal side and the money side all under one roof.’
‘Like some sort of business services firm, what?’ said Bridgewater with another chuckle.
‘It’s making everything we need to do for the hotel so much simpler with us both working together, that’s for certain.
And a good thing, too, if I might say. There’s a lot riding on it – we all need the hotel to be a roaring success. More brandy?’
I held up my hand. ‘Not for me, thank you – I’ve only just started this one.’
Lady Hardcastle shook her head, too.
‘I’ll just have a little one,’ said Bridgewater as he helped himself to another large one. ‘JB won’t mind.’
‘He’s a generous host,’ I said.
‘Thank goodness. I’m not sure I could live this high on the hog without him. Keeps the bills down at home if a chap can spend every weekend with his generous benefactor, what?’
Before Lady Hardcastle or I could respond, the host himself joined us.
‘Please forgive the interruption,’ said JB, ‘but I wonder if I might have a word with you, Emily.’
‘Of course, JB dear. What can I do for you?’
JB led her out of earshot and I looked around.
Sidwell-Plant was having a laughter-filled conversation with Wilson and Lily on one side of the room, while Dotty and Patience were engaged in some heads-together seriousness on the other.
Clarice had already gone to prepare for the evening recital and Edgar still hadn’t reappeared.
‘What was the story you were going to tell?’ I said.
Bridgewater was a little distracted. ‘The what?’
‘When I said, “Here’s mud in your eye,” you said it reminded you of a story, but Lady Hardcastle interrupted and set us off talking about you and Mr Sidwell-Plant instead.’
‘Ohh, yes. Well, now, you see, this chap – tall johnny, d’you see?
Lanky, some might say, though never to his face – he’s a well-liked sort of a fella.
But this chap is out walking in the countryside with his dogs.
Lovely creatures. Sharp as tacks, and devotedly obedient.
And he passes a gloomy-looking young boy sitting beside the road, and he thinks, “Hallo, this young shaver looks a bit downhearted, I’ll try to cheer him up. ” So he goes over and—’
‘You’ll never guess who’s going to be accompanying Clarice Everett on the piano this evening,’ said a grinning Lady Hardcastle as she rejoined us.
I smiled. ‘Well, if it’s not you it’s going to be a very disappointing revelation. Or a very exciting one. Is Patience Sidwell-Plant secretly a world-renowned concert pianist?’
‘She may very well be for all I know,’ she said.
‘She’s not bad, actually,’ said Bridgewater. ‘Robert bought her a new piano for Christmas. Bosendorfer. Seemed like some sort of bribe to me, but a chap doesn’t like to interfere in another chap’s domestic matters.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But it’s not Patience, it’s me.’ She beamed.
‘Wonderful news,’ I said. ‘I seldom envy your talents, but I’d give almost anything to be able to play with someone as sublime as Clarice.’
‘I had to pinch myself. I say, could you turn the music for me? It would be a massive help and it would almost be as though you were part of the performance.’
I laughed. ‘A piano player’s mate. I’d love to. Thank you.’
‘Now that reminds me of a little ditty I heard recently,’ said Bridgewater. ‘I’m not the pheasant pl—’
Lady Hardcastle touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but I ought to nip upstairs to the drawing room. I told Clarice my sight reading was good, but I’d still like to give the pieces a once-over before everyone sits down.’
‘There’s still no sign of Everett, I take it?’ said Bridgewater.
Lady Hardcastle shook her head. ‘No one’s seen hide or hair of him since before lunch.’
‘Can’t say I miss the blighter, but it’s dashed odd that he could manage to completely disappear like that. I mean to say, it’s not a small place, Guardians Rock, but . . .’
‘He’ll turn up, I’m sure. But I really must dash. See you both in a few minutes.’
She bustled off and I dutifully listened to Bridgewater’s joke.
The atmosphere in the drawing room was hard to define. There was excitement – or anticipation, at least – about another performance from Clarice Everett, but also a hard-to-pin-down unease at the absence of her accompanist husband.
Dotty was whispering to Bridgewater. Patience had turned slightly away from Sidwell-Plant and was talking to Wilson in hushed tones, to the evident displeasure of her husband. Lily was sitting with JB and pointing to features in the room as though describing the photographs she intended to take.
I was sitting on the piano stool, feeling slightly awkward and wishing the performers would come in so that I’d have something to do.
I looked at the ceiling. The electric chandelier needed dusting.
I looked down at the floor. There was a grey smudge on the carpet.
Cigar ash? Sherlock Holmes would know. He’d also know exactly where the cigar had been made.
And sold. And the names and addresses of all the people who had bought cigars like it.
Though he wouldn’t need to know because he’d be able to identify them by the smell of the tobacco on their clothes.
It had been more than a year since the last story had appeared in The Strand.
I wondered if there would be any more. A spider walked across the stone floor by the window.
Where had it come from? How did spiders get to islands a mile offshore?
Did they cadge a lift on passing boats? Did they ride on the backs of seagulls?
And what did they eat at this time of year? There were no flies to speak of. And—
Lady Hardcastle entered the room with Clarice on her arm. The quiet conversations stopped. I got up and stood beside the stool, ready to carry out my page-turning duties.
Clarice was carrying her violin and bow in her free hand and Lady Hardcastle led her to a spot in front of the piano where she faced her tiny audience. Lady Hardcastle sat at the keyboard and gave me a grin as she arranged the music on the stand for the first piece.
She began to play. And then Clarice began to play and I was once more transported to whatever mystical place it is we go when we’re moved by what we prosaically call the ‘creative arts’. How did we come up with such a mundane name for something so magical? Why—
A jab from Lady Hardcastle’s elbow prompted me to turn the page.
They played several pieces, each more wonderful than the last, and when Clarice finally put up her bow and took her bow, the seven seated friends clapped like a concert hall audience.
‘Thank you,’ said Clarice, smiling. ‘And thank you, Emily – your playing was wonderful. I found things in those familiar pieces I’d never heard before. I—’
With a clatter of the latch, the far door of the drawing room burst open and we turned as one to see Crawford standing there, his face white, his hands trembling.
‘Beggin’ your pardon for the interruption, ladies and gents, but I need to speak to Mr McIntyre in private. Urgent, like.’
‘What is it, Crawford?’ said JB, affably. ‘I’m sure my guests won’t mind a little housekeeping discussion.’
‘No, sir, I really have to insist.’
JB smiled and gave a little shake of the head. ‘OK, Crawford. I’m sure we can sort it out.’
They left the room and we all looked about, curious and slightly embarrassed.
Clarice was aware of the atmosphere. ‘What about some of that ragtime we were talking about?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘A splendid idea. What about this? It’s in E major.’
She began playing. On the second time through the main refrain, Clarice joined in, improvising her own variation as Lady Hardcastle kept up the syncopated accompaniment. By the next repeat I was beginning to wish I’d brought my banjo – what a treat it would be to play with these two.
The others were enjoying themselves, as well. Dotty was almost dancing in her seat. Patience was tapping her feet. Sidwell-Plant was gazing at Clarice with open admiration.
JB returned to the room and walked quickly over to Clarice. She jumped when he gently touched her arm but didn’t stop playing. He leaned close and whispered something in her ear. And then she stopped playing.
Lady Hardcastle stopped, too.
JB turned to face the room. ‘Friends, I have some terrible news. I have to tell you that our friend Edgar Everett is dead.’