Chapter Nine #2
I didn’t think any of the others had heard.
Bridgewater was impervious to criticism. ‘But if it’s getting you down, old bean, we ought to play a game of some sort. D’you have any golf clubs, JB? Tennis rackets? A football?’
‘Sadly not,’ said JB. ‘Maybe I’ll bring some sports gear out in the summer. For now it’s still a little blustery for outdoor games, though. There’s a parlour croquet set in the cupboard in the drawing room. A tournament, maybe?’
I could almost hear the grinding of mental gears as half the guests tried to work out if it would be acceptable to voice their enthusiasm, while the other half tried to work out how to politely say that they’d rather join Edgar, dead in the outside storeroom.
Was it all right to be excited by a silly game in these sad circumstances?
Was it all right to be a killjoy when people so obviously needed cheering up?
They settled, as groups so often do, for the middle ground, and the consensus around the table was that it wasn’t a terrible idea and perhaps that was the sort of thing we ought to do.
The mood picked up thereafter and became positively buoyant when lots were drawn to find out who would be paired with whom. Paper and a pencil were found so that Sidwell-Plant, the accountant, could draw up the score charts and league table.
With lunch polished off, we retired to the drawing room, but not before I’d visited the kitchen to instruct Jago Crawford in the noble art of making a rum punch.
Under my expert tutelage he produced a very large jug of the sustaining beverage and brought it up to where the room had been prepared for the Great Croquet Tournament.
For the first round, I was paired with Lily, who turned out to be competitive but inept – a deadly combination – but remained pleasant company.
Clarice had insisted on playing and had, most fortunately, been drawn with Lady Hardcastle, who was a hopeless parlour croquet player but a patient tutor. Between them they seemed to be having more fun than the rest of us put together.
Conversation with Lily was effortless and relaxed.
Perhaps it was the closeness in our ages, but I found her very easy to get on with.
I knew I had to try to establish her movements on the previous afternoon, but I hadn’t wanted to bring up the subject of Everett’s death for fear of spoiling the otherwise jolly mood.
Bless her little heart, she brought it up for me. ‘It’s odd to think of poor Everett lying dead somewhere while we were all going about our business yesterday afternoon. Where did Crawford find him?’
‘In one of the empty rooms upstairs,’ I said.
‘I wonder what he was doing up there. Snooping about, I expect. I fancied a little snooping myself, I have to say, but time ran away from me. After I’d taken Clarice back to her room I had a lovely chat with Dotty in the library.
I was going to have a wander after that, but by the time I’d listened to yet another one of Bridgewater’s interminable stories, I was absolutely pooped.
I almost joined you in the sitting room, didn’t I, but I simply had to have a snooze. ’
I realized that I knew all that already, but I couldn’t find a non-accusatory way of asking her if she’d really been for a snooze. It’s easy when you have a suspect tied to a chair, but it’s a great deal more difficult to casually slip that sort of thing into a friendly chat.
She missed the hoop but managed to strike Patience’s ball.
‘Oops,’ she said with a charming giggle. ‘Silly me.’
Patience grumbled good-naturedly.
Lily played her croquet shot, knocking Patience’s ball again to send it awkwardly behind a chair leg.
‘I wonder if he suffered. Everett, I mean. I was absolutely furious with him after that business in the sitting room with Clarice, and I’m ashamed to say I wished him dead right there and then.
But I wouldn’t have wanted him to suffer.
Not too much anyway.’ She giggled again.
‘It was his heart, you said? I hope he wasn’t too frightened. ’
Play progressed amiably, and at the end of the first round Sidwell-Plant withdrew to a windowsill, where he performed whatever arcane calculations were required in order to establish our rankings. I was third out of the ten of us, with Lady Hardcastle in last place behind Clarice.
Sidwell-Plant’s impenetrable rules required that we change partners for the second round, and this time I found myself partnered with fourth-placed Granville Bridgewater.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Lucky me. I’ve been watching you. I fancy you’re rather better at this than the current standings would seem to show. Perhaps we can elevate each other out of the mid-table doldrums.’
‘Is that how it works?’ I asked. ‘I confess I don’t completely understand the scoring system.’
‘Ha! No one does, m’dear. No one but RVSP. And that’s the way he likes it. Loves to be in control, our Robert Victor. Loves to be the one who knows what’s going on. He’s in his element, look.’
I glanced over and saw Sidwell-Plant smiling happily as he made more calculations on his many sheets of paper.
‘That’s accountants for you,’ I said. ‘They do love to count things.’
Bridgewater gave another bark of a laugh. ‘They do indeed. And reconciling the books. Knows where every penny’s gone, that one. Have you met many accountants? Strange chaps.’
‘I’ve known my fair share.’
‘Unfair share, what?’
‘But most of them have been decent enough. If a bit odd.’
‘Ha. Odd is right. Still, I suppose you have to be a little odd to want to spend your days keeping track of other chaps’ money. You come across any wrong ’uns in your murder investigations?’
‘Any dodgy accountants? No, I don’t think so.’
‘Solicitors?’
‘No, nor them. Bankers, property developers, publicans, actors . . . but no accountants or solicitors.’
He smiled and played his shot.
Despite my misgivings about Sidwell-Plant’s impenetrable scoring system, I was forced to accept its accuracy in the end when he totted up the final scores and declared me the winner. All, I felt, was finally right with the world.
With the mood of the fort suitably lifted, we all dispersed to our rooms for a preprandial break. I opted for a bath and a nap, while Lady Hardcastle said she might go to the drawing room to practise her piano part for the evening recital.
By a quarter past six I was rested, clean and dressed for dinner. I went to call on Lady Hardcastle in case she needed any help.
She didn’t, so we went down early for cocktails. There was no one there.
It was about ten to seven by the time everyone showed up, almost as if it was some sort of coordinated plan in which we’d not been included. Drinks were hurriedly mixed and then sipped to the accompaniment of bland, superficial chit-chat. Hearts, I felt, were not in it.
Things started to liven up over dinner, though. Once the cocktails had taken effect and the first glasses of wine had been downed, tongues loosened and things became a little more animated.
As usual, Sidwell-Plant and Bridgewater were vying for conversational supremacy.
‘Wait, wait,’ said Bridgewater, ‘I’ve got one. You see, there was a farmer, living out in the wilds. Cumbria, it was, miles from the nearest village. And he had a daughter. And one day—’
Sidwell-Plant held up his hand. ‘Got to stop you there, my friend. If this is the yarn I think it is, it’s the sort of thing we’ll appreciate more with a few drinks inside us. Heaven knows I’m no prude, but it’s a bit racy for the dinner table. Save it for brandies and port.’
Clarice was sitting next to him. ‘In that case, I think he should carry on – I like a racy tale.’
Sidwell-Plant leaned close to her and whispered in her ear for a few moments.
She guffawed. ‘No, fair enough, that’s not one for the dinner table. But do tell it later, Gran – I think everyone will enjoy it. How do you come up with these things?’
Bridgewater was beaming. ‘Can’t really take credit for any of them, I’m afraid. All . . . shall we say, “borrowed” from other chaps. I just take ’em and make them my own.’
‘That’s very much your style, isn’t it, old mate?’ said Sidwell-Plant. ‘Taking things that aren’t yours and making them your own.’ I wasn’t sure, but I thought he winked.
Bridgewater’s mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. ‘Ha! Yes. Never been all that talented at making up stories – much better at telling them. Sometimes one chap owns a thing but it’s left to another chap to take the best care of it.’
Did he wink this time?
Whatever had just happened, Sidwell-Plant was scowling.
JB decided to step in. ‘Tell you what, fellas, why don’t we do as Robert says and leave it till we’ve got some cognac inside us.’
‘Sounds fair to me,’ said Sidwell-Plant. ‘You’ve laid in a good stock, I noticed.’
JB looked puzzled. ‘I have? Just a normal amount for a weekend with friends.’
‘Do we really get through four cases of the stuff?’
‘Four cases? I didn’t buy four cases – just a few bottles.’
‘My mistake. Sorry. I thought I saw four cases of French brandy in the kitchen when I was down there yesterday morning looking for my wife’s blessed brooch.’
JB was still looking puzzled but said no more.
Lily broke the awkward silence. ‘Are you and Emily going to play for us again tonight, Clarice?’
‘I think so, yes. If you don’t mind, Emily.’
‘Not at all – it’s a pleasure and a privilege to play with you, dear.’
‘Splendid. We might even do a piano duet. We were messing about this morning and it seemed to go rather well.’
Dotty looked uncomfortable. ‘Are you sure you ought to? You know, under the circumstances.’
‘Play a piano duet?’ said Clarice, innocently.
‘Play at all, Clarice dear.’
‘The only good thing Edgar ever did was make music. I think it’s what he would have wanted.’
‘I think he might have wanted not to die of a heart attack on a desert island,’ said Bridgewater, ‘but point taken.’
‘Granville!’ said Dotty.