Cavalier Case (9 page)

Nowadays the stowing of the costume was not such a problem since - conveniently enough - there were now a number of costumes, not all identical, but all vaguely seventeenth-century, in various parts of Lackland Court in anticipation of the forthcoming Cavalier Celebration. It must be possible one day simply to integrate the ghost's own costume in to the general store, which would solve a number of problems to do with discovery. Even the rubber soles on the ghost's boots would then pass unremarked, for example, and that other special problem to do with the costume which could make discovery awkward now, would then pass unremarked.

It was while standing at the entrance to the Long Gallery that the ghost was aware of not being alone. It was at first a feeling, an instinct - perhaps human beings did begin to develop a version of the nocturnal instinct when it was necessary. The ghost stood quite still for a moment, listening.

Beyond, the Long Gallery was replete with shadows in the cold shimmering greyish pre-dawn light. But it was silent.

The ghost suddenly realised that, to an observer in the properly dark hall below, its form must be visible against the background of the Decimus portrait at the head of the stairs. More irony! If this was a proper ghost story, the phantom Cavalier - in Nell's famous phrase - would now smoothly disappear back into the Van Dyck picture. How convenient that would be. As it was, the ghost felt in a most unghost-like quandary.

How was it hest to escape? The child upstairs had mercifully stopped crying. If the ghost could manage to achieve the roof, dump the costume in its hiding place by the chimney pots, then the ghost knew how to escape after that without returning to the Long Gallery. A private escape route using the roofs, planned for an emergency but never tested. But what if the watcher lurked in the gallery itself?

Courage again. The ghost stepped softly into the Long Gallery and, hardly breathing, began to traverse the gallery by touching the wall opposite the windows, clinging close to it, like some mountaineer on a dangerous rock face. The outline of the huge Jacobean floor-to- ceiling pictures served as a strange kind of guide to the route. The ghost began to name them, so as not to lose count of the moment when a big carved oak chest also against the wall acted as an invisible but dangerous obstacle. Number one, that ugly old Alderman from the City or wherever, founder of the family fortunes but no prettier for that; number two, his equally ugly first wife; number three, his second wife, a great deal younger, a great deal prettier. Number four, Decimus' mother, more in the style of the Alderman's first wife.

In this manner, mouthing the pictorial history of the Meredith family like a litany, the ghost maintained a stealthy progress along the wall, successfully eluding the awkwardly placed chest at the appropriate moment. There seemed to be no other movement in the gallery, beyond the slitherings of the ghost. Number twelve, one of Decimus' plain sisters—Decimus had had all the looks in that family. On to that reproving old chaplain, the Reverend Thomas, with eyes that followed you in the daylight, then time to cross the narrow far end of the gallery in the direction of the spiral staircase and safety. The ghost was beginning to breathe more easily now.

But the small door to the staircase was shut. A quick turn of the handle revealed that it was also locked. And the key was gone from its usual hiding place.

Don't panic, even though that meant returning through the gallery. There was no way of reaching the roof now except from the fire escape at the far end of the top floor, which would be even more risky. The ghost had better make for the empty old servants' quarters via the landing outside the gallery. The death of Haygarth—who had lived in the house looking after the old Lord—had removed the only person who would have had cause to investigate those back passages.

Sooner or later all that area of the house would be transformed with the coming of the country club, architect's plans had already been drawn up, but for the time being it was the best route. The side door which lay through the ruins of the old chapel, now a garden centred round a mossy Gothic folly, was barred from inside, shut not locked. Would it be safe to dump the costume, especially that hat with its feather, which the ghost was beginning to hate, in one of the old cupboards there? Those endless dressers beloved of Haygarth! If one could be sure the costume would lie there undetected for a while, at least until it could merge with the general trappings of the Cavalier Celebration . . . Wait, yes, there was a wicker basket full of costumes somewhere, that had arrived the other day, hadn't it? Not yet investigated fully so perhaps its contents wouldn't be listed.

Besides, no one was exactly monitoring the arrangements for the Cavalier Celebration in the confusion following the wretched butler's death. If the ghost could locate that wicker number. Yes, that was the solution. Then out into the chapel garden and somehow resume normal life. Another ironic phrase that. Normal life. But it could be done. It had to be done. There was too much at stake to fail now.

Once the ghost had a plan, some measure of relaxation followed. The ghost was able to cross the landing through the far green baize door and achieve the back stairs without the kind of palpitations which had been so troubling earlier. All a matter of planning. And here was the basket; no need for a light, which could be risky; the ghost could feel it and the metal clasp undid quite easily. Now for the chapel door. Keep nerves steady. Now for the chapel gardens and away.

About twenty minutes later, the silence which prevailed in Lackland Court and its environs, in the widespread gardens with their pyramids of shrub roses and shaped yews, difficult to tell apart in the dark, was rudely shattered. There was a loud shout, a crash of something heavy falling and a male cry of "Christ, Zeenie, what the fuck are you doing here?" Then another loud rude shout which sounded like "shit" but in a different male voice. The voice of the woman which followed was far more composed.

"Dan," said Zena Meredith, "one might well ask: what on earth are you doing here? Is that horrible light a torch? Do put it out."

"Yes, darling, do put it out," said another softer woman's voice, softer and not so composed. "I mean, I'm terribly sorry Zena, we shouldn't be here."

Zena Meredith, whatever she had been wearing when her brother shone his torch on her on the grass of the chapel garden, entangled whether willingly or unwillingly in the arms of her cousin Marcus, was now struggling to right herself. Marcus Meredith, so far as could be seen, was in a thin black silk sweater and dark trousers, possibly the trousers of the dinner jacket he had worn at dinner. Dan Lackland was wearing only a pair of white cotton trousers and white tennis shoes. Charlotte Lackland had on some kind of sprigged cotton short nightdress which made her look as young as her step-daughter Nell. Of the four of them in the garden, Dan Lackland was the only one who seemed outspokenly angry; even if Marcus' attitude was slightly defiant beneath his politeness and Zena had a measure of defiance too beneath her composure; Charlotte Lackland on the other hand was plainly rather upset as well as nervously apologetic.

"Dessie started to cry and woke Charlotte." Dan Lackland broke the awkward silence. "Nuala's away on one of her endless weekends so Charlotte was sleeping upstairs. Then she thought she heard some' thing going on downstairs, an intruder, as they say, so she came and found me."

"Ever since poor Haygarth's death I've been so nervous at night!' exclaimed Charlotte still rather apologetic. "With all the children in the house. I insist on sleeping upstairs even though I do have the youngest Smith girl in from the village to help me."

"Spare us your domestic arrangements, darling," interrupted Dan. His usual seductive timbre of voice was noticeably missing. "You really don't have to apologise for what was a perfectly reasonable concern. For that matter, Zeenie, what were and are you doing out here? And Marcus? In the chapel garden of all places! I don't want to sound rude, but aren't you both a bit old to go romancing out of doors' You've both got bedrooms, so far as I know." But Dan Lackland did in fact sound extremely rude, to the extent that Charlotte made another effort to smooth things over.

"Darling, this is all a silly mistake. Why don't I make some coffee? I'm trying out some super new biscuits for the shop. First I'll check that Dessie went back to sleep, Penny Smith is only fifteen, Nell's age . . . " Her voice trailed away. "And anyway why shouldn't Marcus and Zena have a late-night date? I think it's a jolly romantic idea. I wish we could have a romantic late-night rendezvous in the garden . . . . "

"There's been a mistake." Marcus Meredith broke in sharply. "We didn't have a rendezvous. Any kind of rendezvous, romantic or otherwise, Zena and I. We met each other by chance."

"You met each other by chance? My dear fellow, do please explain." Dan's tone remained sarcastic, but was perhaps just slightly less angry than it had been.

"There was someone out here," Zena explained. She addressed her brother alone as though Charlotte and Marcus did not exist. "I looked out of my window, which as you know has this view." She pointed upwards. "And I saw someone. The traditional lurking figure, if you like."

How could you, Zena?" Charlotte objected. "Considering there's no moon or anything. Or if there is, it's gone down or whatever you call it."

" I tell you I saw something, something white, or a flash of white at any rate. It showed up in the dark. I decided to come down and look. I couldn't sleep. It's too hot to sleep. Anyway, I came down, let myself out of the chapel garden door so as not to wake the whole house using the heavy front door. And then I found Marcus. But he's all in black, so it couldn't have been Marcus I saw."

"You gave me quite a fright, Zena." Marcus went as if to put his arm round Zena's shoulders but she shrugged him away; not roughly but unmistakably. "I was merely going for an innocent nocturnal walk. A walk not a prowl. And I too couldn't sleep. It is bloody hot, as you pointed out."

"And then? What happened then when you two innocent ramblers got together?" asked Dan.

"What happened then, dear brother, is strictly private," replied Zena in something of her old bantering tone. "Or was until you two blunderers came along."

"Perhaps Zena saw the Decimus Ghost," suggested Charlotte brightly.

"For Christ's sake, Charlotte." Dan Lackland sounded once more both rude and angry. "Let's have none of that nonsense. Haven't we had enough trouble from the Press, thanks to Little Nell? Quite enough trouble, and now the whole family wandering about bumping into each other in the dark. What's more you've got Penny Smith upstairs, sister of the unbeloved Dave. Let's not have any silly talk about ghosts."

Dan Lackland turned on his heel and walked back in the direction of the house, leaving the three of them, his sister, cousin and wife, to watch him as he went.

"I did see something," said Zena Meredith, once her brother was out of earshot. "And it wasn't a ghost." Then she followed her brother in the direction of the house.

"Oh dear, I shouldn't have said that about the ghost," Charlotte half-whispered to Marcus. "Deep down, Dan hates any talk about the Decimus Ghost. Even before the Press got going on it—and he's right. As for that ghost programme, I just wish he'd never agreed. But he thought it would help the club publicity. He's so keen on that cluh—well, Marcus, we do need it, if we're to hang on to the house."

"And you must hang on to the house," said Marcus. "For the sake of the family."

Charlotte rattled on. "I must do something about Penny Smith. We can't have any more stories. Because if it's true, seeing the ghost means someone is going to die. Whoever sees it dies—unless it's a child. But of course it's not true," she added hastily, "is it?"

"I very much hope not," replied Marcus Meredith in his suavest tone; he might have been politely correcting his Minister in his private office. "Because according to one theory, seeing the Decimus Ghost actually means that the Lord Lackland of the day is going to die. It depends which story you believe. And we can't have that, can we? When Dan has only just succeeded that drunken old reprobate Cousin Tommy—to one's immense relief."

Charlotte gave a little cry. At which the arm which Zena had recently rejected was put comfortingly round her shoulders. "Now, Charlotte, don't be silly," said Marcus, sounding now quite tender, "I was only joking. I don't believe in ghosts. And nor do you. Come on, let's follow them inside."

Body-Snatching

"There's something very odd going on at Lackland Court," said Zena Meredith abruptly to Jemima Shore. "To do with poor old Haygarth plunging to his death. The police are officially inclining towards suicide, I hear. At least according to my brother. Because he was retiring the next day, losing his lifetime's work as it were. Dan of course is just hoping that doesn't become public at the inquest: it looks so bad for the family image as he rather crudely puts it."

She went on: "But Haygarth's supposed to have talked about his heartbreak to that wretched Smith boy. Not that you can believe what Dave Smith says in or out of print. And 'heartbreak' doesn't sound much like old Haygarth to me. Even if he had been latterly a bit down—which is true—Haygarth certainly never wanted to stay on after Cousin Tommy died; he was perfectly well provided for in his will, didn't want to work for the new regime, let alone the
club.
So where's the heartbreak, I ask you. D. J. Smith, local historian indeed!" Zena snorted. "But I mustn't get going on
that
subject. On the other hand, if it wasn't suicide, what was he doing up there? He must have gone up on purpose. No wits-a-wandering about old Haygarth. Sleep-walking? That's ridiculous. As for Nell and her ghost frightening him to death. That's equally ridiculous? Isn't it?"

"I do see what you mean," replied Jemima carefully and non committally.

"Supposing it was neither accidental nor suicide?" went on Zena. "Have you thought ofthat? There is a third possibility." She hesitated as though searching for a euphemism. Then: "Why heat around the bush.' Murder. That is the third possibility. Murder is the third possibility," she repeated. "I can't believe the police have ruled it out altogether, whatever Dan says. What do you think'"

"I did rather wonder . . . ," replied Jemima honestly. "Two deaths." She stopped.

Of all the places to be discussing a violent death and possible murder, thought Jemima, Taynford Cathedral must rank as one of the weirdest. Unlikely you took account of the historical novels of Harrison Ainsworth (her childhood passion) in which most dramatic scenes took place in some such Gothic surroundings. Zena and Jemima were actually walking between two ranks of tombs; high banks of carved stone, effigies of crusaders, dogs and ladies, crowned heads and mitred ones.

Near the entrance, the cathedral contained quite a number of visitors gazing with awe at the vast Norman pillars of the nave. To Jemima on entry these mighty grey cylinders of themselves had a positively post-Industrial look; contradicted by the elaborately fretted, painted and gilded fourteentlvcentury roof above (which other visitors were inspecting with dangerously tilted heads). A discreet but encouraging buzz from the Cloisters hinted at the existence of a cathedral shop; Jemima suspected that the safer pleasure of buying postcards of the nave and roof was being enjoyed by an even greater number of tourists.

But here in the apse it was quite cool as well as silent. The July sunlight, which made the stained glass of the huge heraldic east window almost too vivid for modern taste, did not penetrate here. In this opposite end of the cathedral they were in fact quite alone. The fotsteps of the two women echoed on the flags as they walked between the tombs, or rather perambulated slowly. At first Jemima attempted, out of reverence or superstition, to avoid stepping on those stones which marked some kind of further burial beneath them. But after a while, familiarity dulled her reverence - or her superstition - and she was in fact treading quite blithely on the serried stones beneath which lay further embattled gentry, their wives and children.

Recently the shadow of the Cavalier Case had begun to hang very heavily over the Decimus Ghost programme - haunting it, you might even more appropriately say. Cy Fredericks had not exactly banned a programme being made at Lackland Court, still less had he insisted that the same programme be made at Taynford Grange; such straightforward decisions, leaving everyone precisely informed, were not the stuff of which her infinitely variable employer was made. No, Cy had merely taken refuge in travels of such a frenetic sort that even Miss Lewis - dare one breathe it - had found herself madly putting through a call to him in New York when he was actually sitting next door in his office. The sound of Cy's voice, and its familiar cry: "Miss Lewis, Miss Lewis, where are you?" while she was in mid-call, had so unnerved her that Miss Lewis had actually begun to reply: "Here in New York with you, Mr. Fredericks," until saner counsels prevailed.

Jemima Shore, walking in on this communicational farce, had only made things worse by observing innocently, "Why not send him a fax?"

"He's right next door, Jemima," observed Miss Lewis, rapidly recovering her famous cool.

"But I thought - never mind. Still, it's an idea. I say, Audrey, if you installed a separate fax machine in his office, on his desk, then you would fax him from here, lo and behold the jolly bits of white paper would come popping out, they'd arouse his curiosity, he'd read them and then at last we'd get our answer about the Decimus programme.

"How?" enquired Miss Lewis sweetly.

"
How
? You just order another fax machine ..."

"
How
would we get our answer? Are you suggesting that Mr. Fredericks would be able as well as willing to make use of a tax machine personally?"

Silence fell as the long history of that great conflict on a global scale, Cy Fredericks versus technology, any technology, passed through Jemima's mind. It was broken by a further anguished cry from Cy himself: "Miss Lewis, Miss Lewis, I'm looking at my diary. How can I lunch with Lady Manfred at Le Cirque if I'm in London? Surely I'm in London?" Since Le Cirque was in New York, yes, Miss Lewis was definitely rattled.

Thanks to Cy's cunning elusiveness, it was extremely doubtful that Megalith would actually get to film the Cavalier Celebration, destined to take place in about a month's time, even though Lackland Court would definitely have the honour of holding the Celebration. That decision, however, arose from the fact that Lady Manfred herself was no longer advancing the claims of Taynford Grange. Moreover Cy - when Jemima did get to see him - was giving vent to some ominous remarks about "poor Jane Manfred's" absolute horror of unpleasant publicity: "as Jane said only the other day: it's not the sort of thing that you expect to happen to a friend's butler."

"Perhaps that was a joke," suggested Jemima politely. Cy shot her the suspicious look that such suggestions were apt to elicit. It was, however, when he revealed that "poor Jane" had recently been appointed Chairman of the prestigious Euro-Opera 92 Appeal - "with the little Princess as Patron - so wonderful in view of what happened at Covent Garden,"* (*for these events see your
Royal Heritage
) that Jemima had an inkling of why Jane Manfred was now fighting shy of the ghost series. Which meant that the series itself was very likely doomed.

At this point Jemima took a firm decision that her own newfound interest in Decimus - the poet who was the subject of the portrait, not the ghost - would not similarly wane. She would attend the Cavalier Celebration in her own right - why not? Also, she had to admit it, her curiosity was aroused about the whole situation at Lackland Court, that natural inquisitiveness which was really her dominant characteristic ... It was under these circumstances that she had accepted Zena Meredith's slightly bizarre invitation for a tryst in Taynford Cathedral.

It was true that Jemima had yet to inspect the tablet commemorating Decimus: "And yet his soul they could not take..." ('
Sed animam non rapture posse..) 
which she knew had been moved to Taynford Cathedral after the chapel was burnt and before it was allowed to become an eighteenth-century Gothic folly. Had the programme gone ahead, they might have made some play with the tablet and its allusion to the empty coffin in terms of the Decimus Ghost. That would have depended on the line the programme took on the whole subject of the alleged body-snatching, and for that matter the line taken about Lady Isabella Clare. Since it was to the wife, Olivia Lackland, that the Decimus Ghost had appeared, the whole question of the pneumatically beautiful Lady Isabella might well have been left in abeyance.
Amor et Honor:
the family motto. Where love was concerned, Jemima would probably have kept Decimus' honour as a loving—and faithful—husband publicly intact.

It all seemed rather an abstract issue now. The two women looked at the tablet together: it was set quite insignificantly in a wall at the beginning of the apse. Far more striking was the tablet directly below it, a very recent memorial to a local fox-hunting grandee which included a brightly coloured enamel portrait of the said grandee on horseback in full hunting rig, plus some active-looking hounds. That other essential ingredient of the hunt, the fox, had not however made cathedral status: presumably foxes were considered to be pagans.

It occurred to Jemima that she had never asked Zena—descendant, and future biographer of Decimus—what her own theory was concerning the snatching (or not) of Decimus' corpse. The sight of the tablet—after all it actually stated that the body had been removed, albeit in Latin—aroused her curiosity again. Jemima did know the views of Dr. Rupert Durham on the subject just as she did know the views of D. J. Smith, local historian, along with all the other readers of the
Jupiter
. Rupert Durham had once again dismissed the idea or Lady Isabella's participation in the body-snatching as "sensationalist rubbish" just as he had scorned Aubrey's story; it all went along with such other matters generally subject to scorn as "the ridiculous Lely red herring."

"But then what did happen to Decimus' body?" Jemima had asked, reasonably enough.

"I have no doubt that it was buried perfectly decently in a coffin like any other body in those days," Rupert had snorted angrily.

"And the tablet which Olivia erected' And '
Heaven's True Mourning
'?"

"You do realise that the tablet is of a much later date?" enquired Rupert in a much kindlier tone; he could be the mildest and sweetest of men once he had scored his point. "Probably the whole story was concocted by that Restoration rogue Antony Decimus, the 2nd Lord Lackland. Used it as a good excuse for not rebuilding the chapel post 1660. You might say that he wasn't exactly into chapels. As for '
Heaven's True Mourning
,' it's amusing enough in its detail, I grant you that, which is why I put you onto it for the purposes of your programme, but it can't be taken as holy writ. Did I tell you my own television programme is doing rather well, by the way? Rather gratifying. I believe I'm a hit. Or is it a cult?"

"Both perhaps. The two things are not mutually exclusive." Jemima had heard of the success of the programme. Somehow, she had not got around to watching it.

Rupert returned to the subject of "
Heaven's True Mourning
." We've only got a later printed copy - the original manuscript, which would have been interesting, has conveniently vanished. In any case '
Heaven's True Mourning
' merely says the body was taken away, no mention at all of Lady Isabella. The real reason Antony Decimus, the ungrateful son, spent no money on restoring the chapel was in order to spend more money on cards and all the rest of it. Nothing to do with his father's body being there or not there. The debts they ran up! tven with inflation . . . " Rupert Durham's eyes gleamed behind his spectacles.

Now Jemima asked Zena the same question. "Who do you think did take the body? If indeed it was taken. The infamous Lady I.C. for example?"

But Zena, dismissing Lady Isabella's claims to have done any such thing, was if possible even more scornful about her than Dr. Rupert Durham. "That sort of gesture wasn't at all her style. She was a courtesan, not to give her a ruder name, not a great romantic. She would never have had the guts to carry out something like that the night after a major battle in the neighbourhood. On the other hand, unlike some self-satisfied authorities . . ."—no names were mentioned but an obvious one came to mind— "I do take '
Heaven's True Mourning
' very seriously. If only we could find the original manuscript! Everyone has always assumed that the chaplain wrote it. A Meredith cousin incidentally, the Reverend Thomas Meredith, you can see him somewhere in the Long Gallery, white bands, solemn po-faced expression. Looks totally without humour, and no doubt was. And yet I've never been totally convinced. His sermons, such as have survived, mercifully few, are quite deadly. Yet
'Heaven's True Mourning
' is written with such verve! I would have been proud of writing that myself." Zena laughed.

She went on: "Anyway, the manuscript always used to be in the Lackland Library. I have a theory Cousin Tommy must have sold it privately, but more of that later. As to the whereabouts of Decimus' body, that's yet another mystery."

Their walk among the monuments continued in silence, with Zena seemingly intending to perambulate the entire apse. So Jemima was taken by surprise when she stopped suddenly again in front of a large marble monument with two kneeling figures, one male, one female, facing each other in prayer, and a multitude of tiny kneeling figures below.

"This is what I really wanted you to see." Zena put her hand out towards the plaque on the nearby pillar. "At least I did want you to see it—before everything happened. So much more interesting than the tablet. The Meredith Monument." 

Jemima bent down and looked more closely at the tiny figures. "How many of them?
Fifteen
. And the Jacobean dress - good heavens, am I right? - it's Decimus and his brothers and sisters. Those are his parents above."

"Exactly. Well done. Ten enormous boys, with Decimus - the sole survivor - biggest of all, followed by five tiny little girls. Three of the girls - Decimus' sisters - survived, married and bore dozens of children in their turn but their figures remain tiny. As a matter of fact, Jemima, I bet you don't even know their names." Zena did not pause for comment. "And this was erected by Decimus' mother, don't forget, that black-clad lady above, she erected it to her husband in her own lifetime."