Death by Sheer Torture (12 page)

Tim was still on the ground floor, and boy! was he looking frazzled. His collar and tie were askew, and there were big, dark blue sweat marks under his armpits.

‘Sweet little kiddies, aren’t they?’ I said. ‘Talk about trailing clouds of glory . . .’

‘God! Don’t talk to me about them, Perry.’

‘How did it go? Did you talk to them all together?’

‘Do I look crazy? I sent three men to prise them apart, and a fourth to cope with their mother. I saw them one by one, and only the three eldest. Frankly, I couldn’t take any more.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Screamed abuse, ran at me and started scratching my face, yelled blue murder and started pounding on the door.’

‘Is there a magic recipe for dealing with them?’

‘I’d
like
to slaughter the lot of them.’

‘Ah, the Herod approach. Not allowed in the Book of Rules, unfortunately. What did you actually do?’

‘Made friends, cajoled, flattered, bribed, threatened, bullied—pretty much in that order.’

‘And what did you get out of them?’

‘Nothing. They had never done such a thing, never thought about it (but wish they had), were locked in their bedrooms all night, didn’t know Great-Uncle was dead until the morning, and would I tell them all the details? That was the oldest, and actually he asked for the details first: it was only by promising them I got the rest out of him.’

‘Do you believe them?’

‘Don’t altogether know. Their stories agree.’

‘Good sign, or bad?’

‘With that lot I’d be inclined to say good. I think if anyone had tried to spoonfeed a story to them, it would have had the opposite to the desired effect. What about you, Perry? Anything of interest?’

‘Meagre,’ I said. I showed him the notebook about the various torture machines, the book with the description of strappado, the meaningless slip of paper from the will—and that was about it. I really felt ashamed it was so meagre. We nattered things through for a bit, and then I told him in no uncertain terms I was going off duty. I don’t think he liked that, but I laid down the law (so to speak) to him: since I was down here quite unofficially, there was no way he could hold me to a twenty-four-hour working day.

My spirits heightened perceptibly as I left the Gothic wing. At least for a night I was going to get out of this hell-hole, this Victorian gaol. I nearly sang as I strode across the hall—something nice, not
Dolores.
I’d drive to the village, and I’d have Jan and Daniel in my arms, and I’d play games with Daniel until his bedtime, and then we’d have a pint or two together in the Saloon and take whatever was offering in the way of food at the Marquis, and after that . . .

I opened the door to the drawing-room. There they all were, assembled for sherry. There was Sybilla, in her usual flimsy drapes, with Mordred standing beside her. There was Lawrence, with Kate at attention by his chair. And there was Cristobel, very white and all too obviously trying to be brave.

And there, looking ravishingly pretty, holding a sherry glass and talking animatedly, for all the world as if she were at home, was Jan. And clutching shyly to her skirts was Daniel.

‘Ah, do you know each other?’ said Uncle Lawrence.

CHAPTER 10

FAMILY AT WAR

Now the fact is, I had prepared in my mind all sorts of injunctions and prohibitions for Jan as to how to behave when she finally came face to face with the awful shock of my family. Such as not admitting for a moment to the slightest twinge of interest in anything artistic or cultural: not even such things as singing in choirs, or Adult Ed. courses in batik. I had it all worked out: say you’re doing Arabic to help oppressed Middle-Eastern shop-lifters in London, or to write a book on conditions in the modern harem that will cause the Saudi-Arabians to break off diplomatic relations—anything except an interest in tenth-century love poetry. Give the Trethowans an inch and they claim four thousand acres and build a mansion on it: admit to the merest murmuring of an aesthetic sense and they rope you in on the family act, claim you as a spiritual soul-mate, invite you to participate in poetry readings with them.

And it was all thrown away. For here was Jan swilling
good
sherry (I could see the bottle) with them, and talking—if my ears did not deceive me—about Harrison Birtwistle or some such OK name. Nevertheless, I folded her and Daniel in my arms, because after all it wasn’t their fault they hadn’t had the benefit of my good advice. While I was about it, I kissed Cristobel too, who was looking wan but serviceable and obviously benefiting from the Guiding instinct to keep hitting the trail.

‘What a lovely surprise for you, Perry,’ cooed Aunt Sybilla. ‘As soon as Mordred told me they were coming I knew you’d want to see them as soon as possible, and I
sent down a little missive to the Marquis of Danby.’

Since she obviously imagined I’d be delighted, I muttered my thanks, and shot Morrie the sort of glance a schoolboy gives the class sneak.

‘It’s awfully nice, Peregrine,’ pursued Sybilla, ‘that you at least
married
a truly spiritual person—I mean
spirituelle.
Alas, that is
not
always the case in our family. For example, Lawrence’s wives —’

Uncle Lawrence burst out into a shout of complacent laughter: ‘Sluts! What I wanted. What I got. Sluts!’

‘Yes, well . . . And dear Maria-Luisa, though an
excellent
mother as far as quantity is concerned, does just a teeny bit lack
esprit.
But Janet, so she tells us, is studying Arabic love poetry! What a fascinating subject!’

I deliberately let that remark fall into a dead silence, for I knew that Aunt Syb knew even less about Arabic love poetry than I did. Jan however was obviously not enjoying the Trethowan habit of treating an outsider as if he were not quite
there
—of talking at, around, above and below him as if he were a novice gymnast to whom they were awarding points. She said:

‘What have you been doing today, Perry?’

‘Going through my old home, actually,’ I said. ‘I’ve been snuffling around in the Gothic wing.’

‘Ah!’ said Sybilla, brightening up. ‘And did you find anything? Make any Holmesian discoveries? I have wondered whether your father didn’t have some
fascinating
but not entirely reputable secrets that he did not see fit to confide even to us.’

‘If he did, I found out nothing about them,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking most of the time more about my mother than my father.’

At this sudden mention of our mother, I saw Cristobel react—something between a blink and a flinch. But Sybilla ploughed on:

‘Your mother! How extraordinary! You know, I’d really
forgotten all about your mother, though of course I knew you had one. You know, she was a case in point to what we’ve just been talking about.
Charming
woman, but not a grain of aesthetic feeling in her body. Sometimes it was difficult to remember she was there, when we were all talking!’

‘She was always nice to me,’ said Kate.

‘I’m sure we’re all nice to you, Kate dear. I don’t see the point of that remark. I suppose, Peregrine, you’ve been sitting up there thinking that your father was a bad husband to poor Virginia, and no doubt you’re right in a way, but the fact is that a little neglect was all your mother asked for, she just wanted to be left alone, so it worked out quite for the best for all parties.’

‘All the Trethowans make terrible husbands,’ pronounced Lawrence complacently. ‘Except m’father. And he was a fool.’

It was at this point that once again the sort of noise that must have assailed Davy Crockett’s ears as the Alamo fell sounded from a far corner of the house and came threateningly nearer. Daniel’s eyes (which had been gazing with mildly contemptuous curiosity at the present company) now grew round with fear, and he clutched convulsively to his mother’s skirts. I went and took his hand as the infant Assyrians burst in like wolves on the fold, and once more threw themselves, screaming and pummelling each other the while, into the lap of their fond grandfather.

Today it wasn’t sweets they were after. They had something much more novel in their appalling little heads. As they climbed all over Lawrence’s chair they screamed: ‘G’anpa, we fought the policeman,’ and ‘G’anpa, he tried to beat me up, but I hit him back,’ all crowned by the oldest boy, who let out a great crow of ‘We won! We ground him in the dust!’

This din of claim and counterclaim, complaint and
rodomontade, went on for some minutes, during which Peter and Maria-Luisa sauntered in, nodded to Jan (not even that, actually, on Maria-Luisa’s part) and helped themselves to drink. Lawrence was drooling (literally: there was dribble coming down from the side of his mouth) over his monstrous grandchildren, telling them how clever they’d been, how the idea of questioning little children was scandalous, how he’d see some questions were asked in the right quarters, and so on, until finally, by some unspoken collective decision, they swarmed off him again and went to dispute in a far corner as to who had hit the policeman the hardest. Only then did Daniel, wonderingly, come out from behind Jan’s skirts and my leg.

‘Not much spirit, your boy, Perry,’ said Uncle Lawrence.

That got me. That really got me. ‘We’ve tried to teach him some manners,’ I said.

‘Dear Perry,’ cooed Sybilla. ‘Such a conventional streak. I can’t
think
where it comes from.’

‘Probably from my mother, whom you never noticed was there,’ I said.

Well, things really did seem to be starting badly: here was I working up to a right little session of snipe and countersnipe with them, whereas what I wanted was for the Harpenden Trethowans to wrangle among themselves, maul each other. I wanted to be quite out of it. One’s wife so easily decides that it is you in the wrong, rather than all the rest. You may have noticed that yourselves. Fortunately, Mordred changed the subject.

‘I’ve got you to thank for a very busy day, Perry.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Quite a change to feel needed. Your men have been coming to me all afternoon with pictures of a vaguely Turkish character, or else with rustic scenes in horrendous greens.’

‘Any luck?’

‘No. I’ve had
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu at the Court of the Sultan.
I’ve had
The Death of Tamerlane.
I’ve had some designs Mother-dear did for
Hassan.
And some really frightful rural scenes that are simply jungles of sentimentalized farm animals. But not a trace of the Hunt or the Allan.’

‘At least they’re doing something
useful,’
said Sybilla, ‘something that will save us hiring somebody to do it. One feels that at last one is getting something back for all the imposts that the government inflicts on one.’

‘It’s a point of view,’ I said. ‘Though I’m not sure policemen make the best art detectives.’

‘Those designs for
Hassan,’
pursued Sybilla meditatively. ‘It was a revival that never actually came off. Your father was to do the music, Perry—lots of cymbals and wailing wind instruments. But tastes had changed, and it was too expensive. A little too blatant, too, perhaps. I wonder now if one mightn’t hold a little exhibition of one’s theatrical designs.’

When we had all penetrated Sybilla’s use of the impersonal third person and the negative conditional tense, Lawrence said: ‘You’re not having an exhibition here, Syb. I’ve always stood out against letting in the public.’

‘I didn’t say
here,
Lawrence dear,’ said Sybilla waspishly. ‘Though, when you come to think of it, it would be appropriate. And we have to bear in mind that there is going to be a great upsurge of public interest in
us
—in us as a
family
of artists—’ (especially in one of us, I thought) ‘—and an exhibition actually in our home would be a tremendous attraction. Quite apart from the quality of the designs themselves.’

She looked around, her head cocked like a fledgling bird waiting for a nice portion of worm. Most of us looked a bit glum, but Cristobel, who can be relied upon in the sweetness and light department, said: ‘What a lovely
idea, Aunt Syb! It would give you such an interest!’

Kate said: ‘Shouldn’t have thought we’d want
hoi polloi
all over the place.’ But I thought she sounded a bit wistful. It couldn’t be much of a life here for Aunt Kate, without a monster-sized ego to keep her warm.

At last it was dinner-time, and the Squealies, who had been re-enacting the snipping of the strappado cord with yells of delight all over the available floor-space, were bundled off back to the Elizabethan wing. We most of us breathed sighs of relief, and as the din finally faded and died Jan said:

‘Golly, I can hear myself speak.’

Lawrence chuckled: ‘Full of life, what? Aren’t they little sweeties, eh?’

But Daniel, gazing perplexedly at the door through which they had disappeared, said: ‘Daddy, are those
children
?’

It was a good question. Kate and Syb and Mordred thought it very amusing, but Lawrence muttered something about his being a queer sort of kid, and Pete reactivated his sneer.

‘Aren’t children
funny
!’ said Cristobel brightly.

As we all sat down to dinner, Daniel seemed to have regained confidence. He sat next to me on a raised chair, and looked round at the assembled oddities as if they were a Punch and Judy show set up especially for his benefit. I had to keep shovelling bits of food into his mouth because he forgot to eat, in anticipation of something happening. He didn’t have long to wait.

It was Mordred who started them off, after a covert wink in my direction.

‘Well, it will be fine for me if there
is
a big new public interest in the family. I could probably get some publisher or other to commission my book on you all.’

‘Oh darling—money in advance!’ said Syb.

‘Precisely.’

‘Bit parasitic all this, isn’t it?’ muttered Peter.

‘If so, all the more necessary to suck the blood. The good thing is that this is all coming at a time when everyone is also waking up to the real quality of Aunt Eliza’s work.’