Mad About the Boy? (4 page)

He turned to share the joke with Stanton, but his friend had vanished. Concerned, Haldean tried to see where he had gone, but was hemmed in by the crowd. Lyvenden, in fine fettle, allowed himself a few more orotund flourishes before he abruptly decided to sink the public man in the private. ‘Harriet, my dear,' he boomed at half volume to his wife. ‘You should not be out here without your shawl. You might take cold.'

‘Nonsense, Victor,' she drawled. ‘The night is perfectly fine.'

‘Nevertheless, I shall send for it directly.' His eyes roamed over the crowd but for once Preston had managed to stay out of sight. Yvette, Lady Harriet's maid, who was standing with the rest of the servants behind the guests, was dispatched. On the terrace, Lord Lyvenden gave the assembled company the benefit of Some Further Thoughts. Turning, Haldean caught sight of Stanton by the door. Muttering excuses, he pushed his way to the back of the group.

Stanton nodded to him. ‘Sorry I disappeared, Jack. I couldn't stand the crowd.'

‘We'll stay here if you like. No need to mix it with hoi polloi.'

Lord Lyvenden produced a triumphant and, thankfully, final rhetorical embellishment, then summoned his foreman, who took a length of fuse from his khaki dust-coat and handed it over. Then, with as much ceremony as would attend the launch of a transatlantic liner, Lyvenden lit the fuse and handed it back to his waiting employee. The foreman walked over to the silent display and, on a signal from Lord Lyvenden, lit the touchpapers. There was a terrific crash, rockets zoomed and the sky lit up in a blaze of colour.

‘My God,' breathed Haldean. ‘It's like the Somme.'

Beside him, Stanton groaned and shielded his eyes. Haldean took one look at his ashen face then grasped him firmly by the arm, shepherding his unresisting friend out of the ballroom and into the drawing room.

Here, at the front of the house, the noise was deadened. Stanton slumped in a chair and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Sorry, Jack. Stupid of me. When those fireworks went off I felt as if I'd had all the stuffing knocked out of me. Is that soda water on the sideboard? Could you get me some?'

Haldean gave him a drink and straddled his legs over a chair, watching Stanton fumble for a cigarette. His case was empty. ‘Here, have one of mine.' Stanton took his lighter from his pocket and spun the little wheel for a few moments, unable to get it to light. Haldean struck a match. ‘Use this. What on earth's the matter, Arthur? Surely it's not just the fireworks?'

‘Mind your own bloody business,' snarled Stanton, and was immediately contrite at the sight of Haldean's hurt expression. ‘Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just . . . Oh hell, can't you guess?'

‘Isabelle?'

Stanton nodded and drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘It's all over. Skittled out.' He raised his glass. ‘Here's to Smith-Fennimore. Looks, talent, charm and now the best damn girl in the world. What the hell. I knew I didn't stand a chance.' He straightened his shoulders and gave a wobbly smile. ‘Women, Jack, are the devil. God, listen to me. Trite and clichéd by turns. Irresistible.'

‘Arthur, don't,' begged Haldean. ‘Go easy on yourself.'

Stanton shrugged. ‘I'll get over it.' He took another sip of water. ‘It's the only thing I can do.'

They smoked in silence, listening to the popping of fireworks in the distance. As they faded, Haldean crushed out his second cigarette. ‘I suppose I'd better be getting back,' he said apologetically. ‘If you want to slope off, I'm sure it'll be all right.'

‘Slope off?' Stanton shook his head. ‘I can't do that.' The fireworks exploded in a tremendous final crash. There was a long pause, then the music started again. ‘Let's go. I'll have to face her again sometime.'

By an unlucky chance the first couple they saw on the dance floor were Isabelle and Smith-Fennimore. Looking at the physical grace with which they moved, Haldean couldn't help thinking they made a genuinely striking pair. Stanton heaved a deep sigh and was about to walk away when the music stopped and the dancers applauded.

Sir Philip, who had been giving a very creditable account of himself on the dance floor, saw Haldean and walked over to him. ‘Ah, Jack, m'boy. I've been looking for you, and you, Captain Stanton. You play golf, don't you. Captain? Good. There's a new links a couple of miles down the coast and Alice and I thought we could get up a party for everyone who was staying for a few days.'

Isabelle and Smith-Fennimore joined them. ‘Are you talking about golf, Dad?' She gave Stanton a determinedly level look. ‘I didn't get a chance to mention it to you, Arthur, but I think it's a lovely idea.'

‘Yes, I . . .' began Sir Philip, then stopped in surprise.

The butler, Egerton, had come quickly into the room. He looked red and flustered and, when he saw Sir Philip, visibly relieved. ‘Sir Philip! Sir Philip! Thank goodness I've found you, sir!'

Sir Philip looked at him. ‘Well, here I am, man. What's the matter? Spit it out.'

Egerton actually clutched at Sir Philip's arm. ‘It's Adamson, sir, Lord Lyvenden's man. He's just been to his master's room to prepare it for the night and he found Mr Preston.'

‘Well, why shouldn't he find Mr Preston? He's all right, isn't he?'

‘No, sir.' Egerton could hardly get the words out. ‘Oh sir . . . He's shot himself!'

Haldean followed his uncle and Stanton into Lord Lyvenden's room. No one spoke. It was as if they were afraid of disturbing the man at the desk. He realized he'd hoped that Egerton had made a mistake or that Tim had been playing some sort of silly joke. That would be just like Tim, but the stillness of the body shocked him. Haldean looked at the body sprawled in the absurd angles of death, forcing himself to take in the details.

Preston was slumped in a chair pulled up to the desk. Lord Lyvenden had used his bedroom as his office and Preston lay half on the desk, his right leg stuck out awkwardly by the chair and his arms flung wide. A note, the suicide note, lay by Preston's sprawled left arm. Haldean picked up the note, read it quickly and sighed. So money was behind it all. Poor devil. He knew he was looking at the note so he didn't have to look at Tim. Because Tim wasn't Tim any more, but a lifeless caricature of a man with a pistol in his right hand and a small bloody hole matting the hair behind his right ear. It was such a tiny hole to let out a whole life.

The door opened and Smith-Fennimore walked quietly into the room. He looked at Sir Philip, Haldean and Stanton before his eyes slid reluctantly to Preston.

‘I didn't believe it,' said Smith-Fennimore softly. His voice trailed off and he reached out to touch Preston's hand. He seemed stupefied. ‘Why?' he demanded, a break in his voice. ‘Why did he do it?'

Haldean gave him the note. ‘He left this. It is his handwriting, I suppose?'

Smith-Fennimore took the note, his face grim. ‘Yes, that's his writing. I'd know it anywhere.' He read the few lines and sighed. ‘He says it's because of money.' He looked up. ‘Money? What did he need money for? I'd have given him money. Anything he needed.' He shook his head, dazed. ‘Money never mattered. He knew that.'

No, thought Haldean, money wouldn't matter to Smith-Fennimore. Tim had mattered, mattered a lot. He'd seen them race together at Brooklands with Tim acting as Smith-Fennimore's riding mechanic. Tim was a brilliant driver but he couldn't afford a car. It took an awful lot of money to keep up with the Brooklands crowd.

Smith-Fennimore put the note back on the desk with a shaky hand. He swallowed, and had to make a couple of attempts to speak. ‘We were going in for the Isle of Man race again. He was so damn pleased about it.' He put the back of his hand to his mouth. ‘So damn pleased.' He shuddered and made an obvious effort to collect his thoughts. ‘Sir Philip, Isabelle's looking for Dr Speldhurst. He's at the ball somewhere.' He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘As far as I can tell, no one else realizes what's happened.'

‘I'd better go and help her,' said Sir Philip. He looked at Smith-Fennimore. ‘Will you give me a hand, Commander, to get the body on the bed?'

Smith-Fennimore winced but nodded his head in agreement.

Haldean looked up sharply. ‘You mustn't do that.' His uncle gazed at him. ‘You mustn't move him,' Haldean insisted. ‘You mustn't move anything until the police arrive.'

Sir Philip looked harried. ‘The police? God damn it, boy, we can't wait for them. He'll be as stiff as a board in a hour or so and we'll never shift him.'

‘You still mustn't move him,' repeated Haldean. ‘You mustn't touch anything until the police have had a look.'

Sir Philip chewed his moustache in vexation, then his face cleared. ‘The Chief Constable's downstairs. I'll get him to come up here, Jack, if you're determined to do things by the book. Will that satisfy you?'

Haldean nodded. Sir Philip and Smith-Fennimore left the room. Haldean and Stanton stood in silence. There didn't seem much to say.

‘Lord Lyvenden will have to move rooms,' said Stanton eventually. ‘Where did Lady Harriet sleep?'

‘In the next room. There's a connecting door.' Haldean pointed to the double oak door. ‘You can make it into a suite.' A fresh thought struck him and he winced. ‘What about Bubble Robiceux? She'll be downstairs, waiting for him.'

Stanton grimaced. ‘I suppose we'd better go and tell her.'

‘One of us should stay here in case someone else comes in.'

Stanton nodded. ‘I'll go and find Bubble. Poor kid. She doesn't deserve this.'

‘Take her to her room and let her maid look after her. I'll ask the doctor to call and see her afterwards. He can give her something to help her sleep.'

Stanton nodded and left. Haldean leant against the mantelpiece, staring unseeingly in front of him. He shook himself then took out his cigarette case. He paused before he opened it. It seemed disrespectful somehow to smoke with Tim in the room, and yet Tim would never have minded when he was alive. (‘Chuck me a gasper, old scream, you're sitting there like a man with no arms . . .') Surely the smell of cigarette smoke was no worse than the smell of gunpowder which hung about the room. He really wanted a cigarette.

Footsteps sounded outside and saved him from making a decision. He thrust the cigarette case back into his pocket as Sir Philip, accompanied by Dr Speldhurst and the Chief Constable, Major-General Flint, came into the room.

Haldean recognized the doctor. He usually wore a baggy tweed suit with a sprinkling of cigar ash down the front and he looked out of place in evening clothes, especially as he was carrying his doctor's bag. He had a pair of pince-nez spectacles through which he glared at his patients, as if daring them to get any worse whilst under his care. He was now glaring through them at the wound on Preston's head.

‘This is a bad business,' the doctor said briskly. ‘A very bad business indeed.' He opened his bag. ‘It's lucky I had this with me.' Haldean had never seen him without it. ‘Mind you, I like to be prepared. You never know what'll crop up. I wasn't expecting anything of this sort, though. I thought a sprained ankle would be the height of it.'

He raised Preston's head and put a thermometer under his neck before picking up his hand and flexing the joints. Taking out the thermometer he held it up to the light. ‘He's been dead about an hour, give or take ten minutes or so either side. There's powder and burning marks round the wound. That ties in with the revolver being discharged at close quarters.' The doctor drew back, returning the thermometer to its case. ‘It's lucky we can still move him, Sir Philip. With these brain injuries rigor often sets in instantly and we have to crack the joints to move the body.'

‘Is the body in the position you would expect to find it, Doctor?' asked Haldean.

Dr Speldhurst spun round and subjected Haldean to the full beam from the pince-nez. ‘And who might you be, young man?' The recognition obviously wasn't mutual.

Sir Philip intervened. ‘This is my nephew, Major Haldean, Speldhurst. He's staying with us at present.'

Dr Speldhurst nodded briefly. ‘In answer to your question, Major, the body is not positioned exactly as I would have expected, no. It's difficult to predict the effect of sudden trauma but I would have expected the hand holding the gun to have dropped down by his side.'

General Flint spoke in a no-nonsense voice. ‘Do you think he's been moved at all?'

Dr Speldhurst shook his head decisively. ‘I should say not.' He turned his attention to the bullet wound once more. He tilted Preston's head gently and ran his hands over the skull. ‘No exit wound, but looking at the angle of entry, I should say that the bullet traversed the brain ending up in the frontal lobe. Death would have been instantaneous, of course. Well, gentlemen, that's all I can do here.' He looked at Sir Philip. ‘I'll make arrangements for the removal of the body. Now, I believe I have a couple of patients amongst your servants. They'll need something to help them sleep.'

Haldean remembered his promise to Stanton. ‘Could you take a look at Miss Robiceux, Doctor?' What on earth was Bubble's proper name? ‘Miss Celia Robiceux.' That was it. ‘She was fond of Tim and I think she'll be pretty cut up about it. And Miss Rivers,' he added.

Dr Speldhurst pencilled a note on his shirt cuff and looked critically at Haldean. ‘What about you, young man? You look a bit green about the gills. Want something to help you sleep? Suffer from nerves? War-strain?'

‘No,' replied Haldean shortly and not quite truthfully in answer to all three questions.

‘Hmm. I'll leave something with Sir Philip just in case.' He walked to the door. ‘Bad business this,' he repeated. He looked once more at Preston. ‘And damned inconsiderate of him, too.'