Murder at Maddingley Grange (35 page)

Now, with his plans for the weekend all awry and the guests departing in droves, Simon could see himself being lumbered with nothing but hoi polloi for the next twenty-four hours. He briefly considered offering Gilly and the Gibbses a fifty percent refund and inviting them also to shove off, then realized he was talking about five hundred pounds and thought again. And, after all, if they became too obnoxious he could always fake a migraine. Laurie could cope. Indeed, faking might not be necessary. At the very thought of one more chorus of “Idaho” Simon felt a definite premonitory stab behind his left eyebrow.

But what was he saying? The dramas of the last two hours had played havoc with his memory. No one could go anywhere. The phone was still out of order, the minibus had gone and the nearest taxi (Alf Figgins) was at Madingley. Of course, if Derek was really determined to shake the dust he might hoof it down there. But Sheila wouldn't. Rosemary wouldn't. And Mrs. Saville certainly wouldn't. This brisk winnowing of names left only one plainly in the sieve.

Simon sighed deeply. He didn't know what appealed to him least. The thought of a four-mile slog in the baking heat or being exposed to the deeply unpleasant atmosphere that would no doubt prevail if he refused to go. He was musing thus when Derek appeared, caped and deerstalkered, followed by Sheila, mopingly hanging on to a white leather hatbox.

But before Simon could open his dissertation comparing the wish for an early departure with the sorry lack of equipment to accomplish same, all necessity for such a comparison disappeared. For the outside world came tootling along in the form of a wire-wheeled roadster going: “Parp, parp.”

Everyone crossed to the parapet and watched the long scarlet bonnet appearing and disappearing as the drive wove through the trees before unfolding into the straight. The MG slowed up, eased over the rattling drawbridge and, with a final “Parp, parp,” came to a halt in front of the steps. The driver, a young, very tall, fair-haired man with a reddish complexion and a bluff jolly smile, waved and clambered out.

Laurie, fist against her lips just in time to trap a cry of shocked recall, gazed at the jodhpured figure in dismay. Even in the perfect confidence of her newfound love she had been aware of a tiny niggle tugging away at its blissful center. And here was that niggle enlarged, clarified and made flesh. Laurie stepped forward, smiled weakly, swallowed and said: “Hullo, Hugh.”

T
he driver of the red MG was not alone. A girl was in the passenger seat. She wore battered khaki shorts held up by a snake belt and a flowered halter top. She was very pretty and had dark hair tied with bits of gingham in two glossy bunches. She climbed over the door and came toward Laurie, smiling. Laurie felt perplexed. The girl in the shorts looked vaguely familiar and certainly her welcoming cry of “Laurie!” implied some previous acquaintance.

Hugh said: “Laurie—are you all right? Simon?” He looked round. “What's going on? I've been trying to get you on the blower. And then when we saw the bus we thought something frightful must have happened.”

“We were
terribly
worried.”

“Just a minute,” said Laurie. “I'm not sure…This is awful, I know, but…” She broke off, embarrassed, staring at the girl. Could impeccably straightened teeth wreak such a transformation? Could awkwardness be so ironed out and plainness so disguised? Laurie recalled her own image in the bathroom mirror the previous evening and knew that it could. Then she noticed that the girl was holding Hugh's hand and her suspicions were confirmed. She said, with no sense of incredulity: “Pacey.”

“Poppy actually. Younger sister. You remember—I used to put toads in your bed.”

“Little minx.” Hugh beamed as if he had personally put her up to it, but quickly reverted to solemnity. “The fact is, Laurie, old girl…”

My God, thought Laurie.
Old girl
. How did I ever bear it?

“Just simply can't go on…not honorable. Been putting it off—”

“He's been
terribly
worried.”

“The truth is…must be said…me and Pops…well…”

“Oh, Hugh!” Laurie rushed at her erstwhile fiancé as much to halt continuing exposure as in felicitation. “How absolutely wonderful—I'm so happy for you both.”

“Oh.” Hugh shuffled a bit, looking like a large shambly dog who has had his bone whipped away and just as inexplicably returned: alarmed, bewildered, hopeful and, finally, delighted. “If only I'd known you'd take it li—”

“Hugh, Poppy—this is Martin. Darling, Hugh is a… um… childhood friend and I went to school with Poppy's sister. They're engaged.”

Catching the “darling,” Hugh and Poppy exchanged oopsadaisy glances before rushing into a vocal cover-up.

“So we thought—” began Poppy.

“Naturally, being childhood friends—”

“That we'd rush over—”

“And tell Laurie—”

“Only to find…”

“Yes,” smiled Laurie, entwining fingers with her beloved and feeling a surge of joy.

“How super,” cried Poppy, and Hugh agreed it jolly was. All four stood around looking quite silly with happiness; then Simon spoke.

“I hate to inject a sour note into such an idyllic gathering but did I hear some vague reference to a bus?”

“That's right. It was in a ditch the far side of Toot Balden. It had Madingley Grange on the front, so naturally we stopped—”

“We were
terribly
worried.”

“The police were there.”

“We thought it might be you or Laurie.”

“Then we talked to a constable and discovered it wasn't.”

“Was anyone hurt?” asked Simon hopefully.

“Just shaken up, apparently,” Hugh replied. “The officer we spoke to said the people in the coach were at the station—”

“Helping with their inquiries.”

“He didn't actually say that, Pootles.”

“No, but I bet they are. I hope they're charged with dangerous driving. Wrecking your dear little bus.”

“Didn't realize you had one actually, Laurie,” said Hugh.

“It's a bit big, isn't it? For two?”

“It's a long story.”

“Was in a hell of a mess. Fenders crumpled, lights smashed. Hood every which way, wasn't it, Poppies? Bit of a write-off, I'm afraid.”

“You must be
terribly
worried.”

“Not at all.” Simon airily waved away the very idea. “A mere bagatelle in the great artificer's scheme of things. Believe me.”

“Was the van stolen?”

“Oh yes.”

“The police'll be along then.”

“Let them all come,” cried Simon. “It's Liberty Hall here.”

Hugh, lowering his voice, moved closer to Laurie. “That chap…” He jerked his head in the direction of the car. “Is he all right?”

Four heads turned. Gilly was draped orgasmically over the MG's bonnet, his cheek nestling against the warm, shiny red paint. As they watched, he slid off, then, crouching down, started to stroke the wire spokes, making happy little crooning sounds.

“He's fine,” said Laurie. “He's a thirties buff. Absolutely adores anything and everything from the period.”

“Perhaps he'd like to meet Nanny,” said Poppy.

“Little juggins.”

Derek, who had been circling round the quartet and almost jumping up and down in his efforts to attract Hugh's attention, finally managed it. Hugh said: “Hullo,” while giving the caped crusader what used to be called an old-fashioned look. “Bit hot for that rigout, isn't it?”

As he spoke, Laurie saw Hugh's glance stray over to the family Gibbs and back to the MG. He raised his eyebrows at Poppy, who lifted her own delicate arches in response.

“The fact of the matter is,” said Derek loudly, “we're cut off.”

“Not at all,” replied Hugh. He spoke kindly from his great height (six feet two) as if patting Derek on the head. “We drove straight here—no problem.”

“It's the phone, Hugh,” interrupted Laurie. “If you remember—it's out of order and Mr. and Mrs. Gregory want to leave.”

“Isn't old Figgins still about? Ah—” Hugh paused. “With you now, old girl. No phone—no taxi.”

“Precisely.”

“Problem solved. Pops and I'll shoot over. Won't we, little giddykins?” Taking his fiancée's hand, Hugh led her toward the car. “Back in the shake of a lamb's tail.”

“Please…”
Gilly had plonked himself in their path, Adam's apple frantically working, pale with the intensity of his desire, his eyes almost squinting in their determination. “Couldn't I go? I'd give anything to drive it. I've got a clean license. Fifteen years and never a scratch. I'll be so careful. You won't know it's been out of your sight…
please
say I can.”

“Well…I'm not really insured for—”

“Oh, Daddy Bear—do say yes. I'm so happy”—Poppy clasped her hands prettily in entreaty—“and I want everyone in the whole world to be happy too.”

Hugh looked proudly down at his little juggins. Gilly, overwhelmed by her graceful intervention on his behalf, seemed all set to swoon on the spot. Laurie thought she preferred Pacey's little sister when she was putting toads in people's beds.

Permission being granted, Gilly climbed into the car of his dreams, listened closely to instructions on how to find the Figgins residence and tooled off, crossing the drawbridge with the greatest care and precision. “Toodle pip,” he cried, adding, “All I need now is a leather helmet and some goggles.”

“I think all he needs now,” said Hugh, thoughtfully watching the car gather speed, “is a couple of men in white suits with a straitjacket.”

Mrs. Saville and Rosemary appeared, hatted, coated and laden with luggage. Laurie explained the transport situation. Mrs. Saville, who seemed already to have regained some of her former chutzpah, said: “Excellent. I hope it's big enough to take us both and all the cases.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Derek coldly.
“We
have ordered the taxi.”

“Nonsense. He can come back for you. Oxford isn't far.”

Before Derek, pale with anger, could formulate a suitable reply, Laurie said: “I'm sure you'll all get in. It's a huge Ford estate car.” Then she watched with some amusement as Mrs. Saville positioned herself where she reckoned the taxi might arrive, only to find Derek stepping directly in front of her. These maneuvers were repeated several times until both parties found themselves in the middle of the drawbridge, whereupon they both started to backtrack.

Poppy and Hugh also watched these shenanigans, politely trying to conceal their amusement. Laurie started to introduce the newcomers. Mother took one look at Hugh's jodhpurs and had hysterics, banging the flat of her hand on her knee and giving loud whoops before disappearing under the table.

Poppy giggled and Hugh, determinedly unpatronizing, shook hands with the Gibbses, using a manly grip and a direct glance to establish social parity. Then, these comely formalities accomplished, he sat down, sure he had put the family at its ease. The family, already so much at its ease it was practically running the place, started to chat. Mother climbed back on her chair.

“Something tells me”—Violet swung her ample bosom cozily at Poppy—“there's a romance or two in the offing.”

Romance
. Laurie looked at Martin. What a pathetically wrongheaded choice of word. So pallid. So ordinary. So inglorious. They reached out to each other.

“And I think,” added Violet, “it calls for a little celebration.

“We've got some Krug in the cellar.”

“That ain't all you got.”

“Mother.”

“Got a ghost down there.”

“And whose fault's that?” asked Violet sternly. “All them gyrations in the small hours. Not to worry, Laurie—you won't actually see anything. And he'll fade away once she's gone.”

“Ooohh,” squeaked Poppy. “Does he have clanky chains and smell all spooky?”

“Ghosts don't smell, potty boots.”

“This one does,” said Violet. “I couldn't make it out at first. All sorts of fruit, oak leaves, real pungent it was. Then— when he actually manifested—”

“Mani
—You wicked old bat!” Fred turned on his mother. “I thought I told you to behave yourself.”

“It's all right—really,” said Laurie. “I'm not frightened. Just intrigued.”

“What did he look like, Mrs. Gibbs?” asked Martin.

“Desperate.”

“I mean physically. If that's not too odd a word.”

“Short. Ginger. With one o' them squared-off weskits. Brown and yeller.”

“Tattersall check,” said Hugh, and Laurie let out an excited exclamation.

“Did he…have a moustache?”

“Like a little toothbrush. He were weaving in and out o' them cages, grabbing at the bottles but slipping right through. Couldn't get a hold, y'see. Crying, he was, outa frustration…”

“It's Uncle George,” said Laurie.

“Of course it is,” agreed Hugh, remembering. “Poor old fellow.”

Simon said: “I bet he only comes back when Aunt's away. I think we ought to leave him in peace.”

“Absolutely.” Laurie smiled at Martin, agreeing. “There's plenty of wine in the kitchen if we want to celebrate.”

“Or we could go out,” said Hugh. “To dinner. What about the Casablanca?”

“Ooo…scrummy.”

“Not taking you, little bunny tummy.” Hugh poked his intended playfully just under her snake belt. “Little piggy wiggy.”

Laurie caught Martin's disbelieving eye and said, “I'd love that, Hugh. But the fact is that Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs and their mother and Gilly are guests here. I can't just run off and leave them.”

“If the wine tonight's anything like it was yesterday,” said Fred, “you can leave me till the cows come home.”