The Old Contemptibles (14 page)

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So he had moved in to thoroughly enjoy a number of “annoyances”—if one considered things like the flaming and long-standing row between the Dunsters or Colin-Jackson’s sidekick, Miss Maltings, who sat near the entrance, eternally knitting black wool. Adam catalogued such incidents in a leather notebook with a Mont Blanc pen held in a hand that was just a little trembly, something like the idling of a motor engine. He could still write, although sometimes he thought the result looked a little like a page zipped off one of those electrocardiogram machines.

He had an electric wheelchair with which he would, when things got dull, race about the grounds to see how many residents he could tumble or autos he could bring to a screeching halt. It had almost as many gears as a motor car. Once in a while he would ring up the house and ask for Millie to come round and give him a ride outside, through the grounds and garden. He liked Millie’s company. The only ones at the house he trusted unconditionally were Millie and her cat.

His time at Tarn House was spent largely in the kitchen, which was warm and cozy and delicious-smelling and where he was welcome but not fawned over. On many of these visits he insisted on a staring contest with the cat Sorcerer. It annoyed him no end that he,
Adam, was always the first to look away. That cat was almost enough to make him believe in reincarnation. In one of the cat’s former lives, he must have been Rasputin. Mrs. Callow, when she wasn’t imbibing (with the butler), cooked the vegetables, and Millie always had something simmering in a pot. Like her mother, Millie was a born cook. He liked to wheel about in the kitchen hiding pence and pounds in the crockery for her to find later. He wasn’t concerned about Callow’s finding it; she couldn’t see straight for the port.

Finding very
large
sums in the crockery (so to speak) was, of course, what the rest of the family was waiting for. He couldn’t live forever, but he could do long enough to make them question mortality. He often felt sorry for Crabbe and could hardly blame him from retreating into his world of poets and painters. Why was it so many decent people made such messes of their lives? Coleridge, De Quincey—not, of course, Wordsworth. But Adam imagined if he himself could zip round the hills and vales with a loving sister to hang on to his every proclamation, well, he’d feel like rattling off an ode, too.

Jane. He frowned. He had liked his grandson’s wife merely for having a son like Alex.

Genevieve was not saddened by Jane’s death but furious with Alex, who had claimed he had no family.

Damned right,
thought Adam Holdsworth, sadly.

Lady Cray had been one of those who came
with
her wardens: her daughter and son-in-law. With her little black hat and large black bag, dressed in the finest silk, Lady Cray was all vague smiles, as if she couldn’t remember why she was here or with whom she had arrived.

She walked away while Mrs. Colin-Jackson was selling the young Crays a bill of goods. Adam, who’d been sitting just outside the doorway of the lounge, thought there was more here than met the eye and followed her down. Lady Cray seemed to be wandering aimlessly in and out of drawing room, game room, and library and finally found what she wanted in the dining room. She picked up the silver place-settings from a table for two and put them in her black bag, which she closed with a satisfied little snap. When she turned to
leave and saw Adam, she simply smiled her dimpled smile, opened the bag again and brought out a wad of notes big as a fist. Peeling off a fifty, she offered it to him, “if you can keep your mouth shut.” Her voice was so softly decorous, she might be offering him a glass of sherry.

“Generous of you, but I’ve got too much money already,” said Adam.

“Ah. Then would you care for a spoon? The silver’s surprisingly good.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got my own.”

He was hoping Lady Cray would take up residence here.
She
certainly needed her independence. She didn’t seem to mind if he wheeled right beside her as she made her way farther along the sumptuously decorated hallway.

Adam took out his precious Mont Blanc pen and made an entry in his diary. As he wheeled along beside her, he filled her in on Castle Howe. Good accommodations and surprisingly good food. You could eat in the dining room or in your own room. Nothing was bad as long as you knew they were all great nits who ran the place. Colin-Jackson always disappeared at the cocktail hour with a pitcher of gin and she’d come to the dining room and have a rave-up with the guests.

“How nice,” said Lady Cray as she entered the library and looked around, brow furrowed.

“There’re some bits of ivory over there on the shelf if you fancy it.”

She sighed and turned away. “Tusks of elephants.” She shook her head. “Isn’t it dreadful, the poaching?”

Adam agreed, and since nothing else interested her, they turned and left. French doors lay at the end of the hall, leading to the gardens, and he suggested they take a “walk.” “I hope you decide to take up residence here, Lady Cray. Be nice to have a kleptomaniac.” He stopped. “No offense. I just assumed you weren’t a collector.”

They went down the path into the gardens and Lady Cray began gathering flowers. Soon she had a little bouquet, which she put in the bottomless bag. “I’m quite deft, you know. I’m used to much chancier places. Harrods is a favorite. A dreadful place if you take it seriously. I believe it’s Harrods my daughter and son-in-law have requested to arrange for my funeral.”

“Didn’t know Harrods did funerals. I’ll have to tell Genevieve.”

“Genevieve?”

“My daughter-in-law.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure I shall enjoy it here,” said Lady Cray, picking a bloom near the wheelchair. “Anything to get away from my family.”

“Can’t say I blame you!”

“Oh, do you know them too?” she asked absently, her gray eyes looking about as she seated herself on one of the wrought-iron benches placed about among the box hedges.

“No, but I know mine. Just send for your solicitors and watch them hit the whiskey!”

“Absolutely, Mr. Holdsworth. All I have to do is mention my will and Beau—he’s my son-in-law—gets the shakes and rattles the glass against the vodka decanter. I do believe it’s making him alcoholic. I only hope he doesn’t break the decanter. It’s Lalique. Look, there’s a robin.”

He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t open that bag.”

She laughed. Lady Cray had quite beautiful skin, he noticed.

“One feels at times a bit sorry for them.”

“This one doesn’t.”

Again she laughed. “Ah, you know what I mean. My daughter Lucia is not a bad person at all. But so
weak
that she lets that husband of hers breathe for her, nearly. I wonder sometimes if that’s why I do it—take things, I mean. To justify my child’s own weakness.”

“That’s certainly a charitable way of looking at it. Kingsley would like to hear that bit of insight. He’s one of the resident shrinks.”

“How is he with the ‘whilst balance of mind was disturbed’ gambit? Or the ‘undue influence’ ploy? Lord knows what they’ll do when my will is read.”

“Hmm. Don’t think it’s ever come up here. Oh, people
die
here, don’t get me wrong. People
die
here, naturally. But I can’t remember anyone contesting wills. Kojak probably keeps that mum.”

“Kojak?”

“Short for Colin-Jackson. As long as she gets her bequests, police could drag every lake around for bodies, she wouldn’t care.”

Lady Cray had by now another little bouquet, which she arranged while she asked, “You mean no one’s been murdered here?”

Damn! but he wished he’d got his teeth in because his mouth dropped. “The way you said it, and with your nose in those flowers, you’d think it was a daily happening.” Adam rubbed his hands together. The arthritis was acting up. “Not a bad idea, come to think of it, as long as it’s not me.”

“Doesn’t it bother you someone might? I’m quite sure one or two little attempts have been made on me. There!” and she drew the little stem of a winter daisy through the buttonhole of his jacket.

This time he remembered to keep his mouth shut when he registered his astonishment. “What? How?”

“Oh, nothing significant—and certainly not successful.” She brought her gloved hand up to her mouth as if to hold in the little laugh. “I believe I was pushed into the path of a London bus. Not hurt, just a little dusty.”

“Good God . . .” Adam grew thoughtful. “You know, we’ve had a recent, well, tragedy, I’d call it. Suicide. Especially tragic because it was my great-grandson’s mother. He’s an ace and was very attached to her, and in my family, love isn’t something you come by every day.” Adam told Lady Cray the little he knew.

“You think it was murder, then.” She plucked from the flower a dead petal and blew it from the tip of her finger.

“What? I didn’t say that! Look, they might all be a bunch of horses’ arses—pardon the language—but I don’t think they’d stoop . . .”

She sighed wearily. “Really, you know perfectly well they’d stoop until they crawled.” Lady Cray’s brow furrowed. “But why her? Did she have expectations—oh, how unmannerly of me. To ask about one’s will is as tasteless as asking about one’s politics.”

Adam was following his own line. “Can’t picture my sons trying it. George is an idiot and Crabbe’s been writing this voluminous account of the Lake School for a hundred years. Genevieve, though, you’ve got to watch out for. She married my son for the money, naturally, and she’s a good twenty years younger. Probably came out of the chorus line of
Cats.
Trouble is that if I leave
him
half a million,
she’d
be running his show. So you know what I’ve done?” He leered and cocked his head.

“What?”

“The money’s his only if he takes a trip round the world. Alone.” Adam sniggered. “The way I see it, if he takes off the manacles for a
year and is off meeting new people—women, I hope . . . Those cruises are sexual orgies, I’ve heard, and the man’s only sixty.”

“No one that young should be stuck for the rest of his life in an unhappy marriage.”

“And if being away from her doesn’t wake him up, well—”

“That’s quite smart of you.”

“Glad you think so.”

“If only
I
could think of something like that! My problem is that if I don’t leave them most of the money, Beau will certainly contest the will, and since I have wandered from the straight-and-narrow, if you know what I mean . . .”

Adam lowered his voice and looked about. “Ever been caught?”

“Oh, yes. It was my grandson, Andrew, who came down and bailed me out. He’s my favorite person in the world; naturally, I’m leaving the large part of my money to him. Well, he would come to the station looking very serious—” Here Lady Cray put on a mask of sobriety. “—and as soon as we got to the car, he broke out in peals of laughter. Like church bells. It made me feel as if there was hope for humanity.”

“Right. What does he do?”

“Andrew’s very bookish. He took a first at Cambridge and his parents were absolutely furious when he opened a bookshop. I visit frequently but don’t take anything.”

“Sounds like Alex. He’s
my
person. My great-grandson, sixteen years old. What his mother’s death will do to him . . . he’s not easily broken, though.” Adam brightened up when he said, “The boy’s been sent down from school three or four times.”

“How delightful. What did he do?”

“Playing the ponies—he concocted an elaborate scheme and even let his mates in on the betting. And once for fighting.” Adam drove pretend-punches in the air.

“He sounds lovely.” Lady Cray’s expression changed. She looked off in the direction of the Castle and sighed. “They’re signaling.”

Adam saw the relations waving frantically, as if she might be taking off on a voyage from which she’d never return. “Too bad.”

“We’ll have time to clear it up, I expect, the suicide or the murder.” The black bag rattled as she lifted it.

“What’ve you got in there besides the silver? A gun?” He chuckled at his little joke.

“Yes. People in our position can never be too careful, can they?”

Adam nearly fell out of his chair. “Didn’t Kojak frisk you? Let me see it, let me see it.”

“No.” She put her hand on the arm of his chair, indicating they really must go. “We’ll have time for a chat. If we’re still alive.” She looked at him brightly. “Come on, then. They’re getting hysterical.”

“Tell me,” asked Adam, wheeling back down the garden path, “are you a
real
kleptomaniac, or is it all an act?”

She laughed. “There
are
a few things I feel compelled to take. For the rest, yes, it
is
an act. But one has to do a bit of larking around or go crazy. Old age, if it’s nothing else, should at least be theatrical, don’t you know?”

“What are the few things?”

“Hair ribbons and chocolate.”

“That’s damned interesting. Listen, can you pick pockets too?”

In answer, she handed him his Mont Blanc pen.

Adam Holdsworth nearly strangled with laughter.

“Did you think I was fooling with flowers for nothing?”

He was
damned
sorry he hadn’t put in his teeth.

But he was glad he’d worn his bright blue sweater.

There was one thing he had to say about Wordsworth, Melrose thought, as he sat in the Swan having coffee and reading the poet’s
Guide to the Lakes,
William Wordsworth had his priorities straight: the man had an eye for an Inn. Oh, not just the venerable Swan with its old beams, comfortable floral-chintz armchairs and sofas encircling a roaring fireplace—not only this one, but a compendium of others. Wordsworth, teetotaler that he was, was also a man who knew that tourists to the area, having viewed the scenes he told them to view, and from heights that Melrose had no intention of familiarizing himself with—Wordsworth knew these walkers amongst the fells would be dying for a drink. He was, therefore, quite scrupulous in pointing out to his reader that there would be, near to hand, following one or other transcendent walking-and-viewing experience, an Inn where they could partake of rest and refreshment.