A Death for King and Country (6 page)

Chapter Ten

In which I have sherry with a vicar

In his instructions Fitzroy had told me only to ensure the vicar accepted the money and promised not to use it for the church roof or some other parish affair. He made it most clear this was intended for the vicar and his children. How I convinced the man to accept a sudden fortune from a complete stranger was entirely up to me.

I had made many plans by the time we turned into the vicarage drive, and discarded just as many. I bade Rory fetch me down the carpet bag and, struggling a little with the weight, I walked up to the vicarage and rang the bell. Bertram remained asleep and Rory knew he had to stay with the automobile. He knew nothing of my task, but the expression on his face betrayed a distinct disapproval for whatever I might be up to. I straightened my spine defiantly. It was nothing to do with him!

The vicarage was one of the larger sorts that could possibly once have been a dower house. It was a long, low house with many windows. It had a pleasant aspect down a short gravel drive. In front of the house was a large lawned area, perfect for holiday fetes, and under the windows sprouted flowerbeds with wonderful bursts of colour. I could see the curtains in the windows were a little frayed and shabby. I knew from my own upbringing that no matter how nice the house the church may give its ministry it does not give them a stipend large enough to generally keep that house intact. Certainly this house had a slightly shabby air. The window sills most definitely needed repainting and the varnish on the front door was blistering, but for all that it had an atmosphere of a happy place. Bees buzzed around the flower beds and somewhere a bird called. The sun had come out and was warm on my back. It was all very pleasant.

However, no one had come to open the front door. I rang again. From deep within the house a male voice called, ‘Coming! Coming!’

The man who opened the front door was undoubtedly a widower. No wife in the kingdom would have permitted such hair at the dining table. It was white, long, and very wild. Surprisingly, he was clean-shaven as if while he remembered that cleanliness was next to godliness, and obviously bathed regularly, he had admitted defeat when it came to the top of his head. He looked for all the world as if someone had stuck a very woolly sheep on his head and forgotten to shear it for a few years. His face was wrinkled and I judged him to be well past his sixtieth year. He had a large and enormously hooked nose and deep blue eyes that twinkled.

‘What a delight,’ he said in the booming voice of a man used to speaking in church, ‘A visitor!’

‘Good afternoon,’ I began, ‘my name is Euphemia and I knew your ward, Eric.’

‘Knew,’ said the man, ‘Ah, I think this is going to be a conversation I need to have sitting down. Please follow me.’

I stood frozen for a moment before following him into the depths of the vicarage. It had never occurred to me that no one would have informed him of Fitzroy’s death. Fitzroy had written in his letter that he had been known here as Eric, but other than that and the instructions on who and on what conditions the money must be given, he had been remarkably short on details. He had left me to accomplish the task any way I could, and considering the peculiarities of the case, I had decided to tackle it in a most un-Fitzroylike way and tell the truth as much as I could.

With quick, ranging steps, the priest led me into his study, and pulled a seat round to the side of his overflowing desk, so we were not opposing each other. Then he unearthed a decanter, and a couple of glasses from which he blew the dust. ‘Sherry?’ he asked. ‘It’s rather good. My son sent it down to me. I hate to think how he learned this was the one but … I digress. Sherry?’

‘Yes, please,’ I said, knowing that unless I accepted he would not have one himself and by the shaking of his hands I could tell he needed one. When we each had a glass before us I said, ‘I am so sorry. I assumed that someone would have contacted you about Eric.’

The vicar shook his head. ‘No. No. He wasn’t actually my ward, you see. He’s my nephew. My oldest brother’s son. I expect you’ve heard of him? And he named a well-known and high-ranking aristocrat, who was a contemporary of my grandfather.

My knowledge must have shown on my face. ‘Exactly,’ said the vicar, ‘rather a late marriage for my brother. He already had five children by his first wife. Two sons and three daughters. Eric, quite simply, was neither needed nor particularly wanted, except by his mother. Such a frail little thing, she died when he was seven.’

He gave a deep sigh. ‘It was after that that he began spending holidays here rather than at the family home. No one there was interested in him, you see. His brothers and sisters were adults, or nearly so, by the time he was born. I expect they were also rather shocked that their father had sired another child at his age. All rather embarrassing. And then when Cecilia died …’

‘I am sorry,’ I said. The words seemed far too inadequate.

‘Of course my wife was alive back then. Doted on the boy. We both did. Quite a scamp, but endearing with it. Had a vivid imagination. You know, he used to make up little stories about himself being this character called Fitzroy.
Fitz
, as you may know, meant one was born on the wrong side of the blanket in the olden days, and
roi
is French for king. He used to imagine he was the illegitimate son of the King, poor little mite. My brother and I argued violently over his lack of interest in the boy. Never really spoken since. Though he kept sending Eric to us. How did he die?’

‘He was on board the
Titanic
,’ I said. ‘He died with heroism.’ As he had not got off the ship himself, and I am sure that Fitzroy was more than capable of finding a way out of anything, I felt certain that he had chosen to give his life so that more women and children could live. He would have been one of the ones calming things, restoring order. For all his coldness Fitzroy, I knew, could be passionate about doing the right thing.

‘I would expect no less,’ said his uncle. ‘And I am deeply grateful that you have brought me this news personally. Er … I don’t suppose you were actually married to Eric, were you?’ I noticed the involuntary glance towards my stomach and the hope that flickered in his eyes. ‘Or even … I must say, I am really rather broad-minded for a vicar.’

‘I met Eric a few times,’ I said. ‘He was always a complete gentleman towards me. I believe he considered me a friend.’ This was stretching a point, but considering his occupation I do not believe Fitzroy actually had friends in the normal sense of the word.

‘Have you brought me his effects?’ asked the vicar.

‘Not exactly,’ I said, and opened the carpet bag to reveal the stacks of banknotes inside.

‘Good Lord,’ exclaimed the vicar half rising from his seat, ‘what
did
the poor boy get himself involved in?’

‘Stocks and shares,’ I said quickly, this being the only way I could think of that could raise such vast sums at a young age. ‘He took great risks on the stock market, trading, and did rather well.’

‘The risks I can well believe,’ said the vicar. ‘Well. Well. Good for you, Eric.’

‘I am entrusted with bestowing this money on you, Vicar, but only if you are prepared to accept a number of conditions set out by Eric.’ I took his letter from my bag and readied to read selected parts.

‘How fascinating,’ said the vicar. ‘Why, I could repair the church roof with this lot.’

‘Eric’s first condition was that none of this money must be spent on church repairs,’ I read.

The Vicar chuckled. ‘He always was an irreligious little tyke.’

‘He would like you to take a suitable portion to dowry your daughter.’

‘Very kind. He was always fond of Susie.’

‘He would also like you to send your son up to Oxford, or – and these are his words – Cambridge if you really must.’

The vicar felt in his pocket for a handkerchief and touched it to the corner of his eyes.

‘He further states that as the church never paid you a tenth of what you were worth you are to take a significant portion for yourself to ensure you live out your old age in comfort and with plenty of good sherry.’

‘Dear boy, but I really do not need much.’

‘He is quite insistent that you are well looked after,’ I said. ‘He does add that if after all this you consider there to be monies left over, you can leave them to the charities of your choice in your will, provided both your children are faring well.’

‘And how exactly does he expect to enforce – or for you to enforce his conditions?’

‘He says that if you give me your word on these points there need be no further discussion.’

‘That poor roof,’ muttered the vicar. ‘And there’s the local orphanage. Oh dear! But … he says I can distribute whatever is left after I die to whoever I choose?’

I nodded.

‘Well, in that case, Euphemia, I give you my word that I will abide by Eric’s conditions.’

I pushed the bag over to him. ‘I believe this would have made Eric very happy. He writes in his letter to me that the vicarage was the only home he ever knew. He is eternally grateful to you and your family for the love and care you showed him.’

‘More sherry?’ asked the vicar. ‘I would so like to toast our dear Eric.’

It was more than a couple of sherries later that I was able to tear myself away from the vicarage. I managed to avoid an invitation to dine, explaining my husband was waiting for me and this almost got Bertram included in the invitation. Fortunately I pled having to return to London by automobile. It seemed the vicar was extremely wary of such ‘mechanical abnormalities’, and wanted to allow me as much time as possible to return.

And so it was I clambered back into said abnormality with some difficulty. Rory had to leave his seat to help me in.

‘You are plastered!’ exclaimed Bertram.

‘You should see the vicar,’ I said, and fell fast asleep, my head in his lap.

Chapter Eleven

In which I suffer both a hangover and a family revelation
[9]

I woke up in my room at the hotel. Bertram had obviously decided this was the best place to take me. Through my window I could see the beginning of dawn. I had slept right through the night.
[10]

The hotel still used gas lamps and mine had been left on low. I sat up. My head pounded. My eyes were dry and sore, and my throat felt as if I had been chewing a hedgehog. There was a glass of water by my bed. I drank it greedily, and then had to frantically scrabble for the chamber pot
[11]
as I was copiously sick. I shoved it back under the bed. A slick of sweat had formed on my face, but I felt surprisingly better. I wriggled and loosened my corset. The relief was tremendous, for I had spent the night trussed up. I slipped back into a doze, silently blaming Fitzroy for everything.

I made it down to breakfast. Bertram was already at our table, tucking into bacon, poached eggs, and liver. I sat as far away from his plate as I could and ordered toast and fresh tea.

‘You have a remarkably heavy head,’ he said conversationally.

I silently nibbled a piece of toast.

‘You slept all the way back from the country. You should have seen the looks McLeod got carrying you in through the lobby.’

I choked on some crumbs. ‘You didn’t!’

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Bertram. ‘We brought you in via the service elevator. In fact, I would say I went above and beyond the calls of friendship to get you here safely.’ He attempted to give me a steely gaze over his eggs, though the beard severely limited the effect. I had to admit he had a point.

‘I appreciate everything you have done for me, Bertram. I am in your debt.’

‘And McLeod’s.’

‘He was only doing as you ordered,’ I said, pouring us both more tea.

‘That is not fair, Euphemia, and you know it.’

‘I will thank him.’ I swallowed a bit of dry toast with some difficulty. ‘It really was not my fault.’

‘I know the vicar got you drunk.’

‘He did!’ I protested. ‘A vicar with a bottle of sherry is lethal!’

‘What were you celebrating? Or is this how he treats all his guests?’

‘Don’t, Bertram. You know I can’t.’

‘I do not know anything of the sort. Can you at least assure me that you are not about to ask me to do something even more embarrassing or foolish?’

My thoughts turned to the envelopes upstairs. ‘I have to go,’ I said.

‘I will extend our stay in the hotel, shall I?’ asked Bertram. I put my napkin to my lips and bolted. Bertram started back in alarm, as I had intended.

My sickness had pushed all thoughts of the envelopes from my mind. I locked my bedroom door and with trembling fingers opened the letter marked ‘two’. Along with the letter there was a small package inside. I took out the letter.

My Dear Euphemia,

Many, many thanks for delivering my gift to my uncle. Unlike myself, he is a most deserving man, always thinking of others and rarely of himself to the extent that if my aunt had not reminded him to eat I think he would have perished long ago. But before we go any further, your reward …

Of course the only reward I can give you, that you would accept, is information and in my line of work nothing is as precious as information.

Your grandfather, the Earl of (we both know where) is desperate to reunite with your mother, your brother, and yourself. More than once he has asked me for information on you through various channels. As you will shortly come to understand, I operated a favours exchange scheme with many people of note. As you may know your grandmother died some five years ago. She was not a pleasant woman. Your grandfather was totally overwhelmed by her beauty. I believe many people at that time in society were overwhelmed by her, and your grandfather was generally accorded to be very lucky to have won her. Especially as it was well known she would have preferred a prince of the Royal blood. Needless to say, she was not happy with her lot as a countess. Having children greatly diminished her beauty, as it does with some women, and she resented them all for this. The boys, who were sent away for school and up to Oxford, entered easily into the society of their peers, but your mother, as was often the lot for girls, was left much at home in her mother’s company. Despite her small frame she was a girl of spirit and considerable attraction. She never equalled her mother’s youthful beauty, but she was pretty enough to remind her own mother of what she had lost. To say that your grandmother was jealous of your mother is akin to saying that the Atlantic is a little wet.

Your grandfather was fond of all his children, but in keeping with the time spent his time hunting, shooting, fishing, visiting his clubs in London, and occasionally remembering to check that his agent was not running his estate into the ground. He never intervened with how his wife raised his children, and it is not that surprising that your mother, who was continually presented with a series of high-ranking, but elderly, suitors ran off with the handsome local vicar. The scandal was the talk of the country for quite some time.

Your grandmother never forgave her. She forbade your grandfather from having anything to do with his daughter or her family. Worse yet, on her deathbed, she extracted from your grandfather a promise to never again acknowledge his daughter or her children.

From this history you will perhaps have guessed your grandfather is not a man of great internal strength. In a man of lesser rank one might have called him hen-pecked or utterly under the thumb of his wife. In his defence I will only say that he is a man who has always taken any promise, from his marriage oath to his deathbed promise to his wife, very seriously. He is a man to whom honour is everything.

So there you have it. You now understand a lot more about your family background. I am sure you can read even more between the lines. Your personal task, of course, is to find a way to bring your grandfather round to your mother’s side. Your main advantage is that the old man has been missing his daughter desperately for years.

And now on to your next task …

The letter fluttered from my fingers. Fitzroy had assumed I knew the details of my mother’s elopement. I had not. I knew her family had disapproved of her marriage, but the thought of my mother running away with the local vicar was so shocking as to render me near to hysteria. Worse yet, the marriage had not proved to be particularly happy. As I had grown up it had become clear to me that while my parents did love each other, my mother could never accustom herself to her new lower status. If her parents had endorsed the marriage I was suddenly sure that both Mother and my beloved Papa would have had much happier lives. I felt a surge of fury towards my grandmother, and contempt for the weakness of my grandfather. Sadness for my parents, who had risked all for love, and not been able to live up to their dreams overwhelmed me. I collapsed on my bed and wept.

My weeping was not of the lady-like sort of handkerchief dabbing, but the full-on howling, blotchy-faced sort, which I why I did not hear Bertram knock on my door. The first I knew of his presence was being lifted up to sob into his coat. His foul beard scratched the top of my head and for once I did not care. I clung to him.

I am certain Bertram asked me many questions, but I was too distressed to answer. Finally he gave up and simply waited for me to cry myself out. It took some time. Bertram did not comment, but I quite ruined his jacket.

When I slowed to hiccoughs, Bertram took me by the shoulders and sat me back. I fumbled for my handkerchief and tried to mop up my face. I noticed my letter lay face down on the floor. The envelope was somewhere behind me on the bed.

‘What is it you don’t want me to see?’ asked Bertram.

‘Nothing,’ I protested as I did my best to wiggle my posterior onto the envelope and slide the letter with my foot under the bed.

‘I would not look at a private document uninvited,’ said Bertram in a hurt tone. ‘I do wish you would trust me.’

‘Oh, Bertram, it’s not that I do not trust you. I have been put on my honour not to reveal what I am doing.’

‘Well, I would dashed well like to meet whoever has extracted this promise from you. It is obvious that whatever you have been asked to do is too demanding … I mean, very demanding.’

I did not protest as I usually would at Bertram suggesting anything was beyond my capabilities. Without his help it would have been impossible for him for me to have even have completed the first task. Fitzroy must have meant me to, as he might have put it, ‘utilise my contacts’, but as he would have done keep everyone in the dark about what was actually occurring. This was not the way I like to do things.

‘In fact,’ continued Bertram, growing more animated, ‘I would like to get the gentleman concerned alone in a room and explain exactly how one should treat a lady.’

I smiled. Bertram is the least likely man to resort to fisticuffs. I am fairly certain even my little brother, Joe, could defeat him.
[12]
But I did not doubt his sentiment.

‘I am afraid you cannot speak to him, Bertram. He is dead.’

‘Oh, it is a will,’ said Bertram, looking relieved. ‘I believe people often do not give enough thought to how their instructions might be carried out. I suppose because they will not be around to have to resolve things.’ He gave me a smile. ‘But all we have to do, Euphemia, is contact the lawyer and say you require further assistance. Or even if the demands are too much that you find yourself unable to be an executor. You are not legally obliged to, you know.’

‘I am afraid it is not that simple.’

‘Black sheep of the family stuff, is it?’

‘It is not a member of my family at all.’

‘Well, good heavens, girl, why do you feel under such an obligation?’ exploded Bertram. ‘Were you in love with the fellow?’

‘No,’ I cried sharply, ‘I must certainly was not.’ I took a deep breath. ‘No, I was not in love with this man, but he did on at least one occasion save my life.’

‘But Rory is alive and well. At least he was last time I checked,’ said Bertram, looking very confused. ‘And I’m pretty sure you were in love with him.’

I ignored this last remark. ‘Of course it is not Rory. He drove us to the vicarage, so it could not possibly be him. Unless you believe ghosts can drive.’

‘Just as well you did not accept that invitation for us to dine,’ said Bertram, momentarily distracted, ‘turns out I had not packed any trousers. This luggage malarkey is far more complicated than I expected.’

‘Indeed, dining at a vicarage without trousers would not be the done thing,’ I said, and gave a little giggle.

‘Now, it’s all very well trying to put me off with talk about my trousers,’ said Bertram.

‘You mentioned trousers first,’ I interrupted.

‘But,’ said Bertram loudly, speaking over me, ‘who is this dead fellow that is causing you so much trouble? He’s as pesky as …’ He looked into my eyes. I dropped my gaze.

‘Oh no, it cannot be. I would have thought that man was damn near indestructible.’

‘I am afraid it is,’ I said.

‘Bloody Fitzroy,’ said Bertram. ‘Bloody, bloody, bloody Fitzroy. What on earth has he got you embroiled in? It’ll all turn out to be some damn trick, you mark my words. I bet the bugger is not even actually dead!’

[9]
In my experience life never sends one trials singularly.

[10]
My own father had always warned me that men of the parish cloth were addicted to either tea or sherry. He had been unsure which was worse, as he claimed too much tea made one jumpy and suspicious. Senior church figures, he explained, made do with port, it being the closest to the ecclesiastical purple.

[11]
Thank goodness the hotel was old-fashioned enough to have one.

[12]
Joe is quite a tough little tomboy. In her latest letter, my mother had mentioned that Joe had taken on two of the local children, who had been teasing a chicken, and thrashed them quite soundly. At nearly ten years of age he was bidding fair to become too much of a handful for our mother. I feared that soon we would need to find the fees to send him to school.