Authors: Suzette A. Hill
The decibel level was dire but the drink was good – a fact that doubtless accounted for the former. Lady Fawcett was one of those hostesses who throw parties like other people throw tantrums, i.e. with insatiable relish and single-minded abandon. And as with the tantrum throwers the occasions were frequent and finely orchestrated. For one not known for her tact or intellectual acuity, Lady Fawcett’s grip on the finer points of party dynamics was formidable. It was, Rosy concluded, something bred in the bone, some sort of biological gift to obscure from the possessor the tiresome claims of the sensible and humdrum. Yes, the Fawcetts were the sort who, clad warmly in a cloak of myopic self-absorption, sailed through life on a tide of blinkered cheerfulness. Vapid yet resolutely good-natured, entirely confident and largely frivolous, they were both enviable and maddening.
‘Well,’ said a voice at her elbow, ‘he’s doing all right, I must say. I doubt if anyone will bother to throw a party for
me
when I reach seventy!’ Clovis Thistlehyde gestured with the remains of a caviar canapé in the direction of a large man smoking a cigar and talking to Harold Gill at the far end of the room.
Rosy wondered whether she was supposed to disabuse him of the assumption but decided not to. Instead she said, ‘Ah, but you are not one of the nation’s major industrial magnates labouring to revive the country’s fortunes after the deluge. Even Churchill paid him a tribute in
The Times
the other day, and they say he’s in line for a K.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Clovis acidly, scooping up more caviar, ‘I’m just a bloody artist. Creative sensibilities rarely get the recognition they deserve. We live in an age of the philistine.’ Glancing at his tie, Rosy felt he fitted the age admirably. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘I don’t hold with all this title rigmarole; one is so tired of capitalist values.’ He tapped a passing waiter smartly on the shoulder and appropriated a glass of vintage Krug. And then before Rosy had time to make an excuse and slip away, he had gripped her by the elbow and said in a low voice, ‘You know, my dear, I was frightfully fond of your aunt. You have no idea how shocked I was to hear about it when I got back from Venice. All very disturbing – particularly as I was engaged on a
rather
fascinating portrait of her. I had only done a couple of sketches but it held such promise … and now, and now alas it will be lost for ever!’ He gazed earnestly into her eyes, and then said smoothly, ‘As a matter of fact I am looking for a replacement sitter and you look so like her, though
heaps
younger of course. I don’t suppose you would care to …?’
‘Replace Aunt Marcia on the podium? No thank you,’ said Rosy, ‘I feel the cold.’ She turned away and promptly bumped into Amy Fawcett.
The girl screeched a welcome, and then in a mercifully quieter tone said, ‘I say, has that old goat been at you as well? He’s dead keen to get me into his studio to pose in the buff. Same question every damn time! Mummy says he’s as mean as a monkey and that I should ask him what his rates are. Apparently that would shut him up quicker than anything.’ She spluttered a laugh and asked Rosy if she had had a chance to talk to ‘the birthday boy’. Rosy explained that she barely knew Maynard Latimer, having met him only fleetingly some years ago.
‘Oh, we’ll soon put that right,’ breezed Amy. ‘I’ll introduce you. He’s a great chum of my godfather. I’ll see if I can detach him from Harold Gill – such a starchy old buffer. Can’t think what they’ve got in common.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind Gill,’ said Rosy, ‘though I know Mrs rather better. They were neighbours of Marcia – rather long-suffering really – and were very helpful with the funeral arrangements and other practicalities.’
‘Yes,’ replied Amy vaguely, ‘Mummy says that type is jolly good at things like that … Oh look! He’s moved away at last. I’ll try to catch Maynard’s eye.’ She embarked on a series of windmill gesticulations which fortunately her quarry saw before they became too frenzied. He waved back and made his way to where they were standing.
‘Amy, your mother has surpassed herself. I
am
a lucky boy!’ He beamed at them both and introduced himself to Rosy who murmured felicitations.
‘Oh well, when you get to my age one tries to rise above it all. It’s not good to be reminded of the onset of decrepitude. Mind you, I was reminded of it only too well the other day by my grandson. He really gave me a broadside!’
‘But Dickie’s so polite,’ exclaimed Amy, ‘and besides, no
one could accuse you of being decrepit, you’re far too handsome!’
Latimer grinned and wagged his finger. ‘Now don’t try that one, Amy! Oh yes, Dickie’s polite all right, that was the trouble. According to his mother, for some reason he had been singing my praises ad nauseam and concluded by declaring to all and sundry: “Oh yes, I should like to be exactly like Grandpa one day – one day when I am a
very
old man too.”’ He gave a shout of mirth. ‘Well that reduced me to size all right! Collapse of stout party you might say. And just when I thought I had been cutting such a fine figure in my cricket whites!’
There was general laughter and Rosy found herself rather liking him. Pleased with himself, of course, but rather fun all the same … He beamed at her and with no difficulty she beamed back.
‘I see Rosy Gilchrist’s here,’ observed Felix to Cedric.
‘Looking quite good too, if you like the genre, of course,’ replied the professor.
Felix shrugged. ‘But then we don’t especially, do we?’
‘Better than Marcia, that’s for certain. And clearly Latimer seems to think so.’ Cedric sipped his cocktail thoughtfully and added, ‘Sharper too. I wonder if she knows anything.’
‘About the murder?’
‘I was thinking of the other matter.’
‘Unlikely. They weren’t particularly close. I can’t see Marcia making her niece a confidante.’
‘Yes, but one never quite knows with women, they get sudden whims. It’s amazing what you can learn about female psychology, even in a short time. I was married to one once, you may remember.’
‘Oh I remember,’ said Felix dryly. The subject was an
irritant he preferred not to dwell upon. Really, sometimes he felt convinced that Cedric introduced the topic just to needle him. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the wife had been normal, i.e. easily ignored, but she had been so
God-awful
intrusive. Putrid in fact!
He scowled into his Martini and tried to think of nicer things, e.g. Clarence House’s approval of his latest flower arrangement. He had struggled with it for hours, valiant in the face of footmen and corgis. Yet miraculously it had all ended in fragrant triumph. And of course
she
had been simply charming! A momentary vision of the coveted plaque danced before his eyes:
By Appointment
… He glowed at the possibility, wondering whether he should order a new door in readiness, and felt so much better. That is, until Clovis Thistlehyde appeared at his side and knocked into his glass.
Felix’s scowl returned as he watched the liquid soak an immaculate cuff, and he said waspishly, ‘A little unsteady, aren’t we? Must be the constant smell of the turps bottle. They do say it turns one squiffy.’
‘Nothing squiffy about
me
, Smythe,’ Clovis retorted angrily. ‘Taken rather a lot on board yourself, I should say. In fact, from what I’ve observed, one more Martini and we’ll be stepping over you.’ He turned on his heel and stalked as best as he could through the thickening throng.
‘That wasn’t very clever, was it?’ Cedric observed. ‘If Rembrandt has a sudden jolt to memory and something comes back to him he’ll march straight off to that Sergeant Greenleaf and drop you in it.’
‘He’s not bright enough and there’s no proof,’ replied Felix curtly.
‘Perhaps. But he has a low cunning and a vindictive spirit.
It doesn’t do to antagonise those who could do you harm. Do try to be a little more restrained.’
Felix gave a nonchalant shrug and lit a cigarette, but inwardly he was troubled. For he knew his friend was right; and worse still, something hung in his mind which he didn’t really want to think about. The hypothetical ‘telling detail’ they had touched on earlier had been largely dismissed, but now as he thought back on things he knew that there had indeed been such a detail – one not so much telling as screaming to the heavens. And though at the time it may have passed unnoticed, with hindsight who knew what that Clovis cretin might not dredge up!
‘How pensive you look, Felix dear,’ cried Lady Fawcett as she glided past with yet another offering of foie gras filigrees. ‘Have some of these, they’ll buck you up no end. Now do tell me, how did things go last week with your
special
client?’
‘Wonderful!’ he enthused, regaining his spirits, and proceeded to tell her in every floral detail.
The saga had just finished when there was a commotion by the double doors. ‘Oh my God,’ the hostess exclaimed, ‘it’s Auntie, I had completely forgotten she was coming. How awful!’ Hastily apologising to Felix, she weaved her way to the far end of the room where she greeted the nonagenarian with dutiful indulgence.
Auntie tottered in on two sticks looking a geriatric million dollars and clearly seeing herself as the Queen of Sheba. With a whirl of an ebony stick she made brief acknowledgement of those present and with hawkish eye surveyed the room. Her gaze fell on the guest of honour, and a swathe was cut as she made solemn progress in the direction of Maynard Latimer. Once there she paused,
prodded his ribs with a bejewelled talon, and with a leering grin boomed, ‘Who’s a naughty boy, then?’ Delivered of this and without waiting for a response, she trundled away to one of the drinks trolleys, and ignoring its hovering minder scooped up a Bronx with unerring grip.
The encounter elicited discreet titters from those standing next to the industrialist, and someone was heard to observe, ‘Well she’s got your number all right, Latimer!’ There was more laughter, but rather to Rosy’s surprise, the target of the old lady’s jest remained stiff-jawed. The earlier bonhomie seemed to have slipped, and just for an instant Rosy thought she saw a flash of anger in his eyes. She was slightly surprised. Why should one as confident as Maynard Latimer be discomfited by the coy banter of some frail ancient not long for this world? Indeed most men would have been flattered to be thus teased and entered jauntily into the spirit of the thing. Why hadn’t he? Had the old girl hit a raw nerve, wittingly or unwittingly pinpointed some current indiscretion – an illicit dalliance whose exposure might have embarrassing consequences? But if so, surely he had the social aplomb to affect an indifferent good humour: people like Maynard Latimer had nonchalance down to a fine art …
‘Not too keen, was he?’ murmured a voice in her ear. It was Professor Dillworthy.
As it happened Rosy wasn’t too keen on Dillworthy, but she smiled politely and agreed that the guest of honour had seemed a bit ruffled.
‘Ah, but then of course Adelaide Fawcett is good at ruffling people, been at it all her life. A malicious old bitch, actually … Doesn’t let go either. Once she’s got you in her sights there’s no escaping.’ His sour look belied the cool tone, and Rosy wondered whether he too was among
Auntie’s unfortunate elect. But she had no time to consider, for out of the corner of her eye she saw the Gills bearing down on her with faces of fixed solicitude.
‘My dear,’ Mrs Gill began, ‘how brave of you to come, but very wise too. It doesn’t do to be reclusive over these things. I always say that grief is like a riding accident – one must leap back upon the steed instantly and pursue the course! Isn’t that so, Harold?’
Her husband looked doubtful and muttered something to the effect that Dahlia Drew had done exactly that only the month previously and it had cost her a broken pelvis, not to mention her husband’s sanity paying the bills at the King Edward’s.
‘Oh, you’re so literal!’ Mrs Gill exclaimed impatiently. ‘But Rosy knows what I mean, don’t you, my dear? When misfortune strikes, resolution is all. And
you
are a living example to us!’ She took an earnest bite from her canapé, regarding Rosy with kindly sympathy.
Rosy suspected that Mildred Gill had never been near a horse in her life, and was embarrassed at being cast in the role of gallant griever. She felt both fraudulent and guilty, and wished they could turn to lighter topics.
‘She was a fascinating person, your aunt,’ persisted Harold, ‘a little eccentric perhaps, contrary even, and uhm – well, what you might call
forthright
, but …’ He hesitated, groping clumsily, ‘but wonderful with Temper of course. Yes, very good-tempered with Temper. Ha! Ha!’
‘Sorry?’ said Rosy, ‘I’m not quite sure—’
‘Our cat,’ explained Mrs Gill. ‘Marcia had a knack, you know, and whenever we were away she would take him over. In that respect she could always be relied upon. Well,
I mean …’ There was a confused pause. ‘I mean she was reliable in every way, of course, but especially with cats.’
‘Hmm,’ thought Rosy wryly, ‘is that to be Aunt Marcia’s epitaph:
Always reliable with cats
? Still, given the circumstances, at least preferable to
She wore her laurels with style.
She was about to thank them again about the funeral arrangements but was forestalled by Harold Gill saying darkly, ‘Very funny business if you ask me. All very peculiar, keeps one awake at night. At least, it does me – don’t know about Mildred, she’s made of sterner stuff, but personally I find it very unsettling. Can’t help imagining—’
‘Yes, well Rosy doesn’t want to know what you imagine,’ cut in his wife briskly. ‘It’s enough that the thing happened. It doesn’t have to be dwelt upon; that’s the province of the police, who I’m sure are doing a splendid job. At least, I suppose they are. That’s what we are always told at such times … But what do you think, my dear? Are they making any progress?’
Rosy shrugged. ‘I have no idea. And I doubt if they would say much to me even if they were.’ She tried to think of a way of detaching herself. Well intentioned though Marcia’s neighbours were, she really didn’t want to spend further time with the topic, especially in the middle of Lady Fawcett’s drawing room. The whole point of the party was enjoyment, and things had taken a turn which she could do without.