Mad About the Boy? (15 page)

Vargen Yashin looked at the man sitting across from Gerasimov. ‘Boris. Boris Paputin, I have sometimes wondered about your loyalty to us. You are a friend of Gerasimov's.'

Paputin licked dry lips and nodded nervously.

Yashin sounded, if anything, slightly bored. ‘You have in your right-hand pocket a loaded Mauser pistol. Take it out and shoot Gerasimov.'

Paputin, Yashin noted, didn't flinch. This was his chance to prove his loyalty. He drew out the gun and held it in a steady hand.

‘No!' cried Gerasimov. ‘Boris, no!' He jumped to his feet, kicking his chair over. Paputin steadied his aim and fired.

The report of the gun was deafening in the small room. Gerasimov slumped down, clutching at the table, blood pumping sluggishly from his chest.

The men round the table sat, heads bowed, afraid to catch the eye of either their neighbour or their leader.

Yashin nodded in satisfaction. His authority was restored. ‘Boris, Michael, dispose of the body in the usual way.' He spoke quietly but the two men leapt to do his bidding as if stung. They were afraid. Good. He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘This meeting is over. You may leave.' He watched as his men silently filed past, then, once he was alone, drew out his silver cigarette case and lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

Hesperus. There was a lot for him to be interested in at Hesperus. He didn't understand all of it and that worried him. How much had Lyvenden let slip? That worried him, too. It wasn't so much what he'd said but what could be worked out and inferred by a clever man. There was a very clever man at Hesperus. Major Haldean, a police spy. He frowned in concentration. Just at the moment, Major Haldean was a latent, undeveloped threat. But he, Yashin, didn't like threats. He was safe because he didn't like threats. He shrugged. To take action now would be stupid. But, if the opportunity arose, he would make sure he dealt with Major Haldean.

Haldean put down the phone in the hall with a feeling of satisfaction. Yes, said the sergeant at Stanmore Parry police station, Superintendent Ashley was back from his holiday, and yes, he, the sergeant, would certainly pass on Major Haldean's message. Good. That meant, if it all worked out as he hoped, an early evening pint and an interesting conversation in the Wheatsheaf.

And after that, he was going to have a quiet night in. He yawned. It had been three o'clock before they had got back from London after a very jolly evening in the Savoy Grill. Malcolm Smith-Fennimore had presented Isabelle with an enormous emerald engagement ring, and that could, of course, only be celebrated with champagne, then they had run into Mark Stuckley and his crowd, which called for more champagne, so, what with one thing and another, everyone had been very merry indeed.

It had been so merry it had been a real effort to get up for the golf party which Uncle Philip, a lifelong early riser, had organized for that morning but he'd managed it, and so had everyone else. The only one who wasn't on time was Stanton, who didn't even have a late night as an excuse. Haldean, who knew all about his uncle's views on punctuality, had winced as Stanton ambled into the hall, a good ten minutes after the cars were at the door. ‘I can't find my cuff-links,' he announced. ‘I've looked everywhere.'

‘Do you want to borrow some of mine?' Haldean asked, hearing his uncle snort like a leaky radiator in the background.

Stanton had heard the radiator impression too. ‘No thanks, Jack,' he said hastily. ‘I don't want to hold everybody up any longer. I'll play with my sleeves rolled up. It's a blinking nuisance, though. I can't think where they've got to.'

‘The same place as your tie-clips, your shirt studs and the blue tie which you were sure you'd brought with you and then decided you'd left in London?' suggested Haldean.

Stanton smiled sheepishly. ‘I suppose so.' He looked round the assembled group. ‘Are we going, then?'

Sir Philip turned up the heat on the radiator and led the way out of the hall at a very military quick march.

Not that the standard of play when they'd got to the links had been very high. Sir Philip, a twelve handicap man, had won easily by playing a succession of fair-to-medium balls, which improved his mood enormously. Haldean had the occasional flash of brilliance in a very average game but even Bubble and Squeak had played like things inspired compared to Lord Lyvenden whose awful golf was only matched by his still more awful plus-fours. Smith-Fennimore, who said he had a handicap of nine, was definitely off his form.

Malcolm Smith-Fennimore. Haldean bit his lip. He'd have to tackle the man sometime, especially as Fennimore had said he didn't want a long engagement. That conversation with his godfather had left him no choice in the matter but he couldn't pretend he was looking forward to it.

He glanced at the grandfather clock. Just after half past one. The side door from the garden opened and Smith-Fennimore came into the hall. Haldean looked up. ‘Hello, Fennimore. I wondered if I could have a word, old man.'

Smith-Fennimore rubbed the side of his chin with his hand and yawned discreetly. ‘Of course. I'm not late, am I? I've just been out to my car.'

Haldean shook his head. ‘No, we've got a few minutes yet. My aunt put back lunch for us. She knows what my uncle's like once you get him on the links.'

‘He enjoys his game, doesn't he? So do I as a general rule.' Smith-Fennimore was obviously making an effort to talk. He looked stale, and scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk to me about?'

Haldean glanced up and down the hall. There was no one else around. He drew closer. ‘There was, as a matter of fact.' He plunged in. ‘It's about you and Isabelle.'

Smith-Fennimore drew back. He suddenly looked very awake indeed. ‘What is it?'

‘Well, naturally I hope you'll be very happy. Isabelle means an awful lot to me, as you can imagine.'

‘She means an awful lot to me, too.' Smith-Fennimore looked puzzled. ‘For heaven's sake, Haldean, get to the point. What do you want to say?'

This was it. ‘I had lunch with my godfather, Archie Wilde, yesterday. He said . . . well, he said it's common knowledge you've been linked with a very beautiful woman. A Countess Drubetskaya.'

Smith-Fennimore drew back abruptly. ‘And exactly what concern of yours is this common knowledge?' he said icily.

‘Of mine personally, none whatever. Don't think I'm enjoying having to ask you about this, because I'm not. What you do is your own affair. But don't you see? Isabelle thinks the world of you and I care enormously about what happens to her. She'd be terribly cut up about it if there's anyone else on the scene.'

‘I still don't see why it's your concern,' Smith-Fennimore repeated.

Haldean smacked his fist into the palm of his hand in frustration. ‘Because I'm the only one of the family who knows! Her brother's in Malaya and I can hardly tell Uncle Philip. I certainly don't want to tell Uncle Philip. I've got to ask you.'

Smith-Fennimore thought about it for a long moment and then his frown cleared. Impulsively he thrust out his hand. ‘I suppose you did. The affair's over.'

Haldean took the outstretched hand with relief. ‘I'm glad to hear it. I wasn't looking forward to that conversation.'

Smith-Fennimore half smiled. ‘No, I can see you wouldn't be. Look, Haldean, I told Isabelle last night that the reason I didn't want her around yesterday is because I wanted to buy the engagement ring. That was perfectly true. But the other reason I needed to be alone was that I had to see . . .' He hesitated. ‘I had to see the lady in question. I wanted it finished and as quickly as possible. I didn't want there to be any doubt, and you can take it from me that there isn't. I could hardly tell Isabelle that's what I was going to do, but it's over.' He paused and added in a softer tone. ‘I think an awful lot of your cousin, you know. I would never do anything to hurt her.'

Haldean smiled. ‘Thanks for being so decent about it.' He broke off suddenly as footsteps sounded on the stairs and became apparently transfixed by the portrait of Claudia, first Lady Rivers, which hung above their heads. Isabelle and Alfred Charnock joined them.

‘Whatever are you gazing at that picture so raptly for, Jack?' asked Isabelle. ‘Hello, Malcolm.'

‘We were wondering if it was by anyone famous,' said Haldean, mendaciously. ‘Reynolds or someone.'

‘I wouldn't have thought so,' said Isabelle, frowning at the portrait. ‘It looks very ordinary to me.'

Charnock looked at Claudia, first Lady Rivers, critically. ‘I think she should have been painted by Stubbs. She looks exactly like a horse. I suppose one can comprehend why she had her portrait painted, but one can't possibly condone it.'

Isabelle giggled. ‘You mustn't be rude about her, Uncle.'

Charnock raised an eyebrow. ‘Why ever not?'

‘She was a terrific business woman. She's why Hesperus is called Hesperus. She was married to Gregory Rivers who went off with Captain Cook to watch the transit of Venus across the face of the sun, and he was away for years.'

‘I can see why,' said Charnock, softly.

‘And when he came back he built her this house, as an apology, I suppose, and they called it Hesperus – you know, Latin for Evening Star or Venus. Anyway, soon after they'd built it, he went off again and was drowned at sea so she flung herself into business and made lots of money and increased the estate no end.'

‘So,' said Alfred Charnock. ‘A happy ending all round, eh?'

The hail started to fill up. As if to avoid the crowd, Smith-Fennimore moved edgily to one side.

Isabelle followed him. ‘Are you all right, Malcolm?' she asked softly. ‘You don't seem quite yourself, somehow. You've been off colour all morning.'

He managed a smile. ‘I'm all right. I'm just feeling a bit stifled.' He made an obvious effort. ‘The late night didn't help but I think it's the change in the weather. There's a storm brewing. Have you seen the clouds racking up? I bet we have thunder this afternoon and it always gives me a headache.'

Charnock glanced at Egerton, who, after looking at the grandfather clock, sounded the dinner gong with a practised crescendo. ‘I'm going out for lunch. I must be off. I've got an appointment in Brighton. Let me have your car, Jack. Philip always gets agitated when I use the Rolls.'

Given the casual way in which Charnock drove, Haldean's sympathies were entirely with his uncle, but he couldn't think of a socially acceptable way to refuse. ‘I suppose so,' he said reluctantly. ‘Careful with the clutch, though. It's a bit sticky.'

‘Malcolm's giving me driving lessons,' said Isabelle, brightly.

Haldean grinned. ‘Brave man. I wish someone had taught your Uncle Alfred,' he added, watching Charnock's departing back. ‘I know for a fact he's wrecked at least one car.'

‘That was an accident.'

‘That was rotten careless driving. Talking of wrecks, it's an odd thing, but I'd not heard that story about Hesperus before. I always associated it with that poem we used to be bullied into reciting as kids – you know, “The Wreck of the Hesperus”.'

‘
It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea
,' quoted Isabelle. ‘It makes me giggle like mad, now. The captain comes to grief because he won't believe there's a storm on the way.'

‘I used to have to recite that too,' said Smith-Fennimore. ‘Talking of captains, where's Stanton?'

Isabelle looked around the hall. ‘I don't know. I hope he's not going to be late again. I thought Dad was going to go pop this morning. Lord Lyvenden's missing, too.'

‘I hope he's changed out his golf things,' said Haldean. ‘Lord Lyvenden, I mean. I've never seen more gruesome plus-fours.'

‘Horrible, weren't they?' said Isabelle. She looked at the clock impatiently. ‘I wish they'd hurry up. Arthur certainly knew what time lunch was. Dad gets so agitated when people are late for meals. Can you go and get them, Malcolm? They might not have heard the gong.'

‘Right-oh,' said Smith-Fennimore obligingly. ‘You coming, Haldean?' he said with a discreet jerk of his head. ‘You go in, Isabelle. We won't be long. We'll get Stanton first and then go on for Lord Lyvenden.' Haldean and Smith-Fennimore walked up the stairs together. ‘I just wanted to repeat what I said earlier,' said Smith-Fennimore in a low voice. ‘You really needn't worry about Isabelle. And as for you tackling me about it, don't worry about that, either. I see you had no choice.'

‘Thanks, Fennimore,' said Haldean with a smile. ‘I wonder what the dickens is keeping Arthur?' he added.

‘Whatever does keep him on these occasions. He's a bit scatty, isn't he? As far as I can tell he's been late for virtually every meal.'

‘Yes. He's between valets at the moment which is probably why. He'll have lost his braces or something,' said Haldean. ‘By the way, talking about losing things, d'you know that Russian who was here on Sunday? I wondered if you'd seen anything of the knife Mr Charnock took off him after their set-to. Apparently it's gone missing. He was sounding off about it at breakfast.'

‘No, I haven't seen it. It's bound to turn up. He can't lose a knife like that. Apart from anything else, it must be unique.'

‘Unique?' Haldean shook his head. ‘Not really, although he said he'd put his initials on it. But you can get those big sheath knives anywhere.'

‘Can you?' Smith-Fennimore shrugged. ‘I haven't come across them. Mr Charnock must have left it lying around somewhere.'

They knocked on the door of Stanton's room and a distracted voice shouted, ‘Come in!'

‘Oh, it's you, Jack,' said Stanton as they entered. ‘And you, Smith-Fennimore,' he added in slightly less welcoming tones. Although he had put on a fresh shirt and was wearing his braces, his collar was undone and he hadn't put on either his jacket or tie. ‘Do you know, I still can't find any of my cuff-links,' he said in a distracted way. ‘It's one thing playing golf, but I can't go down to lunch with my sleeves flapping. They're in a long brown leather box and I always keep them on my dressing table, but they've completely vanished. I can't think where I've put them.'