Mad About the Boy? (16 page)

‘Honestly, Arthur, you need a nurse maid,' said Haldean indulgently, starting to move the clutter on the dressing table. ‘If you can't find them, I'll lend you a pair of mine. You'll have to get a move on. I don't suppose they've slipped into your top drawer, have they?' He opened the drawer and, taking out a heap of socks, started to search.

‘Here they are,' said Smith-Fennimore, stooping down beside the chest of drawers. ‘They must have got knocked off.'

‘Oh, thanks,' said Stanton, taking the box and quickly doing up his cuffs. ‘I thought I'd looked there.' He glanced at Haldean who had stopped dead, staring into the drawer. ‘What are you gazing at, Jack? I can't think there's anything so exciting in there. Put those socks back, will you? I don't want to lose them as well.'

Haldean reached into the drawer and took out a longbladed sheath knife. He held it up. ‘What's this doing here? It's Alfred Charnock's knife.' He turned it over in his hands. It was Alfred Charnock's knife, all right. Scratched into the leather binding of the hilt were the initials A.C. and Sunday's date.

Stanton froze, cuff-link in hand. ‘How on earth did that get there?'

‘Let me see it,' said Smith-Fennimore, holding out his hand.

Haldean passed it across, handle first. Smith-Fennimore tested the blade on his thumb with a grimace. ‘It's some weapon. How did you come by it, Stanton?'

‘I haven't a clue,' protested Stanton. ‘Let me have a look at it.'

As Smith-Fennimore passed it over, Stanton reached out for it. The knife fell and Smith-Fennimore reached out to catch it.

The knife clattered to the floor. Smith-Fennimore drew his breath in sharply, looking at the line of blood across the palm of his hand. ‘That was pretty stupid of me,' he said. He pressed his thumb into his palm. ‘Give me a handkerchief, someone,' he said tightly.

‘Here, have one of mine,' said Stanton, reaching into a drawer.

They watched as the cloth turned red. ‘You'd better get some iodine on that,' said Haldean. ‘It looks a nasty cut.'

‘It stings, that's for sure,' said Smith-Fennimore. ‘I won't be able to use this hand for a bit. It's my right one, worse luck.' He drew a little jagged breath. ‘Look, Haldean, there's no point in us all being late. I know what your uncle's like. Stanton can help me put some sort of bandage on my hand. You get along and tell the others we're coming.'

‘All right. Shall I collect Lord Lyvenden on the way?'

‘Leave him to us.'

‘All right. Good Lord, look at the time! Hurry up, won't you, Arthur. My uncle really does hate people being late. Your tie's on the back of the chair in case you didn't see it and your jacket's there as well.'

He hurried through the door as Smith-Fennimore said, ‘Have you got another handkerchief, Stanton? I'll need some help to tie the knot properly.'

Lunch was past the soup stage and a dish of lamb cutlets was being served by the time Smith-Fennimore joined them with a makeshift bandage round his hand. ‘Sorry I'm late, Lady Rivers,' he apologized, sitting down. ‘I had a bit of an accident.'

‘Jack told us,' said Isabelle, adding sympathetically, ‘You look a bit shaken.'

‘I'll be fine. It was my own fault.'

Haldean helped himself to spinach from the dish Egerton was offering. ‘Where's Arthur?'

‘He went to root out Lyvenden while I went to the bathroom. I hoped I'd find some iodine in the cupboard.' He drank some water, wincing slightly as the movement hurt him. ‘I see we're without Lady Harriet and Mrs Strachan as well.'

‘They're both out for lunch,' said Sir Philip. ‘As far as Mrs Strachan goes, I can't say I'm sorry.' He hunched his shoulders. ‘That was a disgraceful scene last night, Alice. What on earth the silly woman was doing with all that cash in the first place, I don't know.'

‘Whatever happened?' asked Isabelle, all agog.

‘Mrs Strachan apparently had about fifty pounds in her bedroom,' explained Sir Philip, ‘and, of course, she mislaid it. Instead of looking for it properly, she immediately accused Lady Harriet's maid, that little French girl, of taking it. Pretty bit of a thing,' he said absently, then caught his wife's eye. ‘Not that that's anything to do with it,' he added hastily. ‘Anyway, they were screaming at each other, Lady Harriet joined in, Lyvenden tried to intervene and made matters much worse, the house was in an uproar and we eventually found the money tucked in a drawer. Mrs Strachan gave the girl five pounds to make up, the maid stopped screeching and everyone was happy. Apart from me. It was a shocking fuss. Where
is
Lyvenden? If the man's not going to come to lunch, why doesn't he say so?'

At this point, Lawson, the footman, approached and said something quietly to Sir Philip who responded by flinging down his napkin and getting up from the table.

‘Apparently Lyvenden's at it now,' he announced to the whole table. ‘He's kicking up a row, I mean. He's having an argument in his room. God knows who with. I suppose it's his valet or someone but I'd better go and sort it out. We can't have this sort of thing going on.'

Smith-Fennimore glanced up. ‘It's not his valet. My man, Sotherby, has gone out with Lyvenden's man for the afternoon.' He paused and looked at Haldean. ‘You don't think that Russian has come back, do you?'

Haldean got to his feet. ‘I'll go and find out.' If the Russian had come back then the last thing he wanted was his uncle, in his present mood, to meet him.

‘You can come with me,' said Sir Philip pugnaciously. ‘But my word, if that Russian's here I'll have a thing or two to say to him. And Lyvenden, come to that.'

Haldean inclined his head towards Smith-Fennimore who pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

Isabelle stood up too.

‘There's no need for you to come, my girl,' said her father.

‘Do let me, Dad. After all, I missed out on the fun last time.'

Sir Philip would have normally argued the point but he was anxious to go. ‘Fun!' he said in a way that left no one in any doubt about his feelings, and marched out of the room towards the garden suite. Both the Robiceuxs got up, determined to be in on the action. Sir Philip could hardly forbid them, but it didn't improve his temper when he looked over his shoulder and saw his retinue.

They heard the noise from the far end of the corridor. Although they couldn't distinguish the words, they clearly heard shouts followed by a series of bangs, as if the furniture was being savagely kicked. Sir Philip increased his pace.

‘What's going on? It sounds as if someone was being murdered in there,' said Haldean to Smith-Fennimore. ‘I say . . .'

Smith-Fennimore looked at him. ‘Come on.'

The two men exchanged worried glances, and ran to catch up with Sir Philip, arriving slightly before him.

Sir Philip banged on the door. ‘Open this door immediately!' he shouted. There was sudden silence.

Smith-Fennimore knelt down and put his eye to the keyhole. His injured hand caught on the handle and he winced away, falling sideways. Sprawled on the floor against the door, he looked up at Sir Philip anxiously. ‘I think we'd better break it down, sir.' He hastily scrambled clear as Haldean prepared to charge.

‘Shoot the lock off, Malcolm!' called Isabelle.

All the householder rose in Sir Philip. He caught hold of Haldean and looked in horror at the gun Smith-Fennimore was brandishing. ‘Put that thing away, man. You'll kill someone with it. As for you, Jack, you can run at that door until you're blue in the face. This door opens outwards, as you should well know.'

‘Oh, Sorry, Uncle. I say,' said Haldean, his impetuous rush halted. ‘I suppose the door is locked, is it?'

Sir Philip rattled the handle and the door swung open towards them. They all rapidly went in and then stopped short.

In the middle of the room, huddled by the desk, his arms flung wide, lay the body of Lord Lyvenden. A dark and sinister lake surrounded him. The rich salty smell of blood hit them like a clenched fist. A long-bladed knife stuck out grotesquely from Lord Lyvenden's chest and beside the body, his shirt stained and his hands covered in blood, knelt Arthur Stanton.

Haldean looked from the sprawled body of Lord Lyvenden to his friend's white, nervous face in horror. ‘Arthur? Arthur, what happened?'

Stanton looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. ‘I didn't do anything. Anything at all. I didn't do it. I don't know how it happened. Honestly, I didn't do it.'

He struggled to his feet and walked towards them. His hands were red and slimy with blood. Bubble Robiceux screamed and Stanton turned to her. ‘I tell you, I haven't done anything.' He glanced behind him at Lyvenden's body. ‘I didn't do it. I know what it looks like but I didn't do it.' He turned to Haldean, hands outstretched. ‘Tell them, Jack. You know I wouldn't do it.' Stanton put a bloodstained hand on Haldean's arm. ‘You know I didn't do it.'

Haldean stared at his friend, then at the hand on his sleeve. ‘Arthur?' he said in a whisper. ‘What did you do?'

‘Nothing!' There was rising hysteria in Stanton's voice. ‘Nothing!'

‘We'll let the police decide that,' said Smith-Fennimore curtly. He had his gun in his hand. ‘Back against the wall, man.'

Stanton shook his head. ‘You don't understand. I didn't do it. I haven't done anything.'

‘Back against the wall,' repeated Smith-Fennimore, walking slowly towards him, his gun pointed at Stanton's chest.

Stanton raised his arms as if to fend him off, walked backwards and stumbled over the body. Lord Lyvenden had evidently been lighting a cigarette when he was struck down, for his ornate cigarette case lay flung open on the rug, the cigarettes covered in blood. On his knees, Stanton picked it up. He started to laugh, a horrible, hysterical sound. ‘He wanted a cigarette. Look.' He covered his face with his hands. ‘He wanted a cigarette.'

‘Stop it, Arthur!' said Haldean urgently. ‘Stop it.'

Stanton had his hand to his mouth, gasping for breath. ‘I know. I know. It's not funny I know. It's just that –'

‘Get up and back against the wall,' said Smith-Fennimore again.

Stanton got up unsteadily. ‘You know I've not done anything.'

‘Arthur,' said Haldean quietly. ‘What happened?'

Stanton looked at the body beside him and at the faces in front of him. ‘Isabelle,' he cried. ‘You don't believe I did it, do you?'

She shook her head, unable to make sense of what she saw.

‘Back against the wall,' said Smith-Fennimore once more. ‘You can't get away.'

Stanton shook his head, bewildered. He looked at them in despair, then saw one chance of escape. Gathering himself for a spring, he put his shoulder down and rushed at the french windows, splintering his way through them with a crash.

At the same moment Smith-Fennimore fired. The bullet went wide. ‘Stop, man!' he roared, and, striding to the wreckage of the window, levelled the gun again.

Isabelle shouted, flinging herself at him as the gun exploded once more. On the lawn, halfway between the house and the shrubbery, Stanton stumbled, fell to his knees, picked himself up and carried on running.

Smith-Fennimore whirled round on Isabelle. ‘You fool!' he snarled. ‘You nearly made me kill him!'

Isabelle shrank back from the fury in his face. ‘You . . . you . . .' she faltered and, snatching off her engagement ring, flung it at him. The emerald scraped his cheek then clattered to the floor, the noise suddenly loud in the silence.

Like someone moving in a trance, Smith-Fennimore put his hand to his face where the emerald had struck him.

Isabelle put her hand across her eyes and burst into tears. Smith-Fennimore stood like a statue, gun lowered, gazing at Isabelle.

‘I say,' said Haldean, his voice sounding utterly unnatural in his own ears. ‘Hadn't someone better get after Arthur?'

Sir Philip Rivers escorted Superintendent Ashley to Lord Lyvenden's room. ‘It's all in here, my dear feller.' Sir Philip was sincerely glad to see the Superintendent, a solid, dependable-looking man in his middle forties who radiated a steady calm. Apparently Superintendent Ashley had actually been on his way to Stanmore Parry police station when Sir Philip had telephoned. Much to Sir Philip's relief, Ashley had arrived less than an hour after they'd found Lord Lyvenden's body. ‘I never believed that this sort of thing could happen at Hesperus,' continued Sir Philip. ‘It's been a very difficult few days. Very difficult.'

Sir Philip, Ashley decided, looked as if he'd been having a rough time. When he had met Sir Philip the previous year his impression had been of a self-confident, vigorous man, very well contented with his lot, with an outdoor face and humorous eyes. Now he moved like a man at least fifteen years older and his face was mottled with care. He looks worried to death, poor beggar, thought Ashley.

‘Is Haldean here, Sir Philip?' Although he had the bare facts recorded in his notebook, Haldean, he knew, would give him the sort of detail he needed to make sense of the case. Because the bare facts as recorded didn't make any sense at all. Why should an ex-army captain, late of the Royal Sussex, a man with an excellent record and, apparently, a close friend of Jack Haldean's, suddenly take it into his head to stab a Birmingham arms manufacturer?

‘Jack?' Sir Philip shook his head. ‘He's taken his car out looking for Stanton. Isabelle's gone with him and the two Robiceux girls. I don't know when they'll be back.' He paused with his hand on the door of Lyvenden's room. ‘Prepare yourself, my dear chap. It's a ghastly sight.'

It certainly was. Ashley's first impression was of biting cold. The storm, which had been threatening since lunchtime, had broken in earnest. The rain drove in through the shattered windows and the curtains flapped wildly in the wind. He shivered as he looked at the body on the rug.