Pix (Volume Book 24) (Harpur & Iles Mysteries) (15 page)

‘Mansel likes to put things into a wide context,' Sybil said. ‘I missed that when I was away temporarily.'

‘Well, you would,' Margaret said.

The room they had pre-dinner drinks in was called in some of the older plans of the house the Round Room. Ralph liked this and they kept the name. The caterers sent two waitresses as well as the cook and her assistant, but Ralph handed out the aperitifs himself. He thought this would destroy any feelings in Sybil and Manse that Ember might have been lordly, arrogant, refusing to ask them to Low Pastures. He'd do his penance bit as a fucking waiter.

The Round Room was not totally round but had two curved walls, two straight. Margaret chose the furniture, mostly large, old pieces bought at auction. Ralph considered they suited well – a late nineteenth-century chiffonier, a heavy four-leaf table, also Victorian, some big
Edwardian armchairs, and a chesterfield that she'd had reupholstered in patterned moquette. Ember thought that in his crude but earnest way, Manse had it right about how these old places – the rectory and Low Pastures – were now looked after and esteemed by people who could afford properly to preserve and improve them.

Ralph had mixed bloody Marys earlier and served them from large jugs. He'd read somewhere that, when it came to aperitifs and table wines, the proper thing was for the host to choose, not ask people's preferences. With liqueurs, options could be offered, though generally Ralph noticed guests went for his own favourite, Kressmann armagnac from its interesting black-labelled bottle.

As a matter of fact, they were on to the liqueurs in the dining room after their meal, and the caterers and waitresses had left when Ralph heard a car approach on the drive and pull up. Someone rang the front door bell. Shale put down his glass and seemed to grow anxious. He glanced towards Ember as if to ask whether he expected callers, and as if to say, ‘What the fuck goes on, Ralph?' Manse's hand did not get in under those sweet lapels nor into a jacket pocket, so Ralph's guess that he had come unarmed, owing to the glory of the occasion, might be correct. Perhaps quality drinks made Shale jumpy.

Sybil said: ‘What is it, Manse?'

‘What?' he replied.

‘What is it?' Ember said.

‘What?' Shale said.

Sybil leaned across the table towards him and, dripping evil, said: ‘Mansel, is this one of those hot-arsed, possessive birds? You told the children we were coming here.'

‘Well, in case they needed to get in touch,' Shale said.

‘She's called at the rectory looking for you and been sent on by them,' Sybil said.

‘That's crazy,' Shale said.

Sybil sat back and turned now towards Margaret Ember: ‘What I have to take into account is that those women could have built all kinds of understandings with my children – with
my
children,' Sybil said. ‘Matilda, Laurent,
they'd think it all right to tell any of them where Mansel might be.' She switched back to him. ‘They've witnessed you in closenesses to them, haven't they? Haven't they?' Ember thought she might weep. So, perhaps it had been an error to bring Manse and her into Low Pastures after all. Demonstrations at the dining table he always found very off key. At least Sybil kept her voice reasonably down, yet it was damn vehement. She said: ‘By turn, these women became part of the day-in, day-out, night-in, night-out nature of my children's lives. They actually feel they have a loyalty to them. Isn't it appalling? Isn't it, isn't it?'

‘But you could be betting . . . I mean be getting all this . . . this all wrong, Syb,' Manse said. It was no big statement, but Manse stumbled. You could believe he might also stumble with a bottle of sauce on stairs. Occasionally, Ember spotted hints in Shale of that breakdown Chandor spoke of lately. This made Ralph feel strong. Who should be called ‘Panicking' now, then?

Ember's daughters, Venetia and her sister, Fay, were in one of the other downstairs room watching television and Ember heard them go out to the hall and look at the closed circuit monitors showing the front porch. Then, Venetia opened the dining-room door, no knock, and said: ‘Two women, dad.'

‘Two?' Sybil said. ‘My God, this is intolerable. Isn't it intolerable, Margaret?'

‘Youngish,' Venetia said. ‘One is, anyway.'

‘At this time of night and on someone else's property, valuable property. I apologize for him, Ralph. I absolutely voluntarily return to Mansel, and is this the kind of behaviour I should have to meet? Is it? Is it?'

‘Shall I let them in?' Venetia said.

‘This is Venetia,' Ember said, ‘and Fay in the background. Mr and Mrs Mansel Shale from the old St James' rectory. They are long-established friends, oh, yes.'

‘Hello,' Sybil said.

‘Hello,' Manse said.

‘But I comprehensively
worship
the shirt, Mr Shale,' Venetia replied. ‘In fact, the whole panoply.
So
on song!'

‘I'll deal with the front door, shall I?' Ember said.

‘Don't let them in,' Sybil said. ‘Tell them it's over. Tell them it's no good coming here in an alliance. That's only evidence of how unmeaningful each of those relationships was.'

‘What's over?' Venetia said. ‘Are these scrubbers? They want to be awkward?' She pointed one finger: ‘A shirt like that, Mr Shale, seems to cosset and yet project the wearer's neck while at the same time declaring its wearer so much a part of the today world.'

‘I'll be reasonable but quite firm,' Ember said.

‘
Quite
firm won't do with them,' Sybil said. ‘They'll persist like wasps. You've got to squash them.'

‘Who are they?' Venetia said, but lost concentration on that. ‘And, God, the waistcoat, Mr Shale! This is really sublime. Look at the sublime waistcoat, Fay! This is history unleashed! That waistcoat plus the shirt – well,
really
intemperate. Mr Shale, give dad some lessons in modes, will you?'

The bell rang again, tentative but persistent, yes, a bit like wasps. Ember went out into the hall and glanced at the monitor. One would be about thirty – maybe a year or two more – the other around twenty-three. They both looked much too good for Manse, but Ralph thought this must be true of any even marginally presentable woman. Think of Manse's nostrils. Ember would almost never have a firearm on him in his own home, for heaven's sake, and he felt these two were probably alone and harmless, though maybe emotional and bitter on account of Sybil's return to the rectory, if they'd heard of it. He opened the door and stood square in the space so they could not rush past and get through to the dining room and inconvenience Sybil or Manse or the two. Ralph considered this kind of protection another of those inescapable duties of a host. If you invited them you looked after them, no matter how dubious they might be. The front door was wide, as used to be the case for all front doors of gentlemen's homes in earlier periods to give a castle-like feel, and Ember knew he could not entirely block any attempt at entry. He also
knew he must be nicely framed in the space if these women had brought someone on contract with a gun to back them up and do their revenge. Just the same, Ember stayed there. When it came to matters of guarding his home or his club he hardly ever fell into one of his terrible panics. Territory backboned him. This would be so, even if Shale hadn't apparently taken over the panics.

‘Mr Ember?' the younger, taller one said. ‘Yes, it's Mr Ember, isn't it?'

‘Ralph W. Ember,' he said. ‘Can I help you?'

‘We went to the Monty.'

‘Yes?' Christ, who
were
these two? They wanted
him
, not Syb or Manse?

‘People said, “Try the Monty,” when we asked around. And, naturally, I knew of the club and said, “Yes, good idea.” '

‘In which respect?' Ember replied. ‘Asked around about what?'

‘People there know a lot, don't they? The buzz. Your membership is very . . . well, very various, isn't it?'

‘We aim for an interesting cross section,' Ember said. ‘Important for a club's dynamics. Just consider, would you, the many types at the Garrick or, even more so, the Groucho?'

‘We're looking for someone. We showed a picture at the club, but no luck. A member said you'd probably be at home at Low Pastures – in case you, personally, might know the man we're searching for. I'm from the
Evening Register
. Kate Mead. This is Meryl Goss, a Londoner. She has to go back soon. She's a little desperate.'

‘I've got the photo here,' Goss said. ‘If you could look, please. What is it with this city?'

‘In which respect?' Ember said.

‘Indifference,' Goss said. She wore jeans, desert boots and a navy jacket. Her fair-to-mousy hair had been done in small spikes. Although he regarded this as a ludicrous error, to Ralph she looked a warmer prospect than Kate Mead. God, he must be getting old.

‘Is everything all right, Ralph?' Margaret said. She had followed him to the door.

‘Someone missing, apparently,' he said.

‘Oh, dear,' Margaret said.

‘We thought Mr Ember knows so many people and might recognize him from the photograph,' Kate Mead said.

Margaret must have realized then that these were not women who'd lived on shift with Manse. ‘I think they should come in so we can see properly under the lights, don't you, Ralph? Stop standing there obstructing, like the Rock of Gibraltar.'

‘Yes,' Venetia said. ‘This sounds
really
important if she's come all the way from London looking.'

‘Right,' Ember said. ‘We have guests, you know.'

‘Get an eyeful of the mauve shirt,' Venetia said.

‘Our friends might be able to help,' Margaret said. ‘Mansel Shale also meets a lot of people.'

‘Oh, yes, with so much style he
must
get around or it would be wasted,' Venetia said. ‘Stupendous clothes-sense like that deserves a bigger audience than he'll get at Low Pastures. Who wrote the poem about a flower blushing unseen and wasting sweetness “on the desert air”?'

Ember led them into the dining room and made introductions. ‘These ladies have lost someone,' Margaret said.

‘No,
Meryl
has lost someone,' Kate said. ‘I'm a journalist tagging along.'

‘Is this for the Press?' Shale asked.

God, he did sound shaky.

‘The police have been told, but Meryl's not sure they'll really help,' Kate said.

Meryl put the photograph of a man aged about thirty-five, dark-haired, strong-featured, on the table alongside Sybil's liqueur glass. Ember did not recognize him. Shale gave the picture a long stare and shook his head. ‘No.'

‘No, nor me,' Margaret said.

‘No, but a dish, if I may say, Meryl,' Venetia replied. ‘Fay, come and look. Know him?'

‘No,' Fay said.

‘I reckon that's a Paul Mixtor-Hythe suit,' Venetia said. ‘More modern than Mr Shale's but still a classic.'

Sybil looked and said: ‘No, afraid I can't help.'

‘Is there some background?' Ember said.

Kate said: ‘He's Graham Trove and came here to meet contacts in property development.'

‘Property development?' Ember replied.

‘Property development,' Kate said.

‘No names?' Ember said.

‘Difficult, very difficult,' Shale said.

‘Just arrived and disappeared?' Venetia said. ‘Bizarre.'

‘Of course Meryl has already tried many property firms for information, but no go,' Kate said. ‘We had a list from the Chamber of Commerce. The buzz says it might have been someone called Hilaire Chandor. We've been there, but a blank. We need some more factual stuff before we approach him again.'

“Can we offer you something?' Ember said. ‘Wine? Armagnac? I'm sorry we're a disappointment after your trek out here.'

‘It's a lovely old house,' Kate said. ‘Such a sweep to the drive. I adore bare stone.'

‘A feature, yes,' Ember said.

‘A sort of . . . well, genuineness,' Kate said.

‘That has to be the word,' Shale replied.

‘Well, thanks, anyway,' Meryl said.

‘We'll keep on the alert for him, I promise,' Ember said.

‘Absolutely,' Venetia said.

‘We can always reach Kate at the
Register
,' Margaret said.

Ember brought a couple more balloon glasses from the sideboard and gave Meryl and Kate some armagnac although they hadn't replied to his offer.

‘You know, you're incredibly like Charlton Heston when younger,' Meryl said. ‘When
he
was younger, that is.'

‘Charlton Heston! Good Lord! He's the
El Cid
one, isn't he?' Ralph replied. He found it a damn pity she might be going back to London. Desert boots could do a lot for legs, as long as they were good to start with. He liked to think of the man-made soles striding out over broiling sand,
with the heat getting up the inside of her thighs, until the boots eventually reached an air-conditioned hotel with plashy fountains and garden tables under sunshades, where he'd be waiting wearing something cool and well-ironed in khaki or jungle green.

‘Chuck Heston – big in the American gun lobby,' Venetia said. ‘ “Every home should have one.” '

‘Yes. I've heard that about Mr Ember before, a Heston look-alike,' Kate said.

‘Dad loves it when people mention the resemblance,' Venetia said. ‘When
women
mention it, but always pretends he's amazed. It's called modesty – or as near as he gets.'

After the two women had left and the children were back watching TV, Shale, Sybil, Margaret and Ralph sat for a while in the drawing room with their drinks. Sybil asked: ‘Would they really expect you or Manse to say if you'd seen the man in the photograph, Ralph? Don't they understand about you two – and one a local reporter, supposed to be au fait with local matters? Bare stone walls cost money and where do they think the money comes from? Yes, you'd imagine she'd know the scene, wouldn't you? You'd imagine she'd realize that whether you knew him or not you'd say you didn't because saying you did could lead almost anywhere and lads like you don't care for uncharted ground.'