“He said there was no quarrel. That the evening was harmonious. That Harrison and Barnes enacted Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus. If that was all there was to it, of course.”
“I am beginning to think it wasn’t,” said Giles. “I wonder, Mr Carswell, is there any way that such acts can be discovered forensically?”
“That rather depends,” said Carswell. “I don’t have any direct experience of these sort of cases myself, but the theory is that if the victim (if one chooses to put in that light) is habituated to the act, that there is very little evidence. If not, if it is a question of assault for example, then it might be visible.”
“You didn’t notice anything unusual when you did your post mortem?”
“No, but I will look again – and do a little more research. There is rather a variety of opinions on this, of course. Some men take a more liberal stance than others.”
“It is a difficult question, certainly,” said Giles. “Classical literature suggests that it was once perfectly acceptable for an older man to take a young man as a lover. But the Bible is clear on the matter, as is the law of the land, which is more to the point. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it,” he said, “we must proceed with great caution and keep our judgements and feelings to ourselves. People are far less inclined to speak unguardedly if they think they are suspected of something. There is an undercurrent here that must be explored – it may be the key to the whole business.”
He broke off, for he realised that Carswell was no longer listening. He had stopped in his tracks to watch an open carriage drawn by a sumptuous pair of bays. The coachmen and postillion were wearing the gold and chocolate livery of the Marquess of Rothborough, and as it bowled towards them, the noble lord himself could be seen sitting with his back to the horses, while opposite him was a lady and a small child – Mrs Morgan and her son.
“What the devil does he –” Carswell muttered, and was about to stride over to the carriage which was drawing up in front of Avonside Row. Giles caught his arm.
“We have work to do, Mr Carswell,” he said.
“What is she doing driving with him? Mrs Ridolfi said they went for a walk.”
Rothborough was now lifting the child out of the carriage.
His hand still on Carswell’s arm, Giles said, “She does not have to answer to you for her actions.”
“Don’t you wish to ask her about the dead bird?”
“As I said before, I shall send Rollins in to talk to the servants. It is hardly our most pressing task.”
“But, sir, you gave her assurances that it would be investigated.”
“Yes, and it is in hand. However I cannot simply drop a murder enquiry. She of all people will understand that. My impression of her is that she is not a piece of fragile china who must be protected from every shake and buffet.”
“But she is being victimised by some unknown person. That can’t be allowed to pass, surely?”
“It is not being allowed to pass. Really, Mr Carswell, you must attempt to keep your admiration in check. Of course, I know it is not easy in the presence of such a woman as Mrs Morgan.” He said this with some sincerity for the sight of her climbing out of the carriage was an appealing one.
“So you find her admirable?”
“What man wouldn’t? But she is also a respectable married woman.”
“Something that Lord Rothborough seems to forget,” Carswell said. “He seems to treat her like something else entirely! And that –”
“I am sure she knows perfectly how to deal with Lord Rothborough,” said Giles, unable to repress a smile at Carswell’s vehemence. “Besides, you will be able to see her tonight. She is dining with my sister and brother-in-law and we have been favoured with an invitation.”
“But not Lord Rothborough, I trust?”
“I very much doubt it,” said Giles.
Chapter Seventeen
“It was impossible not to ask him,” said Lambert, catching Giles for a moment of private conversation on the half landing coming down from the drawing room at the Treasurer’s House. The others were making their way into the dining room in a procession led by Sally and Lord Rothborough. “Sally has already burnt my ear over it, but my Lord is... well, you know what he is like. When he heard that Mrs Morgan was coming...” He shrugged. “He does even up the table, we can say that for it!”
“I shan’t burn your ear – but watch out for Carswell. He is feeling most protective of the lady,” said Giles, watching as Carswell stepped back from the door to let Mrs Morgan and Mrs Ridolfi go in.
“Oh, the poor fellow,” said Lambert. “Of course – he is just the age for a bad case. I had a tendre myself at the same age for Francesca Corti but of course, I never had to sit with her at dinner. This
will
be a great trial for him. Perhaps we should send him upstairs to supper with Celia. She’ll be glad to see him and I’d rather his heart was broken than hers.”
“She still intends to marry him?” said Giles. At the age of eleven, Celia had decided that Felix Carswell was her future husband.
“Yes, she’s determined on it. I should send her to talk to Lord Rothborough. She would put him in his place, if anyone can.” It was an entertaining thought. “Between you and me, Giles,” Lambert went on in a quieter tone, “you don’t think there is actually anything between Mrs Morgan and Lord Rothborough, do you?”
“I doubt it,” said Giles.
“I hope you are right. But I sense there is a campaign under way,” said Lambert.
“Success is not inevitable, even for Lord Rothborough.”
“He managed to get me to invite him to dinner against my will. What havoc might he unleash upon on a defenceless woman’s heart?”
“You are poetic tonight, but I don’t think Mrs Morgan is defenceless. She has us here to protect her. Not to mention Mr Carswell.”
Lambert smiled at that. “I understand her brother is her manager. Where is he then?”
“As curiously absent as her husband,” said Giles. “It’s rather unfortunate for her. She must wish them here in such circumstances.”
“According to Watkins the husband is a scoundrel,” said Lambert.
“Yes, he said that to me,” said Giles. “What else did he say to you about the state of the marriage?”
“He didn’t say it in so many words, but it is not reckoned to be happy.”
“So she may be here alone by choice?” Giles said. “You don’t happen to know if they have actually parted company, do you?”
“No. But then that’s hardly the sort of thing I would be privy to, is it?”
They were eight at dinner: Lambert and Sally, Lord Rothborough, Mrs Morgan, Giles, Mrs Ridolfi, Carswell and Watkins. As was usual in the Fforde household, the table was elegant and liberal, and if he was on campaign, Lord Rothborough gave no sign of it. He was faultlessly attentive to his hostess and managed to choose all Sally’s favourite conversational subjects. Giles wondered if his conscience was hurting him – having forced himself on them he was prepared to be the most agreeable and useful guest. He had opinions and information on everything – he was able to discuss the merits of German versus English organ-building with Mr Watkins and wild flowers with Mrs Ridolfi with perfect ease.
But for all that, it was still awkward. Mrs Ridolfi was pale and reticent, unable to hide the disapproval Giles knew she must feel. Mr Watkins also said very little out of turn, which suggested he was not at all at his ease, when Giles had previously observed him to be voluble, verging on the emotional. Carswell, he feared, was a muzzled, angry dog on too short a leash and Giles wondered if and when his patience would desert him.
As for Mrs Morgan – she was as smooth and polished as Lord Rothborough in her manner. She said nothing out of turn, only what was pleasing and apt. Giles saw the easy charm of it, but had no clear sense of the woman beneath. He knew she was talented actress – did that mean that performance was part of her character?
He wondered again whether she had parted from her husband. It would make a great deal of sense if she had, and it perhaps gave some clue as to the source of those unpleasant letters. Perhaps they had been sent by an aggrieved and malicious husband? If Morgan was a scoundrel and had made her so wretched that she felt forced to leave him, well, that was hardly something that a woman, anxious to preserve her reputation, would readily admit to on first acquaintance, even in the context of asking the police for assistance. But it if was the case, he wished she had managed to tell the truth that first afternoon. It left a rather disagreeable impression.
Then there was this business with Lord Rothborough. If she was susceptible to Rothborough, then she was playing with fire, and accepting carriage drives and the use of his house was not going to help her reputation a great deal. But perhaps her world, which Giles felt he did not fully understand, demanded different actions. After enduring a scoundrel of a husband and a miserable marriage, she was perhaps vulnerable. Rothborough was no rich booby. He was a compelling man in the prime of life, sophisticated and worldly, yes, but not without charm and a certain sensitivity. He was making Sally laugh at that very moment. What woman in a dangerous frame of mind would not be tempted?
***
The gentlemen had not spent long over their wine. Usually Canon Fforde would not let them upstairs again until they had sampled at least two interesting vintages and given their opinions on them. It could be a lengthy business, but not tonight. There was just one decanter of port, but it had Lord Rothborough fairly raving and even Major Vernon, who was never intemperate, took a second glass.
Felix, for his part, could not see what so remarkable about it, although it was easy to drink – perhaps too easy. He realised when they got up from that he had taken a little more than he should have. He felt flushed and disorderly – the wine had amplified his already feverish state. Dining with Mrs Morgan would had been both a pleasure and torture in ordinary circumstances, but the circumstances were not ordinary. Lord Rothborough’s intrusion had seen to that. Felix felt like a primed and loaded duelling pistol and he wondered how on earth he was going to to get through the rest of the evening without losing his temper.
He had gone to relieve himself in the closet next to the dining room, and emerged to find Lord Rothborough had not yet gone upstairs but was waiting for him in the hall.
“A word, my boy,” he said beckoning him over.
“We should go up,” said Felix, gesturing towards the stairs.
“All in good time,” said Lord Rothborough coming over. He gave Felix’s cravat a tweak, then straightened his lapels, at which Felix flinched. “I wish you would hold yourself better,” he said. “Even that young Watkins carries himself better.”
“Do you not want to be upstairs, sir?” he said, “with Mrs Morgan?”
“Mrs Morgan can wait,” Lord Rothborough said. “And I know what you are suggesting with that tone, and I request that you desist from it.”
“That may be difficult,” Felix said. “When you...”
“Desist sir,” said Rothborough calmly. “Now, listen, I have some important news for you. You know that our neighbour Sir Robert Arden has died?”
“No,” said Felix, particularly disliking that ‘our neighbour’. He had no wish to be encompassed into Rothborough’s household.
“He has no heir and debts aplenty. The estate will go to auction. The house itself is practically a ruin but is a considerable piece of land, with a good income on it, and it borders Holbroke to the north-east. Naturally, I am going to acquire it.”
“What of it?” Felix said, carelessly.
Rothborough tapped Felix on his lapel.
“Because, my lad, I intend to settle it on it on you. It is a nice income for you – and there may be considerable mineral rights there, which we would be fools not to investigate. It is a good piece of property, entirely suitable for our purposes. You need some land, Felix. Without land you can and will be no-one.” Then, before Felix had a chance to say a word, he added, “Now, let us go upstairs. With luck Mrs Morgan will be persuaded to sing for us.”
There was some part of Felix that almost admired Lord Rothborough, or at least admired his guile, for choosing such a moment to impart this information, when there was no time to form an adequate rebuttal. Annoyed almost to the point of incoherence, he struggled to find some sort of retort. All he could manage to say was, “So, my Lord, what precisely are your intentions towards her?”
“My intentions towards Mrs Morgan? Dear God, Felix, must you be so provincial?” He shook his head. “Of course you admire her, but –” He exhaled. “Indeed I might ask you what your intentions are?” Felix could find no answer. It was a painful question. “Yes?” He sighed again as Felix remained silent. “What did I say to you about the dangers of love? Did you not listen to anything I said? You must guard your affections. Such a person can mean nothing to you. Of course, you could learn a great deal from her – a woman like that is a civilising influence on a man. It would do you good.” Rothborough then began to climb the stairs and then stopped, and turned back to Felix. “And talking of the social niceties, you were not as appreciative of Canon Fforde’s excellent port as you should have been, especially when you drank so much of it. You still have a most uncultivated palate. You should make more of a study of these things.”
Then, before Felix had a chance to answer, he strode up the rest of the staircase and disappeared into the drawing room.
Felix stood for a moment in the hall, trying to master himself. He knew he must follow. It would have been most discourteous to do anything else, but he felt dry-throated with rage, and entirely unsuitable for company.
Finally, he made his way upstairs, his hands clasped behind his back, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. He went over to Major Vernon, who was standing by the fire watching everything with his usual acute gaze. He gave Felix a slightly encouraging smile, as if he understood his condition, and Felix felt a little better for it.
The ladies were sitting around the tea table with their work in their hands, while Canon Fforde was opening the piano and arranging candles.
“Will you sing for us, ma’am?” Lord Rothborough was asking Mrs Ridolfi.