The Murder at Sissingham Hall (2 page)

Despite my tiredness after the long journey, we talked late into the night, until, one by one, the various members of the family were overcome by sleep and went up to bed. At last, only Bobs and I remained, sitting in companionable silence in two easy-chairs set one each side of the fire. I watched Bobs as he stared at the flames. He had not changed a bit: still the same knowing smile and easy laugh, always with a ready joke to enliven and lift the spirits of any party. In his earlier youth, he had ever been a source of worry to his family, given his unfortunate liking for tearing about town with a succession of unsuitable young women. I wondered if he had mellowed at all.

Bobs looked up and caught me smiling.

‘I was just thinking of the old days and wondering whether you are still causing your parents’ hair to turn grey,’ I explained.

He laughed.

‘Yes, I was rather a rapscallion, wasn’t I? Mother lived in constant terror that I would run away to Paris and marry an opera singer. Mind, it was a close thing sometimes. Do you remember Lili Le Sueur?’

I remembered her only too well. Bobs had met her when she was dancing in the chorus of one of the lesser productions. For professional purposes she claimed to be French, although in reality she was an American with laughing eyes and an enormous sense of fun.

‘I should say so. But I seem to recall that it was all over between you by the time I left England. Didn’t she return to America?’

‘Yes. She wanted to star in pictures, she said, but I heard that she married a dentist back home in Wisconsin. I suppose she has got fat and lost her looks by now,’ said Bobs regretfully. ‘That’s the worst of these married women. They settle down and get caught up in domestic cares and then they are not worth looking at any more.’

I found myself wondering whether Rosamund had lost her looks and was vexed with myself. Why should it matter? I must be tired after the journey, I thought, or I would not be giving in to such weakness. Rosamund was part of my past and I was keen to embrace the future.

‘So have you given up consorting with unsuitable young ladies?’ I asked, half-jokingly.

Bobs did not answer immediately. He seemed absorbed by the fire, or possibly by thoughts of the enchanting Miss Le Sueur. I repeated my question and he started.

‘Eh—what’s that? Oh, yes, I have done with all that kind of thing. I am older now and get into a different kind of scrape.’

There was a strange look in his eye. I glanced questioningly at him but he did not elaborate. Instead, he continued to stare wistfully into the glow.

Nothing remained of the fire but smouldering embers and I was starting to feel the chill of an English October after my years in the sun.

‘I think I had better go to bed,’ I said, standing up and stretching. ‘It is simply splendid to see you again, Bobs. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you came to meet me at Southampton. I was looking forward to a night in a dreary hotel in London but how much pleasanter it is to spend my first evening among friends!’

Bobs waved my thanks away airily.

‘Go and get a good night’s sleep, old chap, and dream of the veld.’

I bade him goodnight and climbed wearily up the stairs to my room, where I found my things neatly unpacked and laid out for me. Undressing quickly, I fell into bed and soon drifted off into a deep sleep untroubled by any dreams at all.

TWO

I spent several days with the Buckleys, joining them in the usual country pursuits and round of social events that are generally attached to a great house such as Bucklands. After such a long time away, I was surprised to find how easily I fell back into the old way of things. The heat and dust, the sounds and the smells of Africa began to seem like part of a previous life and after only a few days, I ceased to feel like a foreigner in my own land. Bobs and I spent several enjoyable days fishing in the stream that ran through Bucklands Park. In the evenings there were cocktails and parties, while on the rare occasions on which there were no visitors, we all talked and laughed together late into the night.

During that week, I also spent some time getting re-acquainted with Sylvia—or rather, getting acquainted with the lively young woman she now was, instead of the mischievous child she had once been. We passed endless hours walking around the grounds; she asking me intelligent questions about the life of a gold-miner and making me laugh with amusing tales of her friends in London, who seemed rather a wild crowd. I found her very good company and I sensed that she liked me too. My mind wandered into idle speculations of a most pleasant nature. I supposed I ought to be thinking of settling down before I became too set in my ways and Sylvia was the sort of girl I had always been attracted to: pretty, clever and sympathetic. Furthermore, I was sure that I would encounter no opposition from Lord and Lady Haverford. Despite misfortune, my family background was considered almost impeccable and now that I had become a successful man in my own right, their minds would certainly be relieved of any lingering doubts. I drew back from making any firm commitment, however, reflecting that I had only just returned to England and that I had no wish to act precipitately or take an irrevocable step that I might regret.

‘You seem rather preoccupied, Charles. What are you thinking about?’ asked Sylvia, looking sideways at me as we strolled around the rose garden, taking advantage of a short spell of autumn sunshine after several days of drizzle. I roused myself from my musings.

‘How rude of me. I’m afraid I let my mind stray to business matters,’ I replied. ‘It seems I have not yet shaken off the cares of the world, which can be my only excuse for letting my attention wander.’

‘Oh dear! Well, we simply must try and bring you out of yourself. You were rather stern and reserved when you first arrived but a few days have already done wonders for you. But we can still do better. Bobs and I are going down to Sissingham Hall to visit the Stricklands in a couple of weeks. You must come with us. I shall get Rosamund to invite you.’

I must have hesitated, because Sylvia immediately blushed, put her hand to her mouth and cried:

‘How simply dreadful of me, I completely forgot! Of course, you can’t have seen Rosamund since—’

Feeling, for my own sake as well as hers, that I must reassure her quickly, I laughed as naturally as I could and told her not to be an idiot.

‘Rosamund and I are old friends, nothing more,’ I said easily. ‘Our engagement was a mistake and both of us quickly realized it. We parted on the best of terms and I should be very happy to see her again after all these years.’

Sylvia had been watching me intently as I made this not-entirely-truthful speech and seemed relieved.

‘I’m glad of it,’ she said. ‘I was afraid I had said the wrong thing. I’m always doing that. Mother says I shall never make a diplomat’s wife.’

Again I told her not to be silly and instructed her in no uncertain terms that she was by no means to avoid Rosamund’s name; that I was looking forward to seeing Rosamund again; and, moreover, that I also relished the prospect of renewing my acquaintance with her husband, Sir Neville Strickland. I further intimated that there were other women—a woman even—whom I found more attractive these days. Sylvia quite rightly snorted at this thunderingly clumsy attempt at gallantry but seemed satisfied with my assertions.

‘Anyway,’ she said, reverting to the topic of my self-improvement, ‘I hope you are planning to stay with us for a good while yet. I—we are very much enjoying having you here. And besides,’ she continued in a practical tone that was more like herself, ‘You won all my money last night and I want to win it back.’

I laughed and we argued the point all the way back to the house.

‘What were you two talking about so cosily in the rose garden?’ Bobs murmured to me with eyebrows raised, as we came in to tea.

‘Haven’t you anything better to do than to watch people strolling in the rose garden?’ I replied blandly. Bobs’s eyebrows rose further but he did not press the point.

‘Charles, dear boy,’ boomed Lord Haverford as he entered the room. ‘We must have that chat about the prospecting rights. I have the maps all prepared.’

‘I’m ready now, sir, if you like.’

‘Then let’s go to my study, where we won’t be disturbed. As for bringing someone else into the business, I know the very man. Have you met Sir Neville Strickland? He already has interests in Africa and knows the work.’

Sylvia looked up warily and I couldn’t help but catch her eye as I was conducted out of the room. I smiled brightly and she gave me a wink, much to Bobs’s evident entertainment. I felt a little guilty for leaving her to withstand Bobs’s merciless teasing alone but Lord Haverford was not to be refused. And anyway, I reflected, she must surely be used to it by now.

After a week or so of more or less idle enjoyment, I reluctantly felt I must go up to London. I had business awaiting me there and, more pressingly, I was finding that my light clothes were wholly inadequate to ward off the chills of a dank October. So, dressed in a warm suit lent to me by Bobs, I arrived at Waterloo station for my first encounter with the fogs of London in more than eight years. After the ruin and subsequent death of my father, I had left town almost a pauper, owning little more than the clothes I stood up in; now, as I hailed a taxi and pronounced the words: ‘The Ritz’, in emphatic tones, I experienced a certain feeling of jubilation, for which I think I can hardly be blamed.

Once I had firmly installed myself and my belongings in that luxurious establishment, the next few days were spent in conducting essential business. I very soon possessed myself of a suitable wardrobe and as I surveyed myself in the long glass, I noted with satisfaction that, apart from the sun-tan, no longer could I be immediately set down as a Colonial. The next step was to set inquiries afoot for a discreet valet: I had lived in the rough for long enough and now I was determined to avail myself of all the comfort and convenience that London life affords. Of course, I would also have to find somewhere to live but that was not yet an immediate concern.

Town was rather quiet at that time of year but I managed to look up a few old school-mates, who were very glad to see me, or gave every appearance of it, and saved me from the unspeakable dullness of spending each evening alone. I dined out, disported myself rather disgracefully at the newest and most fashionable jazz night-clubs, danced with a string of pretty women and generally shook the dust of South Africa from my feet altogether.

Shortly after my arrival in London, I received a letter from Sir Neville Strickland, inviting me to lunch at his club with a view to discussing the prospecting rights. He rose and shook my hand warmly as I was ushered in to the grand, wood-panelled room in which so many vital affairs of state had been discussed over the years—and so many questionable deals done.

‘Delightful to see you again, my boy,’ he said. ‘It must be five years since you left, what?’

‘Eight, sir,’ I replied.

‘Indeed? So long? My, how time flies! Well, well, let us sit down. What will you have? The fish here is very good.’

Sir Neville was a florid man of around fifty, who was much more at home in the country than in town. He made cursory inquiries about my recent return to England, then plunged straight into the business at hand. This lasted us all the way through to coffee, when he suddenly changed the subject and invited me down to Sissingham Hall.

‘We should be very happy to see you,’ he said. ‘I know that Rosamund particularly wishes you to come, since you are such old friends. Young Buckley and his sister will be there and one or two other people. I expect it will be quite a jolly party. What do you say, hm?’

I accepted his invitation with thanks and promised I would play my part in making it a lively weekend. I had no idea when I said it that this would turn out to be truer than I had supposed.

‘How is Rosamund?’ I inquired.

‘Oh, she’s splendid, splendid. Of course, she finds it terribly dull in the country, so she’s very keen on these house parties. Naturally, I leave it to her to do all the organizing. Women are much better at that sort of thing, don’t you know. We men do well to stay out of it!’ He gave a short bark of laughter.

I well remembered how Rosamund used to bask in the gay brilliance and glitter of a large party, with herself as the queen of the evening. She had an almost child-like delight in being the centre of attention and would repay the devotion she received by graciously bestowing notice on her worshippers, rewarding them with dazzling smiles and a few moments in the bright circle of her radiance. I had been one such acolyte myself for a short while but this time I would resist.

The conversation touched on sport and fishing and then turned to politics and public affairs. Sir Neville bemoaned the rising costs of running his estate and became quite heated on the subject of tax. I nodded and made sympathetic replies whenever called upon to do so, although in truth, I was not really listening. I was instead reflecting on the strange forces that bring people together. Sir Neville and his wife were two very different people, with apparently very little in common: he was a staid, middle-aged man, strongly attached to the countryside and much preferring a tranquil life and family surroundings, while she was a lively, beautiful young woman with a wide circle of friends and a taste for excitement—and yet by all accounts, they were a devoted couple whose mutual attachment nobody doubted. But perhaps Rosamund had altered in the eight years since I had last seen her. Time wreaks many changes, as I knew only too well.