To Be the Best

  ‘You will come to Clonloughlin, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, in about two weeks’ time.’

  ‘Marvellous. Sally and I will enjoy having you. How long do you think you can stay?’

  ‘Ten days, two weeks perhaps.’ Alexander swallowed the last of his wine, put the glass down on the end table near the fireplace. ‘I’ve booked a table at Mark’s Club for nine o’clock. Perhaps we should stroll down there shortly, have a drink in the bar—’

  Alexander rose at the sound of the phone ringing in the library which adjoined the drawing room. ‘Excuse me,’ he said as he hurried to answer it. He returned a second later. ‘It’s for you, Anthony… Sally calling from Ireland.’

  ‘Oh yes, I expected to hear from her. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t tell her anything now. About my illness, I mean. Not over the phone,’ Sandy instructed.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Anthony reassured him as he strode across the floor, went through the double mahogany doors and into the library.

  ***

  Left alone, Alexander sat down on one of the sofas and closed his eyes.

  The last couple of hours had been trying, had vitiated his energy. Even though the others had striven hard not to display their feelings, to be brave, they had been terribly upset. As he had known they would be. That was why he had so dreaded telling them. He had only managed to get through the ordeal of breaking his bad news by being utterly detached and matter of fact.

  He accepted his death with equanimity now, had come to terms with his fate. There was little else he could do. And in so doing he had been able to confide in those closest to him, because he could help them to do exactly the same thing. It was going to be hardest on Emily, of course. They had been as close as two peas in a pod when they were growing up. They had relied on each other in a certain sense. Their mother had been so flighty in those days, running from man to man, and marrying all sorts of disreputable characters. And their sweet but weak-willed father, crushed by the burden of his broken heart, had scarcely seemed aware of their existence. Alexander sighed under his breath. What a catastrophe his father’s life had been. And his mother’s, too. But wasn’t life itself a catastrophe?

  Alexander instantly let go of this thought, not wanting to sink into deep philosophical ruminations this evening, as he had been so wont to do of late. Grandy wouldn’t approve, he said to himself, and smiled, remembering Emma Harte. How invincible she had been, and right up to the end. Life for her had been a triumph. So much for his theories… but then perhaps life was rooted in doom and tragedy for some.

  Opening his eyes, Alexander glanced around the room blinking. It looked beautiful tonight in the glow of the lamps and the warming firelight. Maggie had decorated this room just after their marriage, and he always thought of it as a bit of English spring, whatever the time of year, with its primrose and daffodil yellows, pale blues and greens. Whenever it needed redoing he simply had the scheme repeated. He had been doing so since her death…

  His cousin interrupted his musings when he said, ‘I say, Sandy, are you all right?’ Anthony hovered over him, looking concerned.

  Alexander pushed himself upright on the sofa. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I was recouping… the last few hours have been a little wearing.’

  ‘Of course they have. Come on, let’s go to Mark’s.’

  Within the space of ten minutes the two cousins were leaving Alexander’s house in Chesterfield Hill and heading for Charles Street where the club was located.

  It was a chilly night and windy, and Alexander hunched further into his overcoat, shoved his hands in his pockets, shivering slightly. ‘Anyway, how was Sally?’ he asked, falling into step with Anthony.

  ‘Wonderful, as usual. She sends her love. I told her you were coming to stay… but that’s all I said.’

  ‘Quite.’

  They walked on in silence. Suddenly Anthony remarked, as if to himself, ‘There was something odd though…’

  ‘Oh, in what sense?’ Alexander asked, looking at him curiously.

  ‘Sally told me that Bridget has been pestering her… wanting to know when I’m returning to Clonloughlin. According to Sally she seems rather anxious to talk to me, has something on her mind, no doubt. In fact, Sally said she seemed a trifle agitated today.’

  ‘That is odd. On the other hand, I have always found your housekeeper to be somewhat eccentric, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Have you really? Mmmm. Perhaps she is… and a bit fey too, like most of the Irish. Well, it can’t be anything important,’ Anthony finished as they crossed Charles Street in the direction of the club.

  But he was wrong. Events that had happened a decade ago were about to come back to haunt him.

  Chapter 29

  It was raining at Clonloughlin the first morning Anthony was back, and there was a faint mist that softened the dark skeletal trees and the tall chimneys of the house etched so starkly against the leaden sky.

  As he walked up the central path carved out between wide lawns he thought how lovely it looked even on this bleak winter’s day, with its symmetrical, harmonious proportions, soaring windows, and the four white Palladian pillars supporting the front portico. Georgian in origin, it was a stately mansion situated on a small rise in the middle of a splendid park, with excellent views from its many windows. There were three hundred and sixty-five of them altogether, one for each day of the year, a fine madness on the part of his ancestor who had built the house in the eighteenth century. But it was a madness that Anthony had always secretly applauded. The many windows were unique, gave the exteriors a certain gracefulness, opened up the interiors to the pastoral landscape, filled those beautiful rooms with light and air the whole year round, and hazy sunshine in the summer months.

  Anthony loved Clonloughlin with a fierce and abiding passion. It was his ancestral home and the only place he had ever wanted to live. He had been born here forty-five years ago and he would die here when his time came. And his son Jeremy would continue in his place, the Standish line unbroken as it had been for centuries.

  His mind swung to Alexander and a rush of sadness engulfed him as it had last night when he had been talking to Sally. Although she had met him at Cork Airport he had resisted giving her the grave news about Sandy on their drive home. He had not even told her when they finally reached Clonloughlin, had waited instead until they were in the privacy of their bedroom suite.

  Sally had been dreadfully upset once she had heard the stark facts about Sandy’s illness; she had wept, and he had comforted her. And then to cheer themselves up and trying to be as positive as possible, they had made extensive plans for Sandy’s stay with them after he left the hospital. But later, when Sally had fallen asleep in his arms, her cheeks had been tear-stained once again. She and her brother Winston had grown up in Yorkshire with Sandy and Emily, and they had been unusually close; Sandy was one of the godfathers to Giles, their nine-year-old son.

  Anthony now veered to the left as he drew nearer to the house, and went around to the other side, entered through the back door. Inside the small indoor porch he shed his barbour and tweed cap, which were both drenched with rain, hanging the oilskin and the hat on the coatstand to drip. Seating himself on the wooden chair, he pulled off his green Wellington boots, slipped into a pair of brown loafers, then hurried down the back passageway to the library.

  The house was very quiet.

  It was early, only seven, and Sally was still asleep, as were the younger children. Settling himself at the desk near the window, he pulled a pile of correspondence towards him, began to sort through the mail that had accumulated in the week he had been in London on business.

  He did not hear the housekeeper come into the room until she spoke.

  ‘Good morning, your lordship,’ said Bridget O’Donnell. ‘I didn’t expect you to be up so early after your late arrival last night. Excuse me for not having the fire going in here.’

  ‘Ah, good morning, Bridget,’ Anthony said with a
quick smile as he looked up. ‘No problem. I’m not cold.’

  ‘The kettle’s boiling. I’ll just be putting a match to the fire, and then I’ll be back with your pot of tea and toast.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he murmured, glanced down at the papers, wondering whether to ask her what it was she wished to discuss with him, then decided against it. Far better to wait until he had been fortified by his light breakfast. Bridget had a tendency to be garrulous at times, which required an enormous amount of patience on his part. He was not in the mood for her this morning.

  He heard matches being struck, a faint whoosh as the paper and wood chips ignited and flames flew up the wide chimney back. Then there was the sound of bellows being pumped, the scraping of metal against stone as she placed the guard around the fire, and finally departed to the kitchen.

  Anthony reached for the letter addressed to him in his son’s handwriting. Jeremy had only just returned to prep school after the Christmas holidays, and as he slit open the envelope he wondered what his eldest son and heir had to say to him. There would be a request for cash, no doubt. Eleven-year-old schoolboys were forever hard up. He smiled. Jeremy was exactly like he had been at the same age. But the boy worried him at times. Jem was not strong physically, did not have the robust health of his brother Giles and his sister India, and Anthony had to resist the temptation to mollycoddle him, as did Sally.

  Anthony scanned the letter quickly. It was, as usual, a sketchy, imprecise report of Jeremy’s activities over the last few days since he had been back at school, with a postscript, underscored, to please send money urgently, please, daddy, please.

  Bridget came sailing in with the breakfast tray sooner than he had expected, and Anthony put the letter down as she approached.

  ‘Where would you like this, your lordship?’

  ‘You can put it here on the desk,’ he answered her, pushing aside the papers he had been perusing a moment before.

  She did so, then went around to the other side of the large partners’ desk, stood looking at him.

  Lifting the teapot, he poured tea into the oversized breakfast cup, added milk, then glanced at her. ‘Yes, what is it, Bridget?’

  ‘I’ve got to talk to you, Lord Dunvale. About something important.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I think so… I’d like to get it out of the way… this morning.’

  Anthony smothered a sigh. ‘All right.’ He spread his favourite thick-cut Frank Cooper marmalade onto the buttered toast, crunched on it, took a sip of tea. When the housekeeper was silent, he said, ‘Go on, Bridget, get it off your chest. And don’t hover there, you know I detest people doing that. Please, do sit down.’

  She lowered herself into the chair, sat facing him, twisted her hands together nervously in her lap, focused her dark blue eyes on him.

  The Earl finished his slice of toast as he waited for her to begin. Finally he raised a brow.

  Bridget said slowly, ‘I’m not quite sure how to tell you this,’ and stopped abruptly mid-sentence.

  Anthony, who had his cup halfway to his mouth, put it down with a clatter, stared at her in alarm. This was the second time in the space of several days that someone had begun a sentence with those words. First Sandy, and now Bridget, and it seemed like a bad omen. ‘You really ought to be able to tell me anything, Bridget. After all, we’ve known each other since we were children.’

  The housekeeper nodded. ‘Well, your lordship… what I have to say… Well, it is about Lady Dunvale.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded surprised and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Not this Lady Dunvale. The first one.’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘No, no, not the Dowager Countess. Your first wife… that’s who I mean… the Lady Minerva, sir.’

  Startled, Anthony sat back in his chair and gave Bridget a long, probing look. ‘What about the late Lady Dunvale?’ he asked at last.

  ‘It’s… er… er… about her death.’

  For a moment he could not speak or move. Instinctively, he knew that something awful was about to be said, and he braced himself before muttering, ‘Is it important to discuss her death now… so long after the event?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bridget said tersely.

  ‘Why?’ he probed, unable to resist the question, yet, conversely, not wanting to hear a word she had to say.

  ‘Because I don’t want it on my conscience any more,’ Bridget replied. ‘I have to tell you what really happened… it’s been a burden for me to carry, a nightmare still, even after all these years.’

  His mouth had gone very dry. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide like they said it was at the inquest.’

  He frowned, at first uncomprehending, not fully understanding her meaning. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Lady Dunvale fell into the lake, that she had an accident as I’ve always maintained? That she didn’t take her own life?’

  ‘No, she didn’t, she—’ Bridget cut herself off, pursed her lips, then muttered, ‘She was put there.’

  ‘By whom?’ His voice was barely audible.

  ‘Michael Lamont. They had a quarrel that fateful Saturday night, those two did, and he struck her. She fell, hit her face on the brass fender in his living room. If you remember, she did have a bruise on her face. The pathologist and Doctor Brennan mentioned it at the inquest. Well anyway, Lamont couldn’t revive her. She appeared to be unconscious. Within seconds he realized she was actually dead. He said she’d had a heart attack or something. All that liquor she had drunk continually through the afternoon and evening, the tranquillizers she was forever swallowing… the combination killed her, he said. So Lamont took her and put her in the lake to cover everything up, and the next morning he drove past, pretended to have found her body… then he came up to the mansion to tell you there had been an accident, and he sent for the police and no one ever suspected him of being involved in any way. But they did suspect you though. At least, Sergeant McNamara did.’

  Events that had happened over a decade ago came rushing back to hit Anthony between the eyes, and he remembered every tiny detail with great vividness and clarity. He felt as if he had been kicked several times in the stomach, and he began to tremble all over, clasped his hands together to stop them shaking, took several deep steadying breaths. He said at last, ‘And how do you know all this, Bridget?’

  ‘I had seen her ladyship that afternoon, when she had driven over to Clonloughlin from Waterford. You know she came to the estate quite a lot, even though you had forbidden her to do so and were in the middle of the divorce. But Lady Min couldn’t stay away, she loved Clonloughlin so much. She often came to see me. And him. We had tea together that afternoon, and she drove off around five, told me she was going down to the lake… she’d always been drawn to the lough, even when she was a small girl. Don’t you remember the picnics the three of us used to have there when we were children? In any case, sir, you saw her little red car at the edge of the lake, after your Land-Rover had stalled, and you’d decided to walk home, taking the long way round in order to avoid her. And her ladyship also took a walk… over to Michael Lamont’s house. She’d told me she was going to have dinner with him, but explained that she wouldn’t be staying the night. You see, your lordship, they were—’

  Bridget took a gulp of air, rushed on in breathless haste, the words pouring out of her, ‘They were having an affair. Lady Min had told me she would come by the kitchen at ten-thirty to say goodnight to me. She never ever left Clonloughlin without doing that. When she hadn’t arrived by eleven-thirty I got worried, so I went down to Lamont’s house looking for her.’

  Bridget paused and her face crumpled and she almost broke down. She was suddenly thinking of their childhood, remembering how close they had been… she and Lady Minerva Glendenning, daughter of the Earl of Rothmerrion and the young Lord Anthony Standish, now the Earl of Dunvale. So long ago. And yet those days were as clear to her as yesterday, and they had been the best part of her life.

  Wa
tching her, Anthony saw the distress on Bridget’s face, the anguish in her eyes, and he was about to make a sympathetic gesture towards her, but inexplicably changed his mind. He said, a trifle harshly, ‘Continue, Bridget, tell me everything. I must know.’

  She nodded, swallowed. ‘When I got to Lamont’s door it was locked and the curtains were drawn, but I could hear them. Screaming at each other like banshees they were, saying horrible things, vile they were, and her ladyship… well, she sounded very drunk. Out of control. And then suddenly everything was quiet. There was absolute silence. I was frightened. I banged hard on the door, called out that it was me, and Michael let me in. He had no option, did he. Besides, he knew how close I was to Lady Min. When I saw her lying on the floor my heart stopped. I ran to her, tried to revive her. But she was gone. It was then that Lamont dreamed up the idea of putting her in the lake, so as to make it look as if she had drowned herself. You see, he didn’t want you to know that he’d been sleeping with Lady Min for all those years. He was afraid you’d sack him if you found out. He couldn’t afford to lose his job. And even though he hadn’t had a hand in Lady Min’s death, it might have looked as if he had. That’s what he said to me, your lordship. And he kept repeating it, over and over again, and he told me that circumstantial evidence can be very damning.’

  Anthony was appalled and outraged. ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you come up to the mansion to get me?’ he demanded furiously, his voice rising in anger and disgust. ‘Why did you go along with Lamont?’

  Bridget compressed her lips, said nothing.

  He saw the stubborn set of her jaw, the defiance in the ice-blue eyes and he knew he was wasting his breath. She had been independent and difficult as a child; she had changed little over the years. If she did not want to confide her reasons for her silence at the time of Min’s death, and for so many years after, then nothing could drag it out of her.

  Sitting back in the chair, he studied her thoughtfully, trying to still his rage, the urge to shake her violently. And then suddenly a terrible thought occurred to him, one so unacceptable he tried to squash it, was barely able to face it. But he found himself saying carefully, and with great deliberation, ‘Why were you so sure Lady Min was actually dead?’ He leaned forward, fixed his probing, steely eyes on her. ‘Lady Min may only have been unconscious, Bridget. In which case, Michael Lamont did murder her if he put her in the lough whilst she was still alive.’