When We Were Orphans

  I was at that time investigating a case in Norfolk and had returned to London for a few days with the intention of studying the extensive notes I had made. It was while I was strolling around Kensington Gardens one grey morning, pondering the many curious details surrounding the victim’s disappearance, that I was hailed from afar by a figure I quickly recognised to be Turner, a man I had come to know vaguely from my social rounds. He came hurrying up to me, and after asking why I was so rarely “seen about the place these days,” invited me to a dinner he and a friend were giving in a restaurant that evening. When I politely declined on the grounds that my present case was demanding all my time and attention, he said:

  “Shame. Sarah Hemmings is coming along, and she’s so wanting to have a good chat with you.”

  “Miss Hemmings?”

  “Remember her, don’t you? She certainly remembers you. Said you got to know each other a bit a few years ago. She’s always complaining how you’re no longer to be found.”

  Resisting the urge to make some comment, I said simply: “Well, please do give her my good wishes.”

  I left Turner fairly promptly after that, but on returning to my desk I confess I found myself somewhat distracted by this report of Miss Hemmings’s wishing to see me. In the end, I told myself that in all likelihood Turner had made some mistake; or at the least, was exaggerating his point in an effort to entice me to his dinner. But then over the following months a number of similar reports reached my ears. Sarah Hemmings had been heard expressing annoyance at how, despite our once having been friends, I had now become impossible for her to find. I heard from several sources, moreover, how she was threatening to “ferret me out.” Then finally, last week, while I was staying in the village of Shackton, in Oxfordshire, to investigate the Studley Grange business, Miss Hemmings turned up in person, presumably with the intention of doing just that.

  I HAD FOUND the walled garden—containing the pond where Charles Emery’s body had been discovered—in the lower grounds of the house. Four stone steps had brought me down into a rectangular space so perversely sheltered from the sun that even on that bright morning everything around me was in shadow. The walls themselves were covered with ivy, but somehow one could not avoid the impression of having stepped into a roofless prison cell.

  The pond dominated this enclosure. Though several people had told me it contained goldfish, I could see no sign of life; in fact, it was hard to imagine how anything could thrive in such dank water—a fitting place indeed to discover a corpse. Surrounding the pond was a circle of square mossy slabs embedded into the mud. I would suppose I had been examining this area for about twenty minutes—I was on my front, scrutinising with my magnifying glass one of the slabs that projected over the water—when I became conscious of someone observing me. At first I assumed this to be some family member wishing yet again to pester me with questions. Since earlier I had insisted on uninterrupted time, I decided, at the cost of appearing rude, to pretend not to have noticed anything.

  Then eventually I heard the sound of a shoe scraping on stone somewhere near the entrance to the garden. By then it was starting to seem unnatural that I should remain on my belly for such a long time, and in any case, I had exhausted the investigations I could usefully carry out in such a posture. Moreover, I had not entirely forgotten I was lying at almost the exact spot where a murder had been committed, and that the murderer was still at large. A chilly sensation passed through me as I clambered to my feet, and dusting my clothes, turned to face the intruder.

  The sight of Sarah Hemmings did of course rather surprise me, but I am sure nothing unusual showed on my face. I had set my features to convey annoyance, and I would suppose that is what she saw, for her opening words to me were:

  “Oh! Didn’t mean to spy on you. But it seemed too good an opportunity. To watch the great man at his work, I mean.”

  I searched her face carefully, but could detect no sarcasm. Nevertheless, I kept my voice cold as I said: “Miss Hemmings. This is most unexpected.”

  “I heard you were here. I’m spending a few days with my friend in Pemleigh. It’s only just up the road.”

  She paused, no doubt expecting me to respond. When I remained silent, she showed no sign of being perturbed, but instead came walking towards me.

  “I’m quite a good friend of the Emerys, did you know?” she continued. “Awful business, this murder.”

  “Yes, awful.”

  “Ah. So you too believe it to be murder. Well, I suppose that sort of clinches it. Do you have a theory, Mr. Banks?”

  I gave a shrug. “I’ve formed a few ideas, yes.”

  “It’s too bad for the Emerys they didn’t think to ask you for help when it all first happened last April. I mean to say, bringing Celwyn Henderson on to a case like this! What did they expect? That man should have been put out to pasture long ago. Just shows you how out of touch people get living out here. Anyone in London could have told them all about you, of course.”

  This last remark did, I have to confess, intrigue me somewhat, so that after a moment’s hesitation, I found myself asking her: “Excuse me, but told them what, exactly?”

  “Why, that you’re the most brilliant investigative mind in England, of course. We could all have told them that last spring, but the Emerys—it’s taken them this long to cotton on. Better late than never, perhaps, but I suppose the trail’s gone rather cold for you by now.”

  “As it happens, there are some advantages in coming to a case after some time has elapsed.”

  “Really? How fascinating. I always thought it was essential to get there quick, to pick up the scent, you know.”

  “On the contrary, it’s never too late to, as you put it, pick up the scent.”

  “But isn’t it so depressing, how this crime’s eaten away at people’s spirits here? And not just the household. It’s the whole of Shackton that’s started to rot. This used to be a happy and thriving market town. Now look at them, they barely meet each other’s eyes. This whole business has dragged them down into a mire of suspicion. I tell you, Mr. Banks, if you can solve this thing, they’ll remember you here for ever.”

  “Do you really think so? That would be curious.”

  “No doubt about it. They’d be so grateful. Yes, they’ll be talking about you here for generations.”

  I let out a short laugh. “You seem to know the village well, Miss Hemmings. And I thought you spent all your time in London.”

  “Oh, I can only take so much of London, then I’ve just got to come away. I’m not a city girl at heart, you know.”

  “You surprise me. I always thought you were much drawn to city life.”

  “You’re quite right, Mr. Banks.” A note of resentment had come into her voice, as though I had tricked her into a corner. “Something does draw me to the city. It does have its . . . its attractions for me.” For the first time, she turned away from me and glanced around the walled garden. “Which reminds me,” she said. “Well, to be honest, it doesn’t remind me at all. Why should I pretend? I’ve been thinking of it all the time we’ve been talking. I wanted to ask a favour of you.”

  “And what’s that, Miss Hemmings?”

  “Reliable sources tell me you’ve been invited to this year’s Meredith Foundation dinner. Is that right?”

  I paused slightly before replying: “Yes. That’s correct.”

  “Quite a thing, to be invited at your age. I’ve heard this year it’s in honour of Sir Cecil Medhurst.”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “I’ve heard too that Charles Wolfe is expected to attend.”

  “The violinist?”

  She laughed brightly. “Does he do something else? And Thomas Byron too, apparently.”

  She had become visibly excited, but now she once again turned away and gazed at our surroundings with a slight shudder.

  “Did you say,” I asked eventually, “you wished me to grant you a favour?”

  “Oh yes, yes. I wanted you to . . . I
wished you to ask me to accompany you. To the Meredith Foundation dinner.”

  She was now holding me with an intense look. It took me a moment to find a response, but when I did so, I spoke quite calmly.

  “I’d like to oblige you, Miss Hemmings. But unfortunately I’ve already replied to the organisers some days ago. I fear it’ll be rather late to inform them of my wish to bring a guest . . .”

  “Nonsense!” she broke in angrily. “Yours is the name on everyone’s lips just now. If you wish to bring a companion, they’d be only too pleased. Mr. Banks, you aren’t about to let me down, are you? That would be quite unworthy of you. After all, we’ve been good friends for some time now.”

  It was this last remark—reminding me as it did of the actual history of our “friendship”—that brought me back to myself.

  “Miss Hemmings,” I said with finality, “this is hardly a favour within my power to grant.”

  But there was now a determined look in Sarah Hemmings’s eyes.

  “I know all the details, Mr. Banks. At Claridge’s Hotel. Next Wednesday evening. I mean to be there. I shall look forward to the evening, and I shall be waiting for you in the lobby.”

  “The lobby of Claridge’s is, as far as I’m aware, open to respectable members of the public. If you choose to stand there next Wednesday evening, there is nothing I can do to prevent you, Miss Hemmings.”

  She looked at me very carefully, now uncertain about my intentions. Finally she said: “Then you shall most certainly see me there next Wednesday, Mr. Banks.”

  “As I’ve said, that is your affair, Miss Hemmings. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  IT TOOK NO MORE than a few days to unravel the mystery of Charles Emery’s death. The matter did not attract publicity on the scale of some of my other investigations, but the deep gratitude of the Emery family—indeed, of the whole community of Shackton—made the case as satisfying as any thus far in my career. I returned to London in a glow of well-being and consequently failed to give much thought to my encounter with Sarah Hemmings in the walled garden on that first day of the investigation. I would not say I forgot entirely her declared intentions regarding the Meredith Foundation dinner, but as I say, I was in a triumphant frame of mind and I suppose I chose not to dwell on such things. Perhaps deep down I believed her “threat” to have been no more than a ploy of the moment.

  In any case, when I stepped out of my taxicab outside Claridge’s yesterday evening, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was, for one thing, reminding myself that my recent triumphs had more than entitled me to my invitation; that far from questioning my presence at such a gathering, other guests were likely to press me eagerly for inside information regarding my cases. I was reminding myself too of my resolution not to leave the proceedings prematurely, even if it meant putting up with the odd period of standing about alone. As I entered that grand lobby, then, I was quite unprepared for the sight of Sarah Hemmings waiting there with a smile.

  She was dressed rather impressively in a dark silk dress and discreet but elegant jewellery. Her manner as she came towards me was utterly assured, so much so that she even found time to smile a greeting to a couple walking past us.

  “Ah, Miss Hemmings,” I said, while in my mind I tried hurriedly to retrieve all that had passed between us that day at Studley Grange. At that moment, I must confess, it seemed to me perfectly possible she had every right to expect me to offer my arm and lead her inside. No doubt, she sensed my uncertainty and appeared to grow even more confident.

  “Dear Christopher,” she said, “you’re looking quite dashing. I’m overcome! Oh, and I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you. That was so marvellous, what you did for the Emerys. It was ever so clever of you.”

  “Thank you. It was hardly such a complicated matter.”

  She had now taken my arm and had she at that instant moved towards the footman directing dinner guests towards the staircase, I am sure I would have been powerless to do anything other than her bidding. But here, I see now, she made an error. Perhaps she wished to savour the moment; perhaps her audacity had for a second given out. In any case, she made no move to proceed upstairs, but instead, gazing at the other guests filing into the lobby, said to me:

  “Sir Cecil hasn’t arrived yet. I do hope I shall get a chance to speak to him. So fitting he’s the one being honoured this year, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed.”

  “You know, Christopher, I don’t suppose it will be so many years until we’ll all be here to honour you.”

  I laughed. “I hardly think . . .”

  “No, no. I feel sure of it. All right, we might have to give it a few more years. But the day will come, you’ll see.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, Miss Hemmings.”

  She continued to hold my arm as we stood there talking. Not infrequently, someone passing would smile or utter a greeting to one or the other of us. And I have to say, I found I was rather enjoying the notion of all these people—many of them very distinguished—seeing me arm in arm with Sarah Hemmings. I fancied I saw in their eyes, even as they greeted us, the idea: “Oh, she’s caught him now, has she? Well, that’s natural enough.” Far from making me feel foolish or in any way humiliated, this notion rather filled me with pride. But then suddenly—and I am not sure what caused this—quite without warning I began to feel a great fury towards her. I am sure there was no detectable change in my manner at that moment and for a few minutes more we went on chatting amiably, nodding the occasional greeting to a passing guest. But when I unlinked her arm from mine and turned to her, I did so with a steely resolve.

  “Well, Miss Hemmings, it was very good to see you again. But now I must leave you and go up to this function.”

  I gave a slight bow and began to move away. This clearly took her by surprise, and if she had ready some strategy for my failing to co-operate, she was for the moment unable to act on it. Only when I had gone several paces from her, and had in fact fallen in step with an elderly couple who had greeted me, did she suddenly come rushing up.

  “Christopher!” she said in a frantic whisper. “You wouldn’t dare! You promised me!”

  “You know I did nothing of the sort.”

  “You wouldn’t dare! Christopher, you wouldn’t!”

  “I wish you a pleasant evening, Miss Hemmings.”

  Turning away from her—and also, incidentally, from my elderly companions, who were doing their best to hear nothing—I began to make my way rapidly up the great staircase.

  · · ·

  ON REACHING THE UPPER LEVEL, I was ushered into a brightly lit anteroom. There I duly joined a line of guests filing past a desk, behind which sat a uniformed man with a frosty face, checking people’s names against a register. When it came to my turn, I was gratified to see a flicker of excitement cross the frosty man’s face as he ticked off my name. I signed the guest book, then moved on towards a doorway leading into a large room, within which, I could see, there was already a sizeable crowd of guests. As I crossed the threshold and the hubbub engulfed me, a tall man with a thick dark beard greeted me and shook my hand. I supposed he was one of the evening’s hosts, but I failed to register much of what he said to me because, to be frank, I was at that moment finding it hard to think about anything other than what had just occurred downstairs. I was experiencing a curiously hollow sensation, and I had to remind myself that I had not in any way ensnared Miss Hemmings; that any humiliation that had befallen her was entirely of her own making.

  But as I parted from the bearded man and drifted further into the room, Sarah Hemmings continued to dominate my thoughts. I was vaguely aware of a waiter approaching me with a tray of aperitifs; of various people turning to greet me. At some point I fell into conversation with a group of three or four men—all of whom turned out to be scientists, and who seemed to know who I was. Then, when I had been in the room for perhaps fifteen minutes, I sensed a slight change in the atmosphere, and looking about me, perceive
d from the glances and murmurs all around that some sort of commotion was occurring near the doorway through which we had entered.

  No sooner had I noted this than a sense of grave foreboding came over me and my first impulse was to escape deeper into the room. But it was as though some mysterious force were pulling me back to the doorway, and I soon found myself once more beside the bearded man—who at that moment was standing with his back to the reception, watching with a pained expression the drama unfolding in the anteroom.

  Peering past him, I ascertained that Miss Hemmings was indeed at the heart of the disturbance. She had brought to a halt the procession of guests signing in their names at the desk. She was not shouting exactly, but seemed quite beyond caring who heard her. I watched her shake off an elderly hotel employee trying to restrain her; then, leaning right over the desk so as to glare all the more intently at the frosty-faced man still sitting there as before, she said in a voice close to a sob:

  “But you simply have no idea! I simply must go in, don’t you see? I have so many friends in there, I belong in there, I really do! Oh, do be reasonable!”

  “I really am sorry, Miss . . .” the frosty-faced man began. But Sarah Hemmings, whose hair had tumbled over one side of her face, did not let him finish.

  “It’s all the most silly mix-up anyway, don’t you see? That’s all it is, the most silly old mix-up! And just because of that, you’re being beastly, I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it . . .”

  All of us witnessing this scene seemed for a moment united in frozen embarrassment. Then the bearded man regained his wits and strode into the anteroom with authority.

  “What has occurred?” he said soothingly. “My dear young lady, has there been some error? There, there, we’ll sort it out, I’m sure. I’m at your disposal.” Then he gave a start and exclaimed: “Why, it’s Miss Hemmings, isn’t it?”