“There’s nothing for it,” he declared. “They’ll have to come along too. That’ll be all right, won’t it?” he asked me. Given a choice between being bored or bald, I took the first option and nodded reluctantly. He smiled gratefully and winked. “Good girl,” he said before putting his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders. “Come on, cariad, there’s plenty of room in the car.”
So Graham and I had to leave Sally to cope with the canapés and go along to the service. We travelled in the limousine with Marmaduke, Jennifer and Gethin. Julian squeezed in too, but Lancelot and Lydia followed along behind.
It was only when we reached the church that it occurred to me that we’d now seen all the men of the family and none of them was wearing a dark suit.
So who had given money to that tramp?
DOWN AND OUT
THE christening of Marmaduke Medwyn Strudwick-Thomas passed off without further incident. It was very dull, really.
When we arrived at the church there were about fifty guests already assembled, all looking pristine in their smart clothes and all speaking with the same exceedingly toffy accent. Not one of them seemed to have a spot of mud on them – maybe posh people have stain-repellent skins. All Graham and I had to do was get out of the car and up the path to the church. But we both got splashed as the limousine with Lancelot and Lydia in it pulled up alongside ours. For the second time that day we found ourselves wiping mud out of our eyes. Marmaduke – who was right there in Graham’s arms – didn’t get a speck on him. Like I said, the aristocracy must have a grime-retardant outer coating.
Marmaduke was still entranced by Graham and hanging onto my hair right up until the moment we entered the church. Then he caught sight of the stained glass and the flower arrangements and the candles flickering on the altar. Finally distracted, he relaxed his grip and Jennifer seized her opportunity, grabbing her baby and marching to the front pew. Graham and I slid into the back row beside a heavily moustached elderly gentleman who introduced himself by the snigger-inducing name of Major Huwes-Guffing.
Once everyone was seated, the Reverend Jeremy Bristow started the service. He was quite young for a vicar, and frightfully British and frightfully reserved – the sort who doesn’t ever quite look anyone full in the face and goes pink and gets all flustered if anyone actually mentions the word “God”.
We kicked off with a traditional hymn, followed by a whole lot of preaching about original sin and stuff. I was soon stifling seriously big yawns, although I noted with interest that Jennifer’s brother, Julian, was one of the godparents and another, surprisingly, was Lydia. Marmaduke didn’t so much as whimper until the time came for him to be dangled over the font. When the cold water hit his forehead he started to scream the place down. You could hardly blame him.
Eventually it was all over, and once Marmaduke had dried off he fell asleep on his mother’s shoulder. The family came back down the aisle and the congregation stood up and edged along the pews to greet them. With Sally’s buffet to look forward to, the guests were pleased, the family was content, everyone was happy. And hungry.
Graham and I held back as people made for the door and somehow the car that we’d come in left without us. After about ten minutes of looking for Gethin and Jennifer in the ever-dwindling crowd, we found ourselves alone with Reverend Bristow, watching the rain lash against the stained-glass windows.
“Have you been abandoned? You poor things! I’ll give you a lift to the manor. They’ve invited me to the reception and I ought to at least show my face.” He didn’t look too thrilled at the prospect. “There’s no sense in us all getting soaked. You wait here in the warm while I go and get my car.”
The trouble was, it wasn’t warm in the church. Once all the people had left, the temperature plummeted. We decided we might as well wait in the porch where at least we’d see the vicar when he pulled up.
Graham and I were standing there, peering through the sheets of rain, hoping that our rescuer would arrive soon, when I noticed a crumpled heap of clothes piled against a gravestone in the corner of the churchyard.
For a moment I thought they had been dumped there – maybe for a jumble sale or something. But as I stared, a particularly savage gust of wind tore at the material and exposed a white hand – raised up, bunched into a claw as if clutching the air.
I nudged Graham in the ribs and pointed.
It was chucking it down and we didn’t have an umbrella. We would get soaked yet again but we had to check if the person needed help.
We ran across the graveyard, and as we drew closer to the figure we realized it was the tramp we’d seen earlier.
While we were bending over him and Graham was feeling for a pulse, Reverend Bristow drove up and honked his horn. When we didn’t run to the car, he came over to see what the matter was.
“Dear God!” he said when he saw the tramp. He sniffed the air. Even with the Noah’s-Ark-style torrents of rain, the smell of drink was unmistakeable. “I’d better call an ambulance. I suppose the poor man’s inebriated. If we leave him here, he’ll die of exposure.”
Graham and I looked at each other. We could both see it was too late for that. We had encountered enough bodies by now to know he wasn’t dead drunk.
He was just dead.
FLOOD WATER
REVEREND Bristow called for an ambulance anyway.
“They can at least take him off to the proper place,” he said.
But it turned out that the emergency services couldn’t come and collect the body because they couldn’t reach us. The river had burst its banks and the roads were beginning to flood. According to the vicar, if we left quickly we could just about drive from the church up to Coldean Manor as the big house was on higher ground. But then we wouldn’t be able to leave. As long as the rain kept up, we would be stranded.
Great. Just great.
Well, even though he was obviously dead, we couldn’t leave the tramp lying there – it didn’t seem right. Reverend Bristow was deeply concerned about the traumatizing effect it would have on our tender young souls, but he needed our help. The three of us carried the body into the church. It was harder than we’d expected – he was as stiff as a board and his clothes were soaked and slippery so it was difficult to know quite where or how to get hold of him. We dropped him a couple of times but eventually managed to get him up the aisle and into a room at the side, which the vicar said was the vestry. There, we laid him down on a rug in the corner.
Reverend Bristow opened a cupboard full of those white dress thingies vicars and choirboys wear during services. Pulling one off a hanger, he said, “I suppose I can cover him up with a surplice. That would be a bit more respectable, wouldn’t it?”
Despite the wind and the rain, the tramp’s hat had stayed firmly on his head the entire time we’d been manhandling him. But when the vicar gave his surplice-thingie a flick – as if he was about to cover a dining table with a cloth – the edge of it caught the rim and flipped it up. For the first time we could see his face properly.
He had a hooked nose. And his dead, staring eyes were icy blue. My mouth dropped open and a little squeak came out.
“He’s one of them!” I gasped.
“I beg your pardon?” Reverend Bristow looked at me as if I’d said something politically incorrect.
“One of them! One of the family, I mean. The Strudwicks. Look at that nose!”
He looked. He saw. His face registered puzzlement then shocked recognition. “Heavens above! I do believe you’re right,” he said. “There’s an undeniable resemblance. I wonder who on earth the poor man is?”
Graham hadn’t done his background research for nothing. “He’s the right age…” he said thoughtfully. “You know, this could very well be James.”
“Who?” asked the vicar.
“James. Lawrence Strudwick’s older brother.”
Reverend Bristow looked mystified. “Didn’t he pass on years ago?”
“No… He went missing.”
&
nbsp; “Really? Gosh, I didn’t know that. Do you think he came home to die?”
“It looks like it,” said Graham.
The vicar sighed. “A weak heart, I suppose, like Lawrence.”
A heart attack? It certainly sounded possible. There wasn’t a mark on him as far as I could see – nothing to suggest he’d been attacked. And he’d seemed pretty ropey when Sally had almost run him over this morning. Living on the streets … well, it wasn’t exactly a healthy lifestyle, was it? The wind and the rain had probably been enough to finish him off.
We all stood for a moment, contemplating the sad, lonely fate of the man on the floor.
We drove to Coldean Manor in complete silence. The rising flood threatened to transform the vicar’s Skoda from car to boat with every second that passed and only when we finally pulled up at the front door did I breathe freely. When we were safely inside, I glanced at the portraits and realized I’d been so distracted by the sight of his Strudwick features that I hadn’t paid any attention to the really peculiar thing about James’s corpse.
He’d been a tramp; a vagrant; a down-and-out. His face had been covered in mud; his clothes had been filthy; he’d stunk of alcohol.
But that stiff, white hand – the one that had been raised, frozen, as if clawing the air…
The fingernails had been perfectly clean.
TOAST
SALLY was mega-stressed by the time we got back so we certainly weren’t going to mention the fact that we’d discovered a dead body. We didn’t even discuss it between ourselves. We dried ourselves off – making our tasteful nylon garments crackle with static – washed our hands, grabbed the trays of canapés and headed off to the drawing-room to offer them round.
Reverend Bristow had decided not to mention the tramp or his suspected identity until he could catch Jennifer and Julian – James’s children – on their own. But with the party in full swing he was finding it impossible. We saw him circling around like a sheepdog, as if he was trying to herd Jennifer and Julian into another room, but it didn’t work. After a while Lydia spotted him and struck up a conversation, but we could see he wasn’t really listening.
The elderly Lawrence was still parked in his comfy armchair in front of the roaring fire and was drifting in and out of sleep. Jennifer had placed the comatose Marmaduke in his arms and both old man and baby were snoozing happily together.
My hunch about “staff” being virtually invisible proved right – once we had those trays in our hands nobody gave us a second glance. We could eavesdrop as much as we liked and no one batted an eyelid.
Not that there was that much to eavesdrop on. A lone Canadian sat in the corner chatting to Julian about the merits of blueberry pancakes versus bacon and eggs for breakfast, but that was as exciting as studying the aristocracy got. Most of the conversations seemed to revolve around people I’d never heard of getting engaged or married or divorced. The fifty-or-so guests all seemed to know each other well, so the gossip they exchanged wasn’t even fresh news.
“Did you hear about Jonty?”
“And Jemima? Yah. Engaged. Wedding’s on the twenty-first, isn’t it?”
“Yah. Winchester. You going?”
“Yah. And they’re honeymooning in…”
“The Maldives, yah, I’d heard.”
“Be all kinds of fun and games at the reception, no doubt.”
“Because of…”
“The bride’s mother…”
“Tara, yah. You know, she was with Jemima’s father for…”
“Forty years, yah. And then he ups and runs orf with…”
“Diana.”
“Quite. And isn’t she only two years older than…?”
“Jemima, yah. I wouldn’t fancy Diana for a step-mother, would you?”
“Lord, no. Personality like a runaway Range Rover. One wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, would one?”
“God forbid! You know she dated…?”
“Giles, yah. Quite an item, weren’t they? And he’s…”
“Jonty’s best man.”
“Fun and games, like I said. We’d better come prepared.”
“I’ll be wearing a flak jacket over my frock!”
This particular conversation was followed by a lot of laughter. The two women hee-hawed like a pair of donkeys.
I was just stifling a yawn when I noticed a dark-haired, olive-skinned man standing by the door. Unlike the other guests, who were in posh dresses or tailored suits, he was wearing torn jeans, muddy trainers, a worn leather jacket and carrying a shabby rucksack. He stood out like a sore thumb.
Through the crowd I caught Graham’s eye and nodded towards the newcomer. Graham looked at him, looked at me and then nodded back. We both started weaving our way towards him.
I got there first.
“Canapé, sir?” I asked brightly.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me. He was frowning intently, scanning people’s faces as if trying to identify someone.
I tried a different tack. “Are you looking for anyone in particular?”
“Oui!” He spat the word out. He was French, then. And clearly furious.
“I mean to say, ‘Yes’,” he corrected himself, remembering his manners. He jerked his head at the mass of guests. “Please, which of these men is Lancelot Strudwick?”
“Lancelot?” I pointed across the drawing-room at Lydia’s brother. “That’s him.”
I regretted it immediately.
The Frenchman strode across the room, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. Drinks were spilt down velvet dresses. Food was spattered onto the lapels of worsted jackets. Surprise rippled through the crowd.
Lancelot felt it. Turned to see the source. Saw the advancing man. His eyes narrowed in confusion and his mouth began to form a question.
“What the devil…?”
That was as far as he got. As soon as the Frenchman reached the Englishman, his hand bunched into a fist, his arm swung back and he unleashed the most almighty punch in the middle of Lancelot Strudwick’s face.
CAMILLE
IT’S not a pleasant sound, a nose breaking, especially a big, hooked Strudwick nose. There was an awful lot in the middle of Lancelot’s face to go crunch! And then there was the blood which came spouting out a fraction of a second later. As it poured between his fingers and dripped onto the carpet some of the guests paled and one had to run for the toilets, hand clapped over her mouth.
Lancelot’s cry of pain had been matched by the Frenchman’s. Fury had propelled him across the room, but he obviously didn’t make a habit of attacking people. Right after he’d walloped Lancelot he’d crumpled onto the ground and cradled his fist, whimpering, “C’est cassé! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
Graham translated for me. “It’s broken! My God! My God!”
Reverend Bristow was the hero of the hour as he turned out to be a trained first aider as well as a vicar. He told Lancelot to pinch his nose and sent Lydia to the kitchen for ice to soothe both Lancelot’s face and the Frenchman’s hand – which, the vicar assured everyone, was bruised, not broken.
Major Huwes-Guffing stood wielding a poker, looking ready to use it if violence erupted once more.
Lancelot, meanwhile, was completely and utterly bemused. His nose had rapidly swollen to twice its normal size and now looked more like a duck’s bill than a hawk’s beak. He stared at the Frenchman, mumbling through the ice pack which was clamped to his face, “Whad on eard did you do dad for?”
“You marry my sister!” The Frenchman’s fury was instantly re-ignited. He started to get to his feet but Major Huwes-Guffing raised the poker and he sat back down.
“Who?” Lancelot asked incredulously.
“My sister! Camille!”
“Who?”
“Do not play the fool with me! You marry her!”
Lancelot looked baffled. “I doan underdand… You wand me do marry her? Why? Is she pregnand? Look, I can see you mighd wand a chap to do the decent ding bud I
can assure you id wasn’d me. I’ve never med anyone called Camille.”
“You have! Since three month. You marry her. You go on honeymoon. And she die.” Tears began to roll down the Frenchman’s cheeks.
“On honeymoon? Whad rodden luck! I’m sorry … whad’s your name?”
“Toulouse.”
“Doulouse, old man, you’ve got de wrong chap, believe me.”
“You are not Lancelot Strudwick?”
“No. Well, yes, I am. Bud I can assure you I didn’d marry your sisder.” Lancelot’s eyes darted over to Julian and he added darkly, “Or indeed, anyone.”
Interestingly, Julian flushed scarlet and stared at the floor.
“You marry her!” screamed Toulouse. His voice was cracked with grief.
“I assure you I didn’d.”
“You did!”
“Can you prove id?” demanded Lancelot, his chin thrusting out provocatively despite the blood.
“Not yet,” sobbed the Frenchman. “But I will! I will find – how you say? – evidence!”
Lancelot was beginning to lose patience. “For heaven’s sake! I’ve never med de woman, cross my heart and hope do die.” Insultingly flippant, he drew a finger across his throat to emphasize his point, which did nothing to improve the Frenchman’s temper. For a good ten minutes the battle raged on. It was like a playground argument – Did! Didn’d! Did! Didn’d! The guests’ heads snapped from side to side as if they were watching a tennis match. Toulouse carried on accusing Lancelot of marrying his sister. Lancelot carried on denying all knowledge of her. Neither could win. They had reached deadlock.
It was the strangest thing. I had no doubt at all that the Frenchman was telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And Lancelot was as smooth and slippery as an eel – I didn’t like him at all. But I’d have bet all the mess in Eton that he wasn’t lying either.
MAROONED
IT was Jennifer who brought the drawing-room debate to an end. Putting her hand on the Frenchman’s arm, she said gently, “Look, I’m terribly sorry about your sister, really I am. It’s a tragic, tragic loss. But it’s quite obvious to me that my cousin did not marry her.”