‘Not quite famous,’ I said.
‘Not quite,’ he agreed. ‘Evelyn does not listen to the radio, do you, Evelyn?’
She looked at him, her expression still polite, but her eyes had steeled. ‘That is true; I don’t care for it,’ she said.
‘You really must get with the times,’ he said. ‘You are far too young to be living in the past.’
His father glanced up, none too pleased with the remark, but he kept his calm and cleared his throat as some kind of signal to his son.
‘Did you really solve all those crimes?’ he asked. ‘All those gruesome murders? Or did they exercise artistic licence, bend the truth as so often happens with these things?’
‘They are all true,’ I said. ‘And yes, I did indeed help solve all those crimes, but I had a very good team around me.’
‘All bar one case, of course,’ he said, his chin resting on his balled fist, his eyes, though the spitting image of his father’s, held none of the warmth.
‘All bar one, I’ll grant you that.’
‘Tell us about it,’ he asked, though it bordered on an order and I could sense this was someone used to getting his own way.
‘He has told it once too often,’ interrupted his father. ‘I am sure he is tired of having to relate it, right, Thomas?’
I politely agreed. I smiled but of course I hated the damn case being dragged up every time, a fact young Lambert-Chide latched on to pretty quick.
‘The Body in the Barn,’ he said, undeterred. ‘A man found dead in a Suffolk barn, dismembered.’
‘That was pure speculation on the BBC’s part,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I never gave any details about it to them. Facts about the case are still a secret. They took, as you say, artistic licence, for dramatic effect.’
‘Come, Mr Rayne, it has been so long ago that it cannot matter now, surely, if you spill the beans; so please tell us what really happened. Why did you never solve this case? Why did you fail?’
The word failure stung. ‘I cannot do that,’ I said, ‘but with any of the other cases I will be more than obliging.’
I happened to glance at Evelyn; she had gone dreadfully pale in the face and was staring vacantly down at her plate. The knife in her right hand was trembling ever so slightly. She saw me looking and set it down, her hand going to her lap.
‘The murderer left the body to rot,’ he carried on.
‘That’s enough, David; can’t you see Evelyn doesn’t like it?’
She signalled that she was fine but I could tell she was far from it.
‘But here’s the strangest thing; a mysterious symbol painted on the barn wall…’
‘Speculation,’ I said.
‘The farmer said it was so.’
‘If you believe it,’ I countered.
‘A ritualised murder?’ He was purposely laying it on thick, his voice lowering dramatically.
‘Speculation,’ I reiterated.
‘That’s enough, David,’ said Simon evenly but firmly.
‘A sacrifice, perhaps?’
Evelyn rose quickly from the table, visibly shaken. ‘Please, you will have to excuse me,’ she said, her large eyes blinking rapidly; she looked as if she might be sick at any moment. I stood as she left the room, Simon excusing himself also and following her.
‘How utterly peculiar,’ said David, completely unperturbed and tucking into his food. ‘Why do you suppose she went off so?’
‘Some people have vivid and sensitive imaginations,’ I offered.
‘And there’s me thinking she was getting upset on your behalf, because you failed and she felt sorry for you.’
‘You have much to learn about the meaning of failure, David,’ I said, hardly disguising my irritation. ‘As you have yet to learn many valuable lessons in life,’ I added.
Simon returned a few minutes later but the meal had been ruined for us and we continued in relative silence. ‘She has a headache, that is all,’ he excused. ‘She has gone to lie down and apologises to you, Thomas, but will see you in the morning when she is feeling better.’ His eyes cast daggers at his son, but David wore impenetrable emotional armour and was impervious to his father’s annoyance.
Before I left Gattenby House the next day I was summoned by Evelyn to speak to her privately.
‘I am sorry for leaving you like I did last night; please forgive me,’ she said.
I said that it did not matter and that I hoped she was feeling well.
‘I am sorry, too, that David brought up that horrid affair,’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘It happens. I am forever stuck with it.’
‘Will they ever find the murderer, do you suppose?’
‘I am certain of it, one day,’ I said.
‘I do hope so,’ she murmured, her eyes far away and staring on a different, sorrowful scene.
‘But don’t let it concern you. Such things are rare.’
‘Not as rare as you would think,’ she said cryptically. ‘Thank you for coming to see Simon; I know he appreciates your visit greatly.’
‘The pleasure was all mine,’ I said.
‘And you will come to wedding?’
I smiled. ‘Thank you for your invitation; as I said to Simon, I will be honoured.’
She nodded. ‘I do love him. You do believe that, don’t you?’
I said it was none of my business whether I believed her or not, but since she asked it I thought they appeared very much in love. They made a fine couple.
‘It is not about the money at all, though tongues have been wagging ever since we met. I did not know who he was at the time, I truly did not, and I never meant to fall in love, but we cannot help ourselves at times, can we?’
I agreed. I thought back to my own wife and how I missed her terribly.
She fell silent. ‘Is everything alright, Evelyn?’ I asked at length.
She smiled broadly and wished me well and a safe journey back home; that she looked forward to seeing me again at the wedding. However, I came away feeling there was something left unsaid that day, and that she veered away from it at the last moment.
I spent the rest of the morning playing a round of golf with Simon, albeit painfully slow on my part and I left Gattenby House warmed by my rekindled friendship with Simon. This time we vowed we would not allow our friendship to lapse. After all, true friends are so very hard to find, he told me. I realised as I was driven to the station that although he had great wealth, Simon was a very lonely man, save for Evelyn, in whom, he confided in me, he put all his trust and love, both of which he felt he’d not been able to dispense in a long time.
So you can understand how distraught Simon Lambert-Chide was when Evelyn disappeared never to return, two days before the wedding.
He called me on the phone, so upset he could hardly string two words together. For no apparent reason she had packed a small case with a few things, a selection of clothing, the brooch I saw her wearing, and left early in the morning. Where she went no one knew. She left him a short note, which Simon tearfully read to me, saying that she was immensely sorry but she had to leave; she said she loved him dearly and wished him well. Simon said he needed to see me and would I come over to the house right away? I agreed and went over the following day.
When I got there the contrast in the atmosphere of Gattenby House compared to that when I first visited was marked. It was now like a mausoleum. I saw the preparations for the wedding that had been made — large bouquets of flowers, white ribbons laced around the banister of the grand staircase, and in the dining room a large, multi-tiered wedding cake sitting on a magnificent table laid out for a good many guests. But the seats were to remain empty.
Simon was in the drawing room, clutching the crumpled letter. He was disconsolate, as if someone had taken
