manners and whatever business he had in hand.
I drained off my glass at a draught, and said to Bobby Chandler:
‘There was a murder here, of course.’
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Good subject for a party conversation!’
I gave a sudden nervous laugh, quite unintended, and Bobby Chandler made to give me a nudge with the back of his hand, saying, ‘Could it be that we share the same sense of humour, Mr Stranger?’
And then he fell to looking at Lydia again.
‘It’s Stringer,’ I said.
‘Yes, my brother-in-law…’ he said. ‘Perfectly blameless existence walking about this place blasting animals to kingdom come, and then made away with by his own son — what do you think of that?’
‘It’s a bad look-out,’ I said.
‘ Damned bad,’ said Bobby Chandler. ‘And with his own thirty-inch barrel, one-hundred-and-fifty-guinea twelve-bore.’
‘It’s a bad look-out,’ I said again, and I thought: I’m canned already.
‘When I got the news,’ said Bobby Chandler, ‘I was absolutely devastated for about — well, not that long if we’re quite honest. I didn’t know my brother-in-law all that well, and he wasn’t really my sort.’
He was looking at Lydia again.
‘It’s a shame about young Hugh of course, in a way, but I hardly knew him either…’
So it was not really such a great shame.
‘Good-looking boy, Hugh,’ he said vaguely. ‘Had a governess absolutely devoted to him. Absolutely devoted. Now governesses are always either terribly pretty or absolutely grim-looking, don’t you think?’
I wondered at the question, since it must be obvious to him that I was not acquainted with many governesses. Was this generosity in him or plain ignorance? Had he expected us not to notice that we hadn’t been invited to the supper, but only the afters? He’d very likely not thought about it either way. His chief goal was avoidance of boredom, and proper form and ‘the done thing’ could go by the board as far as he was concerned.
Well, it was all right by me.
‘… And if you knew anything about my brother-in-law,’ Bobby Chandler was saying, ‘you’ll know which sort young Hugh’s governess was. Can you guess?’
‘Pretty,’ I said.
‘Decidedly,’ said Chandler. ‘I only saw her twice, and even though she was a servant of sorts… Now I’m not quite drunk enough to say what I’m going to say next, so change the subject please, Mr Stranger.’
‘What was her name?’ I said, and the sharpness made Bobby Chandler take a step back.
‘That is not changing the subject of course,’ he said, ‘but I believe her name was Emma. The vicar here,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘was distinctly keen on her.’
‘Did either man conduct a…’
And the world stopped, and the sliver of moon winked down at me encouragingly, as I found the word ‘liaison’.
‘I think that possibly they both did,’ he said with a sigh, as though suddenly extremely bored.
‘Both at the same time?’ I said.
But he didn’t seem to hear. He had turned a little way away from me and, keeping half an eye on Lydia, began instructing the waiter about opening some more of the right kind of bottles.
The vicar, who was supposed to be such a great pal of the murdered man, would not be dismissed, would not be stood down from the ranks of suspects.
Bobby Chandler was still speaking to the manservant, having quite forgotten about the governess. Lydia was still speaking to Mrs Chandler, who was drinking hock, but Lydia had not re-filled her own glass; the first one seemed to have done the trick, and it had emboldened her to bring out her hobby horse, for she was speaking about one of her great heroines, Emmeline Pankhurst, until Mrs Chandler interrupted, saying:
‘I know Emmeline Pankhurst slightly.’
The wife was shocked at this, but tried not to show it.
‘Oh,’ the wife said, ‘and what does she say about the progress of the cause?’
‘Well, I don’t really speak to her about that.’
‘Really?’ said the wife. ‘That’s rather like knowing William Shakespeare and never mentioning his plays.’
‘But William Shakespeare is dead,’ said Milly Chandler, and the force of the last word made her stumble slightly.
‘I admire her daughter Sylvia very much,’ the wife was saying. ‘She works tirelessly for the poor in the East End.’
‘Yes, she’s very tedious,’ said Milly Chandler, and she eyed Lydia for a moment, looking to see her response to this. But she burst out laughing after a second in any case.
The small table seemed to have been replenished with red wine; there were also now walnuts, almonds, crystallised fruits in silver bowls, cigarettes and cigars in silver boxes. The manservant was at my elbow, and it seemed that he intended to take my glass away. Perhaps he’d noticed that I’d had enough. But as it turned out he only meant to give me a new one. ‘This is the ’98, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s a better vintage.’
‘Reckon so?’ I said.
Bobby Chandler was facing me again, and to test my theory about him, I said, ‘Where were you when you heard the news of the murder?’
‘India,’ he said, very simply. ‘We were visiting people we know out there.’
‘Where do you actually live?’ I asked him.
‘Well, here now,’ he said, ‘most of the time.’
‘But where were you before, exactly?’
‘Oh, London, you know. We’re not really country people.’
‘Ten to one your place in London is not as big as this,’ I said, gesturing up towards the Hall.
Chandler glanced thoughtfully up at the great house.
‘Perhaps not quite,’ he said. ‘But there’s a lot I don’t care for about this place. It has no cellar, for instance — well, it won’t do after tonight. John doesn’t drink, and my brother-in-law left very, very few decent bottles, so I thought we might as well drink them off so that we know where we stand, do you see?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, if there’s nothing left, there’s nothing left. It’s an extremely straightforward position.’
The Chief was at my elbow.
‘Will you step over here, lad?’
He took me by the arm, and moved me a little way to the side of the terrace. He held one of his small cigars. He was friendlier than before.
‘Lydia’s looking well,’ he said.
‘Good,’ I said, and then, after a pause, ‘Is it all in hand, sir?’
‘It is and it isn’t, lad.’
The Chief was normally as straight as they came, but now he looked and sounded shifty.
‘I came upon a fellow lying in the woods,’ I said. ‘I thought he must be…’
‘We can’t speak of it here,’ said the Chief — and he was eyeing Usher.
‘You had supper earlier on?’ I enquired, after an interval of silence.
‘Aye,’ said the Chief, and he almost smiled. ‘Roast quails… and it went from there.’
On the terrace, Usher was pacing and smoking.
‘Where’s John Lambert?’ I asked the Chief.
‘He’ll be joining us presently.’
‘Usher means to kill him,’ I said. ‘I’m certain of it.’
The Chief took a pull on his cigar, and made a movement of his head that was both a nod and a shake.
‘Do you know who Usher is?’ he asked, putting one eye on me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Do you?’
He put his cigar out just then, stamping on it with his patent shoe. He did not mean to answer the question. He meant to keep whatever he knew on important points muffled up.
I was looking the Chief’s tail-coat up and down.
