Cyril Hare - An English Murder

"When I die. Yes, of course I do. It will mean the end of Warbeck Hall. I am sorry for you, Robert. You have had the misfortune to be born into the first generation of the dispossessed. I have been luckier. I can say of myself, in the old Latin phrase, that I am Felix opportunitate mortis . You can put that on my tombstone, if the Vicar will let you. But you know," he went on, before Robert had time to speak, "I think you are rather exaggerating the part Julius has played in this affair. After all, it would all have happened in much the same way without him. He is only the figurehead of something far larger. In spite of all his posturings, I think he realizes it from time to time, and then I find him rather a pathetic character."

"Pathetic!" Robert was to be denied no longer. "Shall I tell you what I think of him? He's nothing but a traitor to his class, a traitor to his country——"

"Don't shout, Robert. It's a nasty habit you've acquired from speaking at street corners. Besides, it's bad for me."

"I'm sorry, Father." Robert was all contrition at once. "But I was never much good at forgiving my enemies."

"'Enemies' is rather a strong word to use. I bear no ill will to Julius. He is, like the rest of us, in the power of what Dr. Bottwink would call the Zeitgeist ."

"Bottwink? Who on earth is he?"

"Oh, an interesting little man. You'll see him directly. He's doing research work in the muniment room. Hardly your type, perhaps, but I like him."

"He sounds like a Jew," Robert said disgustedly.

"I have never asked him, but I shouldn't be at all surprised if he was. Does it matter? But perhaps I shouldn't have asked you that."

Robert remained silent for a moment and then uttered a mirthless laugh. "Really, it's a bit funny," he said. "I come down to Warbeck for Christmas, and find myself sharing it with Julius and a Jew boy! We ought to make a merry party!"

"I am sorry you take it like this, my dear boy," said Lord Warbeck seriously. "As a matter of fact, Dr. Bottwink's presence is quite accidental. But your society won't be confined entirely to them. We can't afford much hospitality in these days, but we can do better than that."

With the air of a man resigned to hear the worst, Robert said, "I see. And who makes the rest of the house-party?"

"I'm hardly in a condition to entertain a house-party, Robert, even if the house was. As I told you, this is simply a last reunion of the family circle. There are not many people left who qualify under that head. First, of course, there is Mrs. Carstairs——"

Robert groaned. "Mrs. Carstairs!" he said. "I might have known it!"

"Your mother's oldest friend, Robert. She was also your poor brother's godmother, if I recollect rightly. I should have felt ashamed not to invite her."

"What does it matter what she was? It's what she is that I object to. She's Alan Carstairs' wife, and all she's concerned with is pushing that dirty politician up the dirty political ladder. Also, she's a crashing bore," he added.

"Well," said Lord Warbeck resignedly, "let us be thankful that the dirty politician is abroad and won't be here to trouble you. There is just one other guest," he went on. "I hope you will regard her as some compensation for the others."

Robert's cheek glowed red in the firelight. He bit his lip and there was a distinct pause before he turned to look at his father.

"Camilla?" he asked.

"Yes, Camilla. I hope you're pleased."

"I—I haven't seen her for some time."

"So I gather. I hoped that would be all the more reason for your being glad to see her on this occasion."

"It was nice of you to think of me, Father."

"I've had a good deal of leisure for thinking lately. It's one of the advantages that invalids have over normal people. And you—and Camilla—have been in my thoughts a good deal."

Robert remained silent.

"I love that girl," his father went on softly. "She is very fond of you, unless I'm much mistaken. I used to think that you were fond of her. You've changed a lot in the last year or two, but I hoped you hadn't changed in that. I'm not such an old fogey as to think that parents can order their children's lives nowadays, but it would be a great comfort to me if before I go I could know that your future was assured. Why don't you ask her, Robert? Make this a happy Christmas for the two of you, and leave me to cope with the rest of the party!"

Robert did not reply at first. He had lighted a cigarette and was nervously flicking the ash into the fire.

"Look here, Father," he said at last, "I've been wanting to talk to you about—about this business for some time, but it's difficult. I——"

He stopped abruptly as the door opened and Briggs came into the room.

"Shall I serve tea, my lord?" he said.

"I said we would wait for the ladies, Briggs."

"They are just arrived, my lord. They were delayed by the snow, I understand."

"Then we'll have tea at once. Let Sir Julius know, and ask Dr. Bottwink if he would care to join us."

"Very good, my lord. I think I hear the ladies coming now."

He withdrew and returned a moment later to announce, "Lady Camilla Prendergast and Mrs. Carstairs."

The room seemed to be suddenly full of women. The quiet, masculine atmosphere of the library, redolent of wood smoke and old calf bindings, was charged with a new, disturbing element, made up of feminine scents and sounds. Robert felt that he and his father had dwindled into an insignificant minority. It was difficult to realize that in fact there were only two women present, and, moreover, that one of them was noticeably quiet. But any failure in self-assertion on her part was more than made up by her companion.

Friendly accounts of the activities of Mrs. Carstairs were apt to contain somewhere the phrase that she was, would be, or had been "a host in herself"; and the description had been taken up and applied by other commentators, not so friendly. It certainly fitted her invasion of Lord Warbeck's library. She overran it like an occupying army, distributing her fire right and left and reducing the inhabitants to a stunned quiescence.

"Dear Lord Warbeck!" she exclaimed as she swept in. "How marvellous to be back in the dear old place again! It is really too good of you to think of asking me, especially when you've been so poorly—but you are better now, are you not? I had had such bad accounts of you that really at one time I was positively anxious. When I got your letter inviting me, I could hardly believe it at first, but I might have known—it was so like you not to forget old friends, even if our ways have lain apart these many years. Oh, Robert, dear boy, how are you? One can see with half an eye that you are well enough. Dear, dear, I'm afraid our ways have diverged with a vengeance! Never mind, we'll try and forget sore subjects, just for Christmas, shall we? Christmas ought to be a time for forgetting as well as for remembering, I always think. Oh, let me get near this lovely fire and thaw myself! I'm quite frozen!"

Somewhere in this monologue Lord Warbeck had contrived to interject a question as to her journey.

"Dreadful, dreadful! If I hadn't had the prospect of dear Warbeck to cheer me, I don't know how I could have borne it. The train was late, of course, and cold! It almost took me back to the bad old days before nationalisation—but I expect that in those days we should never have got through at all! And then we had a fiendish drive here. Really, on Telegraph Hill the snow was so thick we began to wonder if we would ever make it. Luckily the driver was a most sensible young man and he had chains and he——"

Decidedly, the room was full of women. But it was not Mrs. Carstairs, despite her chatter, whose personality counted for most there. While the flow of trivialities went remorselessly on, Camilla Prendergast stepped quietly up to the sofa and bent over Lord Warbeck. There was a quick exchange of barely audible words, a kiss given and returned, and then she straightened herself and came across to Robert. He was standing by the window, his handsome face a non-committal mask.