James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“Fascinating,” Kaz said. “I had not known of that revision.”

“It also appears in a 1603 Folio, so we know it predates Shakespeare’s death. I’ll show you a copy later,” Edgar said, retreating to his chair, looking mildly embarrassed about his brief speech.

David pulled a chair closer to Helen. “What do you think of a future here at Ashcroft House?”

“I’m glad Edgar will finally have a chance to write his book,” Helen said with indifference, staring straight ahead.

“You know I mean about staying on here,” David said in a low voice, his eyes zeroing in on Helen as if she were a Me-109 in his sights. I could almost feel his teeth clench.

“Where else would we go, dear?” Helen said, turning to face him. “What else can we do?” She said it calmly. Perhaps it was her idea. Or Meredith’s. Either way, it had a ring of certainty to it. There was meaning in how she looked at David, without flinching or averting of her eyes. The signaling of a truce? A partnership? I hoped for David’s sake it was sincere. But she’d been upset about something a minute ago. What had that been all about? Maybe it wasn’t a truce. Resignation, perhaps. To her new life and David’s ruined face.

Williams entered to announce a call on the telephone for Lady Pemberton from Doctor Phillips.

“He knows I do not speak through that machine,” Great Aunt Sylvia said emphatically. “Meredith, would you?”

Meredith nodded somberly and went to do her duty.

“Doctor Phillips has released the body,” she said a few minutes later, standing in the doorway with her hands folded in front of her, as if giving a lecture. “The cause of death was definitely a heart attack. We are apparently free to proceed with the funeral.” It was interesting that she used the word “definitely.” Had anyone else but me suspected foul play? Not that I’d taken the idea seriously, but perhaps someone else had. The last sentence was dripping with sarcasm, the disdain of the upper class for the procedures of mere officialdom. Meredith had tried on the role of lady of the manor and found it fit her well.

“We should see the vicar,” Helen said.

“Certainly,” David answered. His eyes darted back to Helen. He seemed surprised that she was still looking in his direction. “Are there any other living relatives?”

“None on the Sutcliffe side,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “There was a cousin in Yorkshire or some other dreary northern place. Died after the last war, I think.”

“I will check Father’s papers in his study to be sure,” Meredith said. “Then, in the morning, Helen and I will call upon the vicar.” Great Aunt Sylvia gave her an approving nod. Meredith stood, a solid Pemberton look of satisfaction on her face. There were things to be done, and she was the one to do them.

At dinner, David was in fine form, telling stories of North Africa and his mates in the RAF. Nothing about burns, crash landings, or empty bunks after a mission, but rather high jinks and pranks, the kind of thing families like to hear, as if their young men were all delightful scamps away at summer camp. He told a story about a German pilot who’d been shot down and was a guest in their mess before he was taken away to a POW camp. Knights of the sky, that sort of thing. Helen laughed and touched his arm, which was nice to see, but these white lies were almost too much to bear. I wanted to scream, to tell them about the young boys recently killed and maimed on a beach not far away, their bodies cold and decaying as we sat eating whiting with carrots. I caught Kaz’s eye, and he gave the tiniest of shrugs before taking a healthy drink of wine. He was glad David was in good spirits, I was sure, but I could tell the sudden change in David was bothering him too. A day or so ago, he’d been desperate to find a job that would keep him in uniform and out of Ashcroft. Today, when he should have been down in the dumps, he was the life of the party. Something was wrong.

“David,” Kaz said, taking advantage of a break in the conversation, “I heard something of the local dialect at the pub last night. I had no idea it was so colorful.”

“The fellows had a fine time at my expense, first time I went there,” Edgar said. “It was good-natured fun, as far as I could tell.”

“You didn’t bore them with Shakespeare while spending our money, did you, darling?” Meredith said with a roll of her eyes.

“ ‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’ ” Edgar said, with a wink toward Kaz.

“Edgar!” Meredith exclaimed, aware that the barb was directed at her.

“Sir Toby, in Twelfth Night , is it not?” Kaz asked, an appreciative grin on his face. Edgar raised his glass to him and then graciously to Meredith, who leveled her eyes at Edgar as she returned the toast. The whole table was in top form tonight.

“What did they say?” David asked, returning to the topic of the local dialect. “I can’t say I’m familiar with West Country idioms.”

“Something about appen the janner and the shord,” Kaz said.

“Appen the janner will find the shord,” I said. “That was the gist of it.”

“Perhaps the seaman will find the gap in the hedge,” Great Aunt Sylvia said from her end of the table. “ Janner could mean a fisherman, anyone who makes their living from the sea. It’s an old word, which has become corrupted to mean almost anyone in Devon, and not in a flattering light.”

“Interesting,” David said. “But what’s that about a gap in the hedge?”

“I believe it refers to one who can make his way through cleverness,” Meredith said. “Finding a route no one else has, that sort of thing. David, you should make an appearance at the pub, after the funeral, of course. I’m sure Edgar would be more than pleased to go as well. It’s expected.”

“Lords of the manor, eh, Edgar?” David said, raising his glass. The white wine leapt within the clear crystal as his hand trembled, and he set the glass down a bit harder than necessary. Edgar made a joke about it and everyone laughed, David’s nervousness forgotten. Except by me.

After dinner the ladies left the table and Edgar poured brandies for each of the men, then fired up a cigar.

“One of Sir Rupert’s,” he explained as he sent a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “No reason for them to go to waste, I say.”

“What would Malvolio think of that?” Kaz said, and I could see a mischievous glow in his eyes.

“Who?” I asked.

“Oh, I take your point,” Edgar said. “Rather droll. You see, Captain, the scene I quoted from at dinner is a famous one. Sir Toby Belch is a high-spirited comic creation, a cunning fellow in love with life and good drink. His nemesis is steward to his niece, Malvolio. Malvolio is a bit of a stickler for propriety and looks down on excess, especially when it comes to drinking.” He was smiling, apparently happy to be compared to a character from his beloved bard.

“I am sorry if I went too far,” Kaz said. “I couldn’t help it after you quoted that line.”

“Not to worry, Baron,” Edgar said, waving his cigar expansively. “Once in a while, I get my say in things. And Twelfth Night is one of my favorite comedies. Although I find the plot with the forged letter a tad cruel, it is still quite amusing.”

“Speaking of quotes, what was that fisherman stuff all about?” David asked. “I’d like to learn more about the dialect, but what was the context of going between the hedges?”

“It was an offhand remark,” Kaz said, not revealing that we’d been discussing the possible paternity of Peter Wiley. “We heard it on our way out, and I was curious.”

That satisfied David, and we left for our rooms. Something was bothering me, and as I ascended the staircase I tried to put my finger on it, but it was late, and I was too bushed for hard thinking. I hoped it would come to me, but the residual aches, pains, and twinges from my healing cuts and bruises came on strong instead. It wasn’t until much later, lying awake, that it I got it. Two things. The first was the envelope. Edgar mentioning the forged letter must have jogged my memory. When I’d encountered Meredith coming out of her father’s study, she’d had a letter in her hand. The stamps were American. Had she taken it from her father? Could it have had anything to do with Peter Wiley?