D. Mitchell: The King of Terrors

I did not meet Simon’s son until later that evening. David Lambert-Chide had been out with friends in his new MG sports car and arrived home late. Simon was most displeased on finding him absent as we entered the dining room.

‘I specifically told David we had a very special guest joining us for dinner and not to be late,’ he said, his face sullen.

Evelyn reached out and put a calming hand on his own. She looked particularly attractive that evening, wearing a gorgeous dress in shimmering light blue that hugged and showed off her elegantly proportioned figure. A beautiful brooch of sapphire and diamonds sparkled against the silk and I commented upon it.

‘It is a rather extravagant gift from my husband to be,’ she said, chastising him sweetly. ‘He knows I am not drawn to such things.’

He shook his head and smiled. ‘She would live like a beggar if I let her,’ he said. ‘Where is that boy?’ he said suddenly, his attention drifting to a large clock by the wall. ‘Any sign of him?’ he asked of one of the servants bringing in the food.

I said that he should not make a fuss on my behalf, and referred him to the inconsistencies of our own youth. He smiled warmly but I could tell he was still agitated.

We had all sat down to dinner when he finally turned up, a little worse for wear. Though I had given him the benefit of the doubt and served up a reasonable defence in his name, I was not immediately enamoured of the brash young man. He cast his father the faintest of apologies, and then he introduced himself to me as if I were one of the servants, sitting down and whipping up a napkin with a flourish, declaring he was half starved. I noticed he did not acknowledge Evelyn in the slightest, which I felt was most rude. He had an arrogant air about him that even his tender eighteen years could not excuse, and I rather supposed it was almost inevitable, being immersed in the corrosive acid that is great wealth from such a young age. He sat down to eat as if none of us were present.

However, Simon, Evelyn and myself chatted amiably, Evelyn eager to know how Simon and I came to know each other, and we shared only superficial insights into our wartime exploits, for in truth a great deal of it would be unpalatable at a dinner table, and much we preferred to keep forever only to ourselves. Evelyn, bless her, tried her best to engage David in conversation, but aside from terse two- or three-word answers he repelled her attempts as if he were an umbrella shedding water. But his ears pricked up when the talk came around to my work in the police force.

‘Ah,’ he said, dabbing his napkin at the corner of his mouth, ‘the famous detective from Scotland yard!’ He at once imitated the melodramatic introduction to the broadcasts, doing a pretty fine job I might say. He laughed at his own cleverness.

‘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.’