Death in a White Tie

‘I think perhaps I have. I have told George and Grace that I will bring Sarah out this coming season. Here is a letter from George and here is another from Grace. Government House, Suva. They think it charming of me to offer.’

‘Good Lord, mama,’ said Alleyn, ‘you must be demented. Do you know what this means?’

‘I believe I do. It means that I must take a flat in London. It means that I must look up all sorts of people who will turn out to be dead or divorced or remarried. It means that I must give little luncheon-parties and cocktail-parties and exchange cutlets with hard-working mothers. It means that I must sit in ballrooms praising other women’s grand-daughters and securing young men for my own. I shall be up until four o’clock five nights out of seven and I’m afraid, darling, that my black lace and my silver charmeuse will not be quite equal to the strain. So that in addition to buying clothes for Sarah I shall have to buy some for myself. And I should like to know what you think about that, Roderick?’

‘I think it is all utterly preposterous. Why the devil can’t George and Grace bring Sarah out themselves?’

‘Because they are in Fiji, darling.’

‘Well, why can’t she stay in until they return?’

‘George’s appointment is for four years. In four years your niece will be twenty-two. An elderly sort of débutante.’

‘Why has Sarah got to come out? Why can’t she simply emerge?’

‘That I cannot tell you, but George and Grace certainly could. I rather see it, I must say, Roderick. A girl has such fun doing her first season. There is nothing like it, ever again. And now we have gone back to chaperones and all the rest of it, it really does seem to have some of the old glamour.’

‘You mean débutantes have gone back to being treated like hothouse flowers for three months and taking their chance as hardy perennials for the rest of their lives?’

‘If you choose to put it like that. The system is not without merit, my dear.’

‘It may be quite admirable, but isn’t it going to be a bit too exhausting for you? Where is Sarah, by the way?’

‘She is always rather late for breakfast. How wonderfully these children sleep, don’t they? But we were talking about the season, weren’t we? I think I shall enjoy it, Rory. And really and truly it won’t be such hard work. I’ve heard this morning from Evelyn Carrados. She was Evelyn O’Brien, you know. Evelyn Curtis, of course, in the first instance, but that’s so long ago nobody bothers about it. Not that she’s as old as that, poor girl. She can’t be forty yet. Quite a chicken, in fact. Her mother was my greatest friend. We did the season together when we came out. And now here’s Evelyn bringing her own girl out and offering to help with Sarah. Could anything be more fortunate?’

‘Nothing,’ responded Alleyn dryly. ‘I remember Evelyn O’Brien.’

‘I should hope you do. I did my best to persuade you to fall in love with her.’

‘Did I fall in love with her?’

‘No. I could never imagine why, as she was quite lovely and very charming. Now I come to think of it, you hadn’t much chance as she herself fell madly in love with Paddy O’Brien who returned suddenly from Australia.’

‘I remember. A romantic sort of bloke, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. They were married after a short engagement. Five months later he was killed in a motor accident. Wasn’t it awful?’

‘Awful.’

‘And then in six months or so along came this girl, Bridget. Evelyn called her Bridget because Paddy was Irish. And then, poor Evelyn, she married Herbert Carrados. Nobody ever knew why.’

‘I’m not surprised. He’s a frightful bore. He must be a great deal older than Evelyn.’

‘A thousand years and so pompous you can’t believe he’s true. You know him evidently.’

‘Vaguely. He’s something pretty grand in the City.’

Alleyn lit his mother’s cigarette and his own. He walked over to the french window and looked across the lawn.

‘Your garden is getting ready to come out, too,’ he said. ‘I wish I hadn’t to go back to the Yard.’

‘Now, darling? This minute?’

‘Afraid so. It’s this case.’ He waved some papers in his hand. ‘Fox rang up late last night. Something’s cropped up.’

‘What sort of case is it?’

‘Blackmail, but you’re not allowed to ask questions.’

‘Rory, how exciting. Who’s being blackmailed? Somebody frightfully important, I hope?’

‘Do you remember Lord Robert Gospell?’

‘Bunchy Gospell, do you mean? Surely he’s not being blackmailed. A more innocent creature—’

‘No, mama, he isn’t. Nor is he a blackmailer.’

‘He’s a dear little man,’ said Lady Alleyn emphatically. ‘The nicest possible little man.’

‘Not so little nowadays. He’s very plump and wears a cloak and a sombrero like GKC.’

‘Really?’

‘You must have seen photographs of him in your horrible illustrated papers. They catch him when they can. “Lord Robert (‘Bunchy’) Gospell tells one of his famous stories.” That sort of thing.’

‘Yes, but what’s he got to do with blackmail?’

‘Nothing. He is, as you say, an extremely nice little man.’

‘Roderick, don’t be infuriating. Has Bunchy Gospell got anything to do with Scotland Yard?’

Alleyn was staring out into the garden.

‘You might say,’ he said at last, ‘that we have a very great respect for him at the Yard. Not only is he charming—he is also, in his own way, a rather remarkable personage.’

Lady Alleyn looked at her son meditatively for some seconds.

‘Are you meeting him today?’ she asked.

‘I think so.’

‘Why?’

‘Why, darling, to listen to one of his famous stories, I suppose.’

II

It was Miss Harris’s first day in her new job. She was secretary to Lady Carrados and had been engaged for the London season. Miss Harris knew quite well what this meant. It was not, in a secretarial sense, by any means her first season. She was a competent young woman, almost frighteningly unimaginative, with a brain that was divided into neat pigeon-holes, and a mind that might be said to label all questions ‘answered’ or ‘unanswered’. If a speculative or unconventional idea came Miss Harris’s way, it was promptly dealt with or promptly shut up in a dark pigeon-hole and never taken out again. If Miss Harris had not been able to answer it immediately, it was unanswerable and therefore of no importance. Owing perhaps to her intensive training as a member of the large family of a Buckinghamshire clergyman she never for a moment asked herself why she should go through life organising fun for other people and having comparatively little herself. That would have seemed to Miss Harris an irrelevant and rather stupid speculation. One’s job was a collection of neatly filed duties, suitable to one’s station in life, and therefore respectable. It had no wider ethical interest of any sort at all. This is not to say Miss Harris was insensitive. On the contrary, she was rather touchy on all sorts of points of etiquette relating to her position in the houses in which she was employed. Where she had her lunch, with whom she had it, and who served it, were matters of great importance to her and she was painfully aware of the subtlest nuances in her employers’ attitude towards herself. About her new job she was neatly optimistic. Lady Carrados had impressed her favourably, had treated her, in her own phrase, like a perfect lady. Miss Harris walked briskly along an upstairs passage and tapped twice, not too loud and not too timidly, on a white door.