Murder Takes a Turn Read online

  ‘I won’t join you,’ he said. ‘I find that all I can stomach in the morning is strong coffee.’

  Maria recalled overhearing what Denbigh Connaught had told Donald yesterday, about Monty being self-conscious about eating in public. She felt sorry for him.

  ‘I had a call last night from young Royce,’ Monty said, ‘summoning me to see Denbigh this afternoon. I thought I’d come up early and make a day of it. I left most of my books here twenty-five years ago when I fled the nest, you see, and I need to do a little research.’

  ‘For your next one?’ Charles asked.

  ‘My publisher just commissioned a book about the coast of Morocco. I’m heading off in a day or two.’

  ‘Did Denbigh say why he wanted to see you?’ Donald asked. ‘He’s gathered most of the other guests here so that he can apologize.’

  Monty’s tanned face cracked into a smile. ‘Well, he’ll have plenty to apologize about, if even only half the tales are true.’ He shook his head. ‘That said, it’s not like the old rogue to say sorry to anyone.’

  ‘Not even to you?’ Maria asked.

  Monty shook his head, staring down at his coffee. ‘He’s never apologized to me in his life, and God knows he has plenty to be sorry about. Denbigh’s five years my senior, and in our youth he lorded it over me. Between you and me, I think he resented my appearance on the scene. Stole his limelight somewhat.’

  ‘How do you get on now?’ Donald asked.

  Monty smiled, showing white teeth. ‘I haven’t seen him for almost ten years, and back then there was no love lost. I must admit, though, that I’m intrigued. His telegram said he needed to see me urgently.’

  ‘I think most people are wondering what he’s up to,’ Donald said.

  Monty shrugged and poured more coffee. ‘Right, mustn’t dally,’ he said. ‘Work to do.’

  Carrying his replenished coffee cup, he left the room.

  ‘I wonder if we should take a stroll around the grounds,’ Donald suggested, ‘before …’

  ‘The view from the clifftop,’ Charles said, ‘will be divine.’

  They left the dining room and crossed the sloping lawn to the precipitous drop some two hundred yards from the house. Maria, knowing Donald’s fear of heights, gripped his hand as they came to the tussocky edge of the cliff.

  The sea was a flat expanse of blue and silver sequins; to their right, the coastline receded into the hazy distance in a series of scalloped coves and bays. Maria released Donald’s hand, approached the edge and peered over.

  ‘Careful,’ he said.

  Ten yards to their right, a steep flight of concrete steps led down to a small timber jetty. ‘Perhaps, later,’ she said mischievously, squinting at Donald, ‘we should climb down and walk along the jetty?’

  ‘Not on your nelly!’ he said.

  ‘I’d hold your hand all the way, Donald.’

  He joined her and peered down, wincing. ‘Doesn’t look wide enough to walk two abreast,’ he said.

  She sighed. ‘Oh, then we will have to think of some other form of entertainment.’

  Charles laughed. ‘Stop being so cruel to the poor man, Maria!’

  Donald dragged her away from the edge and they strolled across the lawn.

  He lit his pipe and puffed it into life. She was becoming accustomed to the rich smell of his tobacco which, together with the Brylcreem he used on his hair, she thought of as Donald’s distinctive odour. She kissed his cheek.

  ‘What was that for?’ he laughed.

  ‘Because you look so oddly serious when you puff away at that funny pipe of yours.’

  ‘Is it funny?’

  ‘A little, the way it sticks out from your manly jaw, with its little smoking chimney.’

  In the distance, its windows glinting in the sunlight, was Denbigh Connaught’s study. The door opened and Lady Cecelia appeared; she stepped from the building and hurried towards the house, her head down and a hand pressed to her chest.

  ‘There goes Lady Cee,’ Donald said. ‘I wonder what transpired.’

  Charles glanced at his watch. ‘Ten fifteen,’ he said. ‘We might have been summoned into the great man’s presence at ten thirty, but I refuse to kick my heels out here until then. What do you think, Maria?’

  She was about to suggest they explore the walled garden on the far side of the house for fifteen minutes, but Charles lofted his silver-topped malacca and set off without awaiting her reply. ‘Onward!’ he declared.

  Maria gave Donald a quick kiss. ‘See you later, mon cheri.’

  ‘Look after the old boy, Maria.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ she said. She caught up with Charles and took his hand as they walked around the study to reach the door, which at this time of the morning was facing the sea.

  Charles rapped sharply on the glass with his cane. Maria hung back, anticipating Connaught’s adverse reaction to her presence.

  The door was snatched open precipitously and Connaught glared out. ‘What time do you call this?’ he barked, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘You’re early. I expressly said ten thirty.’

  ‘You’ve dallied over this for forty years,’ Charles replied sweetly. ‘A few minutes are neither here nor there.’

  Connaught grumbled something, then glared at Maria. ‘And I didn’t say anything about bringing a guest.’

  ‘Maria is my business partner, Connaught. We come, as it were, as a package. Of course, if you’d rather not …’ He turned as if making to leave.

  Connaught snapped, ‘Come in, then.’

  Charles gestured for her to precede him, then squeezed through the narrow opening after her.

  A battered settee and two wicker chairs were positioned to the left. Before the settee was a coffee table bearing a portable typewriter. The floor was of herringbone parquet, covered by a faded Persian rug. To the right, opposite the settee, stood an upright piano.

  ‘Drink?’ Connaught asked with ill grace.

  ‘I’d rather conduct this meeting sober, if it is all the same to you,’ Charles said primly.

  ‘You?’ the novelist asked, glaring at Maria.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Take a pew.’ Connaught indicated the wicker chairs, pulling one of them closer for Maria. Having poured himself a Scotch, he dropped into the settee and stared at the pair.

  Charles squeezed himself into a chair; it was a tight fit, and the wicker squeaked its protest. Connaught, Maria noted as she took her seat, appeared a little drunk; his face was flushed, the hair on either side of his thinning pate even more dishevelled than usual.

  He glared from Maria to Charles. ‘You’re probably wondering what the hell all this is about.’

  ‘That, Connaught, is something of an understatement. You remain incommunicado for forty years, and then—’

  ‘And then summon you out of the blue to apologize. Must seem a bit rum, what?’

  Charles smiled. ‘You employ the phrase somewhat glibly.’

  Connaught leaned back. He regarded Charles with a calculating gaze. ‘It happened a long time ago, Charles.’

  ‘Time does not diminish the pain, nor—’

  ‘Don’t go all poesy on me. I had enough of that at Winchester. Do you realize how much your constant soliloquizing grated on my nerves?’

  ‘I might counter, Connaught, by asking if you realize how your ego tested the patience of our little group of pals.’

  ‘We’re even, then. But as I said, all this happened a long time ago. If you think I don’t regret what I did then, you’re sorely mistaken. Not a day goes by without—’

  ‘If you’re trying to elicit my sympathy, I suggest that you consider what it might have been like for me. After all, it was I who suffered.’

  ‘And I, too, Charles. I was young – a mere boy. A fool, and damned fool, I’ll grant you that. I suffered, and still suffer, the crushing guilt. And I might say that, as a burden, guilt is far harder to bear than grief after so long …’

  Maria looked at Charles. His
mouth was open, frozen in speechlessness. He gathered his wits and said, ‘If you are trying to claim that your guilt is in any way comparable to the torture I suffered, at the time and in the years that followed, then you have an insufferable cheek, sir! “Guilt is far harder to bear than grief …” You astound me with your ignorance.’

  Connaught took a mouthful of whisky. He remained quiet for a while, as if to allow Charles to calm himself, and then said very quietly, ‘The nightmares began a few months ago.’

  Charles blinked. ‘The nightmares?’

  ‘I am being haunted, Charles, for what I did that summer in 1917.’

  Maria glanced at Charles. He was staring at the novelist, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Every night,’ Connaught went on, ‘every night he comes to me …’

  ‘“He”?’ Charles whispered.

  ‘Who else?’ Connaught said. ‘Daniel …’

  Beside her, Charles gave an almost imperceptible moan.

  Connaught said, ‘Do you have any idea, Charles, what it is like to know that you are responsible, directly responsible, for the death of another human being? To know that, through one’s actions when one was a stupid, callow youth, a young boy died … Do you know what it’s like to wake up in the early hours of the morning, wake up screaming from dreams in which Daniel is pointing at me, accusing?’ The novelist hung his head, took a deep breath as if fighting against the desire to sob, then went on, ‘He comes to me every night, Charles, every night; Daniel – as innocent and youthful … and as beautiful … as he was then, and he says to me, “Why?”’

  Charles opened his mouth to speak. His hands were trembling on his lap. He said at last, ‘What you did – your actions – you killed him just as if you’d taken a pistol and shot him through the heart!’

  Connaught stared at Charles, his gaze stricken. ‘Don’t you think I know that, for Christ’s sake! Don’t you see that I’ve had to live with the guilt for every single day of my life? Trying to remain sane with the knowledge of my guilt, the knowledge that gnaws at the very core of my being. Over the years I’ve … by Christ, I’ve come to hate myself, been driven to the very brink of insanity!’

  Charles stood up suddenly, skittling the wicker chair. At first Maria thought that her friend was about to launch himself at the novelist, but instead he hurried around the upturned chair, reached the door and turned.

  ‘And you wish to placate me by offering your next novel?’ His voice sounded strangled; his face was red, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Connaught stretched out a hand, as if pleading. ‘It is all I can give you, Charles, other than my heartfelt apology.’

  Charles, standing with one hand on the door handle, shook his head and said, ‘I cannot bring myself to forgive you, Connaught.’

  ‘I don’t want your forgiveness, for Christ’s sake! I want your understanding!’

  The two men stared at each other. Maria heard her heart thudding.

  ‘My understanding?’ Charles shook his head, uncomprehending.

  Maria stared at Connaught as he searched for the words; he tore his gaze from Charles, his face contorting in pain. At last he managed, on the verge of tears, his mouth twisting, ‘When I saw you two, that day, beside the river … When I saw how … how much Daniel obviously cared for you … Do you have any idea, any idea at all, Charles, how that made me feel?’

  Charles shook his head. ‘Feel?’ he echoed.

  ‘I … I was consumed with jealousy,’ Connaught whispered, and hung his head in silence.

  ‘Jealousy?’

  ‘I loved Daniel, for Christ’s sake! I loved him!’

  Charles collapsed against the door, staring at the stricken novelist. He shook his head, then gathered himself and said, his words strangled, ‘So … so you decided to destroy what I had? If you could not claim Daniel’s affection, you ensured that neither I nor anyone else would enjoy his love.’

  Connaught rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘How could I foresee what my actions would lead to?’ he wept. ‘I swear to you, Charles, I did what I did not to punish Daniel, but because I was jealous of his love for you … I did what I did, I admit, so that you might suffer.’

  Charles stared at the novelist, aghast. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he struggled to find an adequate response, and Maria wanted to stand and take him in her arms.

  Charles said, in little more than a horrified murmur, ‘And in God’s name you have made me suffer, you monster!’

  ‘Charles, I beg you.’ Connaught moved. He took three paces across the study to a bookcase and snatched up a great sheaf of typescript.

  He held it out to Charles, ‘Please, take it.’

  ‘Damn your accursed novel!’ Charles cried, snatching open the door. ‘And damn you, Connaught!’

  He turned and fled from the study.

  As if released from paralysis, Maria stood quickly and crossed to the door. Connaught moved to her, thrusting the manuscript into her hands.

  Without meeting his eyes, she took the bundle, stepped through the door and hurried across the lawn.

  ELEVEN

  Langham sat on a bench outside the drawing room, smoking his pipe and leafing through The Times. He was contemplating the crossword when he heard a door slam beyond the high wall of the boxwood hedge, and seconds later Charles appeared at the far end of the hedge. His friend seemed agitated and hurried through the timber door of the walled garden.

  Langham was debating whether or not to follow him when Maria rounded the hedge before him and stopped in her tracks.

  ‘Maria? What is—’

  ‘Have you seen Charles?’ she asked urgently.

  ‘Yes.’ He pointed with the stem of his pipe, indicating the narrow length of lawn that ran between the hedge and the house. ‘He entered the walled garden just seconds ago.’

  ‘We need to talk to him …’

  He stood and took her arm. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, it was awful, Donald. Awful!’ She set off towards the garden, Langham at her side. ‘It seems that Connaught was responsible for the death of a boy while they were at school, someone very close to Charles.’

  ‘My word …’

  They came to the walled garden and pushed through a green-painted door. Langham scanned the geometrical pathways. Charles was seated on a bench, one of four arranged in a square at the centre of the garden.

  Maria set off at a run and Langham followed.

  Charles looked up, saw them and quickly dried his tears with a handkerchief.

  They hurried along the gravelled pathway and arrived at the centre of the garden.

  ‘Please,’ Charles said, indicating the bench placed at right angles to his own. ‘I think I owe you an explanation, Maria, and an apology.’

  ‘You’ve really no need.’

  ‘I insist!’ Charles smiled through his tears as they sat down. ‘My behaviour in the study … I should not have lost my temper.’

  ‘You were provoked,’ she said.

  ‘Nevertheless …’ he began. ‘My apologies, Maria, for running off like that.’

  She reached out and took his hand. ‘Charles, I understand.’

  ‘I really must tell you all about what happened. Who better to tell than good friends?’

  Maria glanced at Langham; he nodded minimally.

  She murmured, ‘Very well.’

  They sat in silence for a while, and then Charles said quietly, ‘In retrospect, my later schooldays seem a halcyon time.’ He paused. ‘I was truly happy; the world was young, and all my life stretched ahead.’ He smiled to himself and quoted, ‘“That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went, and cannot come again …”’

  He stared into space, lost in thought, then went on, ‘Perhaps my being so happy at the time made what happened that summer seem all the more … tragic. But no – in any circumstances it would have been terrible.’

  Maria said, ‘Charles, honestly, you don’t have to …’

 
His eyes appealed to her, and then to Langham. ‘But I need to, my children. I need to unburden myself. I want to.’

  Maria sighed. ‘But only if you’re absolutely sure.’

  ‘I have never been surer,’ Charles said. ‘I want you to understand what Denbigh Connaught did, all those years ago.’

  He tucked his handkerchief into his breast pocket and smiled at them.

  ‘There was a boy,’ he began, ‘Daniel. Daniel Lattimer; he was the same age as me. He combined athleticism with a rare, golden beauty, and a winning gentleness that put everyone under his spell. He came to Winchester at the age of fourteen, and we became fast friends. We were inseparable. Of course, that sort of thing was not uncommon. Throw a group of boys together at that age and it is inevitable that crushes and … pashes, as they were known … should propagate. But what Daniel and I shared, I tell myself, was something special.’

  He fell silent, his eyes pooled with unshed tears. He stirred himself and continued. ‘Connaught – Denbigh Connaught – was part of our little coterie, but always somewhat on the fringe. Daniel and I and two or three others were smitten with Christianity – we had a school chaplain who made it all seem so real, so modern and relevant. Connaught, however, wanted nothing to do with all that. I could not decide, at the time, if he acted as he did to shock us, or if he was genuine in his … in his avowal to live life to the full, to please himself and beggar the consequences. He bragged about going up to London and sleeping with prostitutes, and there was a rumour that he’d seduced a shop-girl. I wonder, now, considering what he said in the study, if it had merely been an attempt to show Daniel that he didn’t care.

  ‘In the summer of 1917, my friendship with Daniel became more … intense. We hovered on the brink of intimacy for weeks; oh, how I tortured myself with longing, spent sleepless nights dwelling on my love for the boy! I could not be sure if Daniel reciprocated my feelings. I know he regarded me as a true friend, but as anything more?’ He paused, took a deep breath and plunged on. ‘It happened one afternoon after the annual cricket match against Harrow. We were strolling through woodland, behind the school … We came to a stream, and I suggested that we swim. We had not brought our costumes, of course.’ He swallowed, his voice catching. ‘We swam naked, and then lay on the bank, in the sunlight, and talked, and … and … You can imagine the rest. I … I will say nothing other than it was quite the most wonderful experience of my young life.’