Chapter 12

At Horbury Chase

Lord Horbury stood by the sideboard and helped himself absent-mindedly to kidneys.

Stephen Horbury was twenty-seven years of age. He had a narrow head and a long chin. Helooked very much what he was—a sporting out-of-door kind of man without anything veryspectacular in the way of brains. He was kind- hearted, slightly priggish, intensely loyal andinvincibly obstinate¹.

He took his heaped plate back to the table and began to eat. Presently he opened a newspaper,but immediately, with a frown, he cast it aside. He thrust aside his unfinished plate, drank somecoffee and rose to his feet. He paused uncertainly for a minute, then with a slight nod of the headhe left the dining-room, crossed the wide hall and went upstairs. He tapped at a door and waitedfor a minute. From inside the room a clear high voice cried out, ‘Come in.’

Lord Horbury went in.

It was a wide beautiful bedroom facing south. Cicely Horbury was in bed, a great carved oakElizabethan bed. Very lovely she looked, too, in her rose chiffon draperies, with the curling goldof her hair. A breakfast tray with the remains² of orange juice and coffee on it was on a table besideher. She was opening her letters. Her maid was moving about the room.

Any man might be excused if his breath came a little faster confronted by so much loveliness;but the charming picture his wife presented affected³ Lord Horbury not at all.

There had been a time, three years ago, when the breathtaking loveliness of his Cicely had setthe young man’s senses reeling. He had been madly, wildly, passionately⁴ in love. All that wasover. He had been mad. He was now sane⁵.

Lady Horbury said in some surprise:

‘Why, Stephen?’

He said abruptly⁶, ‘I’d like to talk to you alone.’

‘Madeleine.’ Lady Horbury spoke⁷ to her maid. ‘Leave all that. Get out.’

The French girl murmured, ‘Très bien, m’lady’, shot a quick interested look out of the corner ofher eye at Lord Horbury and left the room.

Lord Horbury waited till she had shut the door, then he said:

‘I’d like to know, Cicely, just exactly what is behind this idea of coming down here.’

Lady Horbury shrugged⁸ her slender, beautiful shoulders.

‘After all, why not?’

‘Why not? It seems to me there are a good many reasons.’

His wife murmured, ‘Oh, reasons…’

‘Yes, reasons. You’ll remember that we agreed that as things were between us, it would be aswell to give up this farce⁹ of living together. You were to have the town house and a generous—anextremely generous—allowance. Within certain limits you were to go your own way. Why thissudden return?’

Again Cicely shrugged her shoulders.

‘I thought it—better.’

‘You mean, I suppose, that it’s money?’

Lady Horbury said, ‘My God, how I hate you. You’re the meanest man alive.’

‘Mean? Mean, you say, when it’s because of you and your senseless extravagance that there’s amortgage on Horbury.’

‘Horbury—Horbury—that’s all you care for! Horses and hunting and shooting and crops andtiresome old farmers. God, what a life for a woman.’

‘Some women enjoy it.’

‘Yes, women like Venetia Kerr, who’s half a horse herself. You ought to have married a womanlike that.’

Lord Horbury walked over to the window.

‘It’s a little late to say that. I married you.’

‘And you can’t get out of it,’ said Cicely. Her laugh was malicious¹⁰, triumphant¹¹. ‘You’d like toget rid of me, but you can’t.’

He said, ‘Need we go into all this?’

‘Very much God and the Old School, aren’t you? Most of my friends fairly laugh their heads offwhen I tell them the kind of things you say.’

‘They are welcome to do so. Shall we get back to our original subject of discussion—yourreason for coming here?’

But his wife would not follow his lead. She said:

‘You advertised in the papers that you wouldn’t be responsible for my debts. Do you call that agentlemanly thing to do?’

‘I regret having had to take that step. I warned you, you will remember. Twice I paid up. Butthere are limits. Your insensate passion for gambling—well, why discuss it? But I do want toknow what prompted you to come down to Horbury. You’ve always hated the place, been bored todeath here.’

Cicely Horbury, her small face sullen¹², said, ‘I thought it better—just now.’

‘Better—just now?’ He repeated the words thoughtfully. Then he asked a question sharply:

‘Cicely, had you been borrowing from that old French moneylender?’

‘Which one? I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You know perfectly¹³ what I mean. I mean the woman who was murdered on the plane fromParis—the plane on which you travelled home. Had you borrowed money from her?’

‘No, of course not. What an idea!’

‘Now, don’t be a little fool over this, Cicely. If that woman did lend you money, you’d bettertell me about it. Remember the business isn’t over and finished with. The verdict at the inquestwas wilful¹⁴ murder by a person or persons unknown. The police of both countries are at work. It’sonly a matter of time before they come on the truth. The woman’s sure to have left records of herdealings. If anything crops up to connect you with her we should be prepared beforehand. Wemust have ffoulkes’s advice on the matter.’ (ffoulkes, ffoulkes, Wilbraham and ffoulkes were thefamily solicitors¹⁵ who for generations had dealt with the Horbury estate.)‘Didn’t I give evidence in that damned court and say I had never heard of the woman?’

‘I don’t think that proves very much,’ said her husband dryly. ‘If you did have dealings withthis Giselle, you can be sure the police will find it out.’

Cicely sat up angrily in bed.

‘Perhaps you think I killed her—stood up there in that plane and puffed¹⁶ darts¹⁷ at her from ablowpipe. Of all the crazy businesses!’

‘The whole thing sounds mad,’ Stephen agreed thoughtfully. ‘But I do want you to realize yourposition.’

‘What position? There isn’t any position. You don’t believe a word I say. It’s damnable. Andwhy be so anxious about me all of a sudden? A lot you care about what happens to me. Youdislike me. You hate me. You’d be glad if I died tomorrow. Why pretend?’

‘Aren’t you exaggerating a little? In any case, old-fashioned though you think me, I do happento care about my family name—an out-of-date sentiment which you will probably despise. Butthere it is.’

Turning abruptly on his heel, he left the room.

A pulse was beating in his temple. Thoughts followed each other rapidly through his head.

‘Dislike? Hate? Yes, that’s true enough. Should I be glad if she died tomorrow? My God, yes!

I’d feel like a man who’s been let out of prison. What a queer beastly business life is! When I firstsaw her in Do It Now, what a child, what an adorable child she looked! So fair and so lovely…Damned young fool! I was mad about her—crazy…She seemed everything that was adorable andsweet, and all the time she was what she is now— vulgar, vicious, spiteful, empty-headed…I can’teven see her loveliness now.’

He whistled and a spaniel came running to him, looking up at him with adoring sentimentaleyes.

He said, ‘Good old Betsy,’ and fondled the long, fringed ears.

He thought, ‘Funny term of disparagement¹⁸, to call a woman a bitch. A bitch like you, Betsy, isworth nearly all the women I’ve met put together.’

Cramming¹⁹ an old fishing hat on his head, he left the house accompanied by the dog.

This aimless saunter of his round the estate began gradually to soothe²⁰ his jangled nerves. Hestroked the neck of his favourite hunter, had a word with the groom²¹, then he went to the HomeFarm and had a chat with the farmer’s wife. He was walking along a narrow lane, Betsy at hisheels, when he met Venetia Kerr on her bay mare²².

Venetia looked her best upon a horse. Lord Horbury looked up at her with admiration²³, fondnessand a queer sense of homecoming.

He said, ‘Hullo, Venetia.’

‘Hullo, Stephen.’

‘Where’ve you been? Out in the five-acre?’

‘Yes, she’s coming along nicely, isn’t she?’

‘First-rate. Have you seen that two-year-old of mine I bought at Chattisley’s sale?’

They talked horses for some minutes, then he said:

‘By the way, Cicely’s here.’

‘Here, at Horbury?’

Against Venetia’s code to show surprise, but she could not quite keep the undertone of it out ofher voice.

‘Yes. Turned up last night.’

There was a silence between them. Then Stephen said, ‘You were at that inquest, Venetia. How—how—er—did it go?’

She considered a moment.

‘Well, nobody was saying very much, if you know what I mean.’

‘Police weren’t giving anything away?’

‘No.’

Stephen said, ‘Must have been rather an unpleasant business for you.’

‘Well, I didn’t exactly enjoy it. But it wasn’t too devastating²⁴. The coroner was quite decent.’

Stephen slashed²⁵ absent-mindedly at the hedge.

‘I say, Venetia, any idea—have you, I mean—as to who did it?’

Venetia Kerr shook her head slowly.

‘No.’ She paused a minute, seeking how best and most tactfully to put into words what shewanted to say. She achieved it at last with a little laugh. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t Cicely or me. That Ido know. She’d have spotted²⁶ me and I’d have spotted her.’

Stephen laughed too.

‘That’s all right, then,’ he said cheerfully.

He passed it off as a joke, but she heard the relief in his voice. So he had been thinking—She switched her thoughts away.

‘Venetia,’ said Stephen, ‘I’ve known you a long time, haven’t I?’

‘H’m, yes. Do you remember those awful dancing classes we used to go to as children?’

‘Do I not? I feel I can say things to you—’

‘Of course you can.’ She hesitated, then went on in a calm, matter-of-fact tone: ‘It’s Cicely, Isuppose?’

‘Yes. Look here, Venetia. Was Cicely mixed up with this woman Giselle in any way?’

Venetia answered slowly.

‘I don’t know. I’ve been in the South of France, remember. I haven’t heard the Le Pinet gossipyet.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Well, candidly²⁷, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

Stephen nodded thoughtfully. Venetia said gently:

‘Need it worry you? I mean you live pretty semi-detached lives, don’t you? This business is heraffair, not yours.’

‘As long as she’s my wife, it’s bound to be my business too.’

‘Can’t you—er—agree to a divorce?’

‘A trumped-up business, you mean? I doubt if she’d accept it.’

‘Would you divorce her if you had the chance?’

‘If I had a cause I certainly would.’

He spoke grimly.

‘I suppose,’ said Venetia thoughtfully, ‘she knows that.’

‘Yes.’

They were both silent. Venetia thought, ‘She has the morals of a cat! I know that well enough.

But she’s careful. She’s shrewd as they make ’em.’ Aloud she said, ‘So there’s nothing doing?’

He shook his head. Then he said, ‘If I were free, Venetia, would you marry me?’

Looking very straight between her horse’s ears, Venetia said in a voice carefully devoid²⁸ ofemotion:

‘I suppose I would.’

Stephen! She’d always loved Stephen, always since the old days of dancing classes and cubbingand birds’ nesting. And Stephen had been fond of her, but not fond enough to prevent him fromfalling desperately²⁹, wildly, madly in love with a clever calculating cat of a chorus girl…Stephen said, ‘We could have a marvellous life together…’

Pictures floated before his eyes: hunting—tea and muffins—the smell of wet earth and leaves—children…All the things that Cicely could never share with him, that Cicely would never give him.

A kind of mist came over his eyes. Then he heard Venetia speaking, still in that flat, emotionlessvoice:

‘Stephen, if you care—what about it? If we went off together Cicely would have to divorceyou.’

He interrupted her fiercely. ‘My God, do you think I’d let you do a thing like that?’

‘I shouldn’t care.’

‘I should.’

He spoke with finality.

Venetia thought, ‘That’s that. It’s a pity, really. He’s hopelessly prejudiced, but rather a dear. Iwouldn’t like him to be different.’

Aloud she said, ‘Well, Stephen, I’ll be getting along.’

She touched her horse gently with her heel. As she turned to wave goodbye to Stephen theireyes met, and in that glance was all the feeling that their careful words had avoided.

As she rounded the corner of the lane Venetia dropped her whip. A man walking picked it upand returned it to her with an exaggerated bow.

‘A foreigner,’ she thought as she thanked him. ‘I seem to remember his face.’ Half of her mindsearched through the summer days at Juan les Pins while the other half thought of Stephen.

Only just as she reached home did memory suddenly pull her half-dreaming brain up with ajerk.

‘The little man who gave me his seat in the aeroplane. They said at the inquest he was adetective.’ And hard on that came another thought: ‘What is he doing down here?’

 

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