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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Death of a Viewer by Herbert Adams is a classic murder mystery that unravels within the glamorous world of television. When a prominent television critic is found dead under suspicious circumstances, the case quickly grabs the public's attention. With a list of suspects that includes everyone from jealous colleagues to powerful media moguls, the investigation takes unexpected twists and turns. As the detective digs deeper, hidden rivalries and dark secrets emerge, making it clear that nothing in the world of television is as it seems. Will the killer be unmasked before they strike again? Dive into this gripping whodunit filled with suspense and intrigue.
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Table of Contents
Death of a Viewer
1. Conspiracy
2. Old Nick's Folly
3. Welton Priory
4. The Ginger Group
5. The Programme
6. More Ginger
7. In The Night The next word was from Lord Bethesda.
8. Morning and Afternoon
9. Tragic Night
10. Among Those Missing
11. While Others Slept
12. "As He was Ambitious I Slew Him"
13. Where is Angela?
14. Sandra's Story
15. A Scrap of Paper
16. It Never Happened!
17. "Where is Your Gun?"
18. His Lordship
19. The Second Tragedy
20. Recriminations
21. Conspiracy Of Silence
22. Roger's Question
23. The Inevitable Sequel
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Death of a Viewer
1. Conspiracy
"Sandra, we are broke."
"More than usual?"
"Infinitely more. Finally, definitely and completely broke."
"What is it--cards or racing?"
"Both, and something on the Stock Exchange. I am sorry, darling, but never in my life have I known such damnable ill-luck. Everything at once. To get square I plunged on Last Chance for the big race. It was a cert and it won. But the jockey was disqualified. That put the lid on."
There was no reply. The room was luxurious rather than poverty-stricken and the two people in it showed no signs of penury. It was an apartment in a South Kensington hotel. Not perhaps the most fashionable quarter in that area--if there is one--but its charges were high and its appointments adequate.
The man perched on the arm of a well-padded settee looked less rueful than his words might have suggested. He had good features and dark wavy hair. He was in evening clothes of the latest style, complete except that he had not yet donned his "tails.” His trousers, shirt and shoes left nothing to be desired. The girl, sitting in front of the mirror, was using her lipstick. Over her dainty underwear she had a quilted, silken bed jacket, partially fastened. The dress she was to wear lay on the bed. From his perch the man could see her reflection in the glass, the curves of her neck and the fine contours of her breasts. He could also see himself. They were in fact as good-looking a couple as one could easily find. He noted with pleasure, as he always did, her feminine shapeliness, her golden hair and clear blue eyes. He was watching the expression on her face. It had not changed as he told of his misfortunes and when she spoke her voice showed no emotion.
"How exactly do we stand?" she said at last.
"As the bankruptcy people, unfeeling brutes, will put it--liabilities £4,000, assets nil. I have enough cash to keep us here for another two or three weeks but I owe a tidy bit to Marcus Galloway. Nothing further doing there. Have you anything?"
"The price of a cab fare. My little bit gone?"
She could see his head as he nodded. "I am afraid, darling, everything is gone."
There was another uneasy silence. How would she take it? He watched her anxiously, as well he might.
"I was a fool to marry you, Ossie." The words were still cool. "I suppose all girls have that sort of madness when they are young. With some it turns out all right. They get the prizes. I got only--you."
"You enjoyed it while it lasted."
"Five years," she murmured.
He got up and kissed her shoulder. "Darling, I still love you and we have each other."
She made no response. Broke! The word was familiar enough to her. Her parents had been strolling players, as it was once called, or members of touring companies in more modern parlance. They were not good enough to get London engagements of any value, and although not often out of work there had been times when only loans from their friends kept them going. They had hoped for great things from her, but she had disappointed them. They got her chances but her talents did not lie that way.
"You have the looks, Sandra," her mother sometimes told her, "far better than most girls, but you say the words as though you were reading a story. You must be it, you must live it."
"She may wake up when she falls in love," her father had said. They both died when she was seventeen. She got a job as a model in a W End dressmaking establishment and her poise and her promising figure gave her some success. Before she was nineteen she met and married Captain Oswald Henshaw.
She thought she loved him and she imagined he was rich, He certainly spent money freely. She heard mention of five thousand pounds and supposed that was his annual income. She did not know it was his entire capital, left him by his father, and he was busy getting rid of it as quickly as he could. It is a tribute perhaps to his skill as a gambler--or to his luck--that it had lasted so long. At his suggestion she had put her modest savings, about three hundred pounds, into what he called their joint account so that they could both draw on it. Now that was gone, too. Luckily she had no debts, her parents had at least taught her the folly of that.
"I suppose I can go back to old Harbottle," she said at last. "What will you do?"
"I don't want you to go back to Harbottle, darling, to wear his rags from evening gowns to swim suits and be stared at by the other women and the men they bring with them, like a prize beast at a show."
"That is how we met."
"I took you from it. I don't want you to go back."
"What will you do?" she asked again, perhaps with a show of derision.
"What can I do? I would like the sort of job Tony Somers got--secretary to a rich American who really only wanted to see the high spots. But such chances are few and far between."
"You have your car."
"It went on Last Chance. I must hand it over at the end of the month. I sold my pearl studs too; these are fake."
"You never told me."
"It has been pretty sudden, my dear. I hoped to the last to get square."
Again there was silence. Her hands dropped to the dressing-table. They looked at each other in the mirror, perhaps as they had never done before. She had loved him and she was not very worldly-wise. She had realised for some months that things were not going well with them, but she had never thought they would be as bad as this. Perhaps it was the loss of her small savings that hurt most. She had accumulated them so slowly, so carefully, with a good deal of self-denial, in the days before she married "wealth." Something for a rainy day had been one of her father's maxims, even if he could seldom live up to it. Now, without a word to her, all was gone, gone with nothing to show for it to a bookmaker already over-rich.
"One hears on all hands that men are wanted," she said slowly.
"Men of experience, darling. What can I do? You would not have me drive a bus or tend a bar?"
She did not answer. After a time he spoke again.
"As a matter of fact I have a plan, but it needs your help."
"What is it?"
"You know Ewen Jones?"
"Of course I do."
"He admires you tremendously."
She turned from the mirror and faced him.
"You have sold everything you possess, Ossie. If you think of selling me you must find someone with a lot more money than Ewen Jones." There was contempt in her tone.
"It is not that at all, darling. You may be the only precious thing left to me but I would not lose you for all the gold in the world. It hurts me that you should for a moment suggest such a thing."
"Then what are we talking about?"
"You say Ewen is not rich. That of course is true. He is a Member of Parliament--"
"For some squalid place in the East End."
"Yes, but it means nearly two thousand a year. I was at school with him and we were in the army together. His father, formerly Jimmie Jones and now Lord Bethesda, was as fiery Socialist as you could find in all Wales. Then they put him in the House of Lords and he married Connie Marden, the only daughter of the late Josiah Marden, the brewer. Josiah's father or grandfather started with a single pub but they acquired more and started brewing. When he died Josiah left something over half a million to his daughter after all duties had been paid."
"And if what Ewen says is true," Sandra commented, "Lady Bethesda still keeps a tight hand on it. How does this interest us?"
"When Socialists get into the House of Lords," her husband smiled, "they often tend to moderate their opinions. When they marry wealthy women the process may be quicker. Connie would not accept him if he kept the old name as many of them do. Lord Jones would sound a little foolish. So they became Lord and Lady Bethesda, after the place where he was born."
"How does this interest us?" Sandra repeated. "Ewen has little to do with his stepmother and his opinions are as strong as his father's used to be. His wife thinks like he does."
"His wife?"
"Gwennie Wren. I know she writes and speaks in her own name but she is his wife."
"How do you know that?" Ossie asked, smiling again.
"Isn't it true?"
"I very much doubt it, though it might be better if it were so. Certainly they have lived together for a time in that queer place in dockland, but marriage may or may not have come into it. They do not always agree and he is very tired of her. I don't blame him. You cannot have two tub-thumpers in one house, each trying to shout down the other."
"Is this leading anywhere?" Sandra asked.
"Yes, darling. One thing I want to make clear. Connie Bethesda has piles of pelf and oceans of pride. She would pay handsomely to prevent any breath of scandal coming to her family, or rather to the family she had honoured with her alliance."
"There is scandal already if Ewen and Gwennie Wren live together and are not married."
"East is east and west is west. Dockland to Connie is much farther away than the Riviera or New York. She only knows of Gwen as a writer of society gossip with a tendency to poisonous socialism. She keeps away from such things; won't allow them to be mentioned."
"What about Ewen's father?"
"If he knows or suspects anything he is too wise to tell his wife about it. The thing is this. Ewen admires you. If you encouraged him a little he would fall for you completely. If I discovered you and him in what we will call compromising circumstances and threatened an action for the alienation of my wife's affection Connie would pay up handsomely to settle out of court. You and I, happily reconciled, would be in clover."
Sandra looked at him for some moments without speaking. It would have been difficult for anyone to tell what she was thinking. In the curious world in which she had been brought up strict morality had been more conspicuous by its absence than its rigid observance.
"Say that again," she said slowly.
"I am not suggesting there should be anything wrong," Ossie replied. "I could not allow that. Heaven forbid. But if Ewen made love to you, as he would like to do, I see no reason why he or his family should not pay for it. It is just a little drama in which you and I would play our parts and it should have a happy ending. I believe in happy endings!"
"A sort of blackmail?"
"Not in the least, darling. I should demand nothing. I said I should threaten an action. If they offered me something not to bring it I should be forced to listen to them. Not only the slur on the noble Bethesda name would be involved but Ewen would be dropped by the party and lose his seat. With two thousand we could carry on. Connie might be good for ten."
"I never thought you were such a blackguard, Ossie."
"I am not. Desperate ills call for desperate remedies, that is all. Can you suggest anything better? You do not want me to drive a bus?"
She did not answer the question. She said, "If Ewen and Gwennie Wren are married Gwen might bring the action against Ewen and me. That would not help you. Lady Bethesda would not pay for mud already thrown."
"Clever of you, Sandra, to have thought of that. I had not overlooked it, but Ewen and Gwen are not married and never will be. I assure you that is a fact. She wants to have a life of her own. So does he. He is ambitious, and as I told you he is tired of her. You cannot have two kings in one castle."
"You are his friend."
"Of course I am! That is what makes it so bad for him to covet my wife."
Again she looked at him as though seeking to read the thoughts behind his smile. She did not doubt the truth of what he said about Ewen and Gwen. His plan would be so foolish if it were otherwise. She spoke slowly.
"I think I understand. Would you put your proposals in writing, promising me half of anything you receive?"
He stared at her. Then he laughed.
"I never thought you were mercenary, Sandra."
"I am not," she said. "But I am learning."
"Of course I could not write anything like that. If you lost it, if anyone else got hold of it, we should be cooked. Might be charged with conspiracy."
"That is what I thought." She again spoke very slowly. "Suppose I really fell for Ewen?"
He bent forward and kissed her.
"I am not afraid of that. He is too stodgy for you and you love me. Come along, darling. We are late already. Slip on your frock and we will go to Pegano's for a drink. To the end of our troubles! We might meet him there and you could start the good work!"
2. Old Nick's Folly
Roger Bennion became involved in what was to be known as the Television Murder in rather a curious manner. His father, old Sir Christopher, before and after the First World War had added to his considerable wealth by judicious speculations in house property. The ground leases of houses in fashionable Belgravia were getting very short. Built nearly a hundred years before, many of them were still in their primeval state. Noble families had houses without bathrooms, or at most with one. They lacked electric light and the servants' quarters were dark and dismal.
Sir Christopher was able to buy them for a few pounds--in some cases they paid substantial sums to be relieved of the liability to redecorate and put them in repair. On undertaking to bring them up to modern standards he secured new and longer leases. Then three or four bathrooms, central heating, up-to-date sanitation, dinner lifts, parquet floors, tasteful decorations and, where necessary, bigger windows were installed. He had a genius for such things and only asked a reasonable profit on his outlay. He found a ready market.
He felt he was doing a good work, but when the housing problem became acute and domestic help almost disappeared he turned his attention to country properties. Many an old manor house became adapted as a school, a convalescent home, or was cut up into flats. He also created what some called Old Nick's Folly.
It was nothing of the sort. It was a deliberate attempt to offer houses to disabled soldiers, sailors or civilians at rents they could afford, regardless of the losses he thereby incurred. He saw it as a thank-offering for a long and successful life. Many people in the past had left money to endow almshouses. He thought it better in his lifetime to erect them and have the pleasure of seeing the right folk enjoy them, not as almshouses but as homes of which they could be proud. An example others might emulate.
He bought some land not far from the London docks and built between thirty and forty little dwellings of tasteful design with labour-saving comforts and conveniences. Each had a small garden and was let to a suitable tenant at a rent of six shillings a week, with the landlord paying the rates and doing the repairs. He lost heavily on them but it was his little village and became a cheery oasis amid the grime and squalor of its surroundings. He might have done more in the same way but building restrictions, higher costs and his own increasing age prevented it.
As his second name was Nicholas many laughed at him and the enterprise became known as Old Nick's Folly.
He had a reliable agent to look after the property but he liked his son Roger, who had been his partner in some of his ventures, though not in that, to visit there occasionally and report personally to him. It thus happened that on the day after Ossie Henshaw announced his financial difficulties to Sandra his wife, Roger was strolling amid the freshly painted cottages, mostly bright with gay flowers.
At one of them he stopped. As he did so the occupant, a big and certainly able-bodied man, came out.
"Major Bennion," he boomed. "Pleasure to see you here. An unusual pleasure if I may say so."
"I came to see you," Roger said.
"I am honoured. Come inside."
Roger followed him into a pleasant room that served as sitting-room and study. Meals were generally eaten in the neat, little kitchen behind it. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom.
"Sit down, Major Bennion. What can I do for you?"
"Do you know a man named Daniel Floss?"
"Old Dan, my father's gardener?"
"I believe so."
"Of course I know him," was the hearty reply. "An excellent fellow, though I fear his gardening days are done. Crippled with arthritis. Getting on in years, too."
"So I understand. His wife is a decent woman?"
"Excellent, excellent. I believe she still helps sometimes in the house."
"They have been recommended," Roger said, "as a suitable couple for one of these cottages. They have friends here. Your father wants their present cottage for a new and younger man, and is willing to help them get something else."
"Quite right. You could not have worthier people. Worked hard and I would like them to end their days in a nice little place like one of these."
He spoke heartily. He had a big voice and possessed a thick crop of curly, reddish-brown hair over a strongly featured face. His age was about thirty-five. "I can recommend them in every way," he added.
"I am glad of that, Mr. Jones," Roger said. "The trouble is we have nothing available for them. I was wondering if you would move out and let them come here?"
"That is not quite reasonable, is it?"
"Very reasonable, I think. You, as a Member of Parliament, are not the sort of person these places were meant for."
"Maybe, maybe not. Here I am and here I stay." Ewen grinned as one who knew his rights. "If it is a question of rents you will find me open to a fair settlement."
"As you should know," Roger replied, "it is nothing of that sort. My father intended these to be homes for the veterans of the services, or of industry generally. You got this by a sort of trick. You knew the Maxwells, a worthy old couple. When Maxwell had to go to hospital you suggested to his wife that you should come as a lodger. What you paid would help her. Lodgers, by the way, are not allowed or each house might take them, perhaps several of them, and the nature of the place would be changed. When Maxwell died you stayed on with Mrs. Maxwell as your housekeeper. When she died some months later you still stayed on. Mason, my father's agent, unfortunately accepted rent from you--"
"And so created a tenancy," the M.P. smiled. "I know the law on these things. If you wanted to live here yourself--"
"I do not. I have told you who it is for. Should you not be ashamed that a man of your position and of your means, son and heir to Lord Bethesda, should occupy a home meant for the aged and infirm and so keep your old gardener out of it?"
"Not a bit. Look here, Major Bennion, you talk of my means. I know most of the people here are old-age pensioners and thanks to you or your father they are very comfortably off but round the corner there are scores of houses, hundreds perhaps, with three or four wage-earners in the family who bring in twice as much in their pay packets as I get. I like living near my constituents and they like me to be here. It is handy for the House, just an easy run on the Underground."
"If you refuse to go," Roger said, "we might apply for an eviction order. That would test the validity of the tenancy."
"No doubt of its validity. But as I said, if anything more is due to you I am willing to pay it."
"Even the new Rent Act would not protect you and there may be other grounds for action."
"Such as?"
"Some of your neighbours suggest that the lady who is living with you is not your wife."
Ewen Jones laughed. "Because she writes and speaks as Gwennie Wren? That is just what they would suggest."
"Are they wrong? The question would of course be put to you when the case is heard. You can easily dispose of it by showing when and where you were married."
The M.P. still regarded him good-humouredly.
"Would it surprise you, Major Bennion, if two people, a man and a woman, having mutual interests and engaged in the same sort of work agreed to share a home? Would there be anything wrong in it?"
"I do not know what conclusion a Court would draw. My father designed these places, as I said, for the old and partially disabled. For two young and very able people, each earning a considerable income, to get possession of one of them would appear wrong to most people. It does to me."
"Assuming you were right, Gwennie Wren might not wish to marry me. We do not agree about everything. But we do agree that to have our incomes lumped together and so get lower allowances and a higher rate of tax would not be to our advantage."
"The law in that respect may be bad," Roger said. "If it is you are more responsible for it than we are. Do you think it would be good for you or your father if this came out in court?"
"I see your point," Ewen replied more seriously, "but do you see mine? It suits me to live here and I could not get alternative accommodation at anything like the same figure. Would it alter your views if Gwen left me?"
"That is your affair," Roger said. "We want the accommodation for Daniel Floss."
Ewen pondered for some moments.
"Look here, Bennion, suppose you spent a weekend at Welton Priory, my father's place--or rather, his wife's. You could see Floss and you could also see my father. You could put the case to him and you might suggest he should buy me a house or enable me to take a flat handy for Westminster."
"He makes you no allowance?"
"Not a farthing. His wife is a wealthy woman. She is not very fond of me and they think I ought to be able to manage. I can, living here, but not otherwise. If you, as an independent party, supported me it might help, especially as it would rid them of old Dan."
"How am I to be invited to Welton Priory?"
Ewen's smile returned. "Nothing easier, and it will give you a peep behind the scenes. In my view our party, call it Labour or Socialist as you like, wants pep. My father has agreed to my getting together in a fortnight's time at the Priory a Ginger Group to work out a plan of campaign. You could come then."
"Politics are not in my line," Roger said.
"So much the better. An independent view might be helpful. I am quite serious about it and I hope it will do my father good. He was once called the Welsh Lion. He led two successful strikes. He was in the Cabinet but since he married this wealthy woman he has lost his fire. I would like to re-kindle it. If you are not interested in our talk, the grounds run down to the river and you might get some trout."
That, as it happened, was artful bait. Roger was a keen angler but Ruth, his wife, was not. It seemed selfish to indulge in the sport alone, especially as he was trying to interest her in golf. But she was shortly to take their infant, Penelope Ann, to visit her grandparents, the Dean and his wife, at Fenchester, and he was not going with them. It was a chance worth considering.
"Who will be in your party?" he asked.
"It is left to me. There will be a moderate houseful on Friday and on Sunday several more come over for the day. It is very hush-hush at present. It would not do for our party bosses to get wind of it. I would like to include a few non-politicians so that it shall not look suspicious. Do you know Captain and Mrs. Henshaw?"
"I think I have met them."
"They may come the day before. Of course Gwen will be there in her own right. Not a word to anybody, please of what we were saying just now. A few Trade Union M.P.s are bringing their wives and I hope to get Jeremiah along."
"Who is Jeremiah?" Roger asked.
"Don't you know him--old Tom Dayton? He always says Woe, woe and Doom. On Sunday there will be some of our heavy-weights."
"Sounds amusing. The Press?"
"Certainly not. Top-drawer secret. If anything leaked out you and the Henshaws would make it look like an ordinary house party. You could get a bit of fishing and you will see Floss and my father."
"Should not the invitation come from Lady Bethesda?"
"No. I just let them know who to expect and they fix it up. Good food and all the latest mod. con. You are not likely to see much of my worthy step-mother. She does not approve and she does not know who is coming, but she will not let us down. Too proud for that. She may spend most of her time with her son."
"She has a son--by your father?"
"Not a doubt of it! The precious Ambrose. A decent kid really; spoilt of course; about five years old. You will come?"
"I think I might manage it. But it makes no difference to my wanting this place."
"Good. I hope we shall arrange that you get it. Don't forget your rod."
3. Welton Priory
It is sometimes impossible to fix the precise impulses that govern our actions. We think we are free agents yet those actions may have results we were far from foreseeing. Is it possible that Fate--or Providence--spins a web much wider than we imagine and our choice is part of it?
Roger Bennion might have found it difficult to say exactly why he had accepted the rather odd invitation to visit Welton Priory. Ewen Jones had been fairly honest with him. He felt some liking for the fellow, though he was still determined to get him out of the house to which he should never have been admitted. The fact that Ruth and their infant were to be away for a time and the prospect of some fishing carried weight. It might be amusing to see a political plot in the making and he was always interested in genuine old buildings. All these things influenced him but it may be that Fate--or Providence--wanted him there for the part he was to play in the early but unexpected future. Whether or not fore-knowledge would have deterred him it is impossible to say. Those who know him best may think it would have whetted his appetite for the startling and sensational.
Having seen Ruth and Penelope Ann well on the way to Penchester he turned his car towards the Priory which was in that charming part of the country where Sussex joins Hampshire. The residence--which he had been told had been built earlier than Hampton Court Palace--appeared smaller than he had expected. The elevation was of mellowed red brick and had tall gables and lofty twisted chimneys. As he approached it through a long and well-kept drive, with glimpses of pretty flower garden on either side, it certainly looked attractive. He was to learn later it was larger than he had thought, though smaller than it once had been. Most mansions that have lasted for centuries have undergone changes. Many have been added to by succeeding owners, often with architectural crime and conglomerate hideousness.
The Priory, though reduced in size, retained much of its original charm. Shaped somewhat like the letter U it formed three sides of a quadrangle. The frontage was not great but the two wings continued for some depth, enclosing another, well kept flower garden. It would be expensive to maintain and what, had induced the millionaire brewer to acquire it and bequeath it to his daughter could only be surmised. But it was certainly a wonderful home for the former coal-miner, the one-time Lion of Wales.
It was about tea-time when Roger arrived, apparently a little earlier than he was expected. Contrary to Ewen's prediction he speedily made the acquaintance of Lady Bethesda. He was shown into a small room on the ground floor that was generally referred to as her ladyship's room. It could hardly be described as a model of good taste. The curtains and chair covers were of bright colours that would have offended a sensitive eye, and a few pieces of undoubtedly period furniture were alongside chairs of the metal tube design, comfortable but hardly in character.
He was interested rather than critical, and after a few moments his hostess entered leading a little boy by the hand.
"I am so pleased to meet you, Major Bennion," she said. "Ewen has gone to fetch some of his friends. He should be back soon. I am sorry my husband is not down yet. He has not been very well and has to reserve himself for what may be a late night. This is my son, Ambrose."
Roger bowed over the extended hand. Lady Bethesda was tall and thin. Not beautiful, but with dark eyes and straight black eyebrows. It was rather a hard face but he had the impression she could be pleasant when she tried--and she was trying.
As to Master Ambrose, he was a solemn-looking boy with dark eyes like his mother's. He was wearing black velvet knickers with a white silk shirt, something in the Fauntleroy style of a bygone age.
"You must tell me the games you play," Roger said to him genially. The boy offered a limp hand but made no reply.
"Tea will be here almost at once," Lady Bethesda remarked; "You will not mind if Ambrose has it with us? His nurse is out this afternoon."
"Nice and cosy," Roger smiled. "I had an idea Captain and Mrs. Henshaw might be here."
"They are. They came on Wednesday, but they went with Ewen. At least Sandra did. Her husband said he would try his luck fishing."
"I believe your stream is famous," Roger returned, "but perhaps you are more interested in politics, Lady Bethesda. With a husband so distinguished and with his son a Member of Parliament, you could hardly fail to be. Do you take an active part yourself?"
"I am afraid I do not. Frankly, politics bore me. Why cannot people be contented with things as they are instead of clamouring all the time for changes?"
"Then it is very good of you to allow this meeting in your beautiful home."
"I am not all that selfish. These things mean a lot to my husband, and it gives us a chance to see something of Ewen. He prefers to live in London."
Then the tea was wheeled in. Choice china, old silver and a profusion of cakes and sandwiches. It kept them busy for a time.
"You may be helping to make history," Roger remarked. "Do you know what Ewen's proposals will be?"
"I do not," was the rather acid reply. "He means well, I only hope he is not making mischief."
"Time will tell," Roger smiled. "History and mischief have always been intertwined."
They chatted for some time. He asked questions about the old abbey but she replied very briefly, attending more to the little boy, telling him what cakes he might take. He was certainly well behaved and did not clamour for what was denied him. Then the footman who had brought in the tea returned and whispered that someone wanted her ladyship on the telephone.
"How annoying," she said. "Will you excuse me, Major Bennion? I am sure Ambrose will be safe with you. He has finished his tea."
"Quite safe. Have you finished?" he asked as she left the room.
"Mum said so," was the reply.
"And Mummies always know, don't they?" It was not for him to undermine authority, even with the chocolate eclair at which the boy looked rather longingly. "Tell me, Ambrose, about the games you play?"
"My father is a lord."
"I know, but that doesn't prevent you having a bit of fun sometimes, does it Are there any little boys in the village you can play with?"
The big, rather expressionless eyes looked at him. "My father is a lord," was again the reply.
"I have a little girl. She is younger than you but she is full of mischief. Don't you ever want to get into mischief? I know your father is a lord," he added to forestall the reply, "but wouldn't you like to throw stones or climb a tree sometimes?"
"Brigid wouldn't let me."
"Brigid is your nurse? What games do you play with her?"
"Snakes 'n' ladders.' She reads to me. I've got a pony."
"Good. Can it run fast or jump?"
"Brigid gen'rally leads him."
"Do you ever get your clothes in a mess?" He shook his head.
"Have you any friends?"
"Rhoda said she was my friend."
"Good. Is Rhoda a little girl about your age?"
Another shake of the head. "She's growed up."
"That is a pity. What would happen if you did mess your clothes and were naughty?"
"I'd be put in bed till it was time to be dressed again."
"Not smacked?"
"Mummie said no one mustn't touch me. My father is a lord."
