A Charitable Body Page 4

  Charlie left Felicity by the door and went and procured (at pretty outrageous prices) a glass of Chardonnay and half of a rather powerful but wholly delectable lager. When he got back to Felicity, she was talking to an elderly man.

  “Oh, here is Charlie. Charlie, this is Rupert—oh, should that be Sir Rupert?”

  “No,” said the soft-spoken and courteous elderly man. “My father got a knighthood, and people sometimes assume it was hereditary, which of course it wasn’t and never could be.”

  “Rupert Fiennes, then, this is my husband, Inspector Peace.”

  “Ah, Inspector—but you’re not here on official matters, I assume?”

  “Not at all. Felicity should have shut up about my job. I’m here as a civilian. People call me Charlie.”

  “Good,” said Rupert. “Because we’ve got through all the stages of establishing the Trust so far without falling foul of the law, and we’ll hope to go on that way.”

  “Was letting the house go painful?”

  Rupert smiled broadly. “No. That’s what everybody asks me. It was painful for my cousin Mary-Elizabeth, who lived here with me, but not for me.”

  “How long had it been in your family?”

  “Since just before the war. The ’39–’45 war, not the one we’ve just been hearing about. We only moved in in 1947.”

  “Was it commandeered by the government for a hospital or something?”

  “More or less. Mental hospital as a matter of fact. Actually I’ve wondered if that was how we acquired the music we’ve just been listening to.”

  “Oh, why should it be?”

  “Lots of creative young people—men—were more or less destroyed mentally by the ’14–’18 war. Poets, composers—you know the sort of people—driven mad by trench warfare. Now I’m fond of music, but only in a slovenly, mindless way: I like hearing music in the background, though everyone seems to complain about that. But I know, really, next to nothing about it. I do know, though, that there is a composer—mostly songs, from the interwar years—who spent most of his adult life in what they called then asylums. I’m not quite sure who it was.”

  “It rings a vague bell,” said Felicity. “Was it Ivor Gurney, the composer we’ve just heard? Or maybe Peter Warlock?”

  “Very possibly. They’re just names to me, and hardly that. I wondered whether this was a project of whoever-it-was. I’m not saying anything to any of those involved in the festival. Probably just reveal my ignorance—they’ll have thought of it long ago. I’m on the board of the Trust, but I don’t have to give my limitations away every time I open my mouth.”

  Felicity nodded, but her eyes lit up when she saw, threading his way through the crush of people, Jamie, who had introduced the song cycle. And he seemed to be coming their way.

  “Excuse me,” she said, catching him by the arm. If he was not aiming at their little group, he seemed delighted to talk to someone young and attractive. They were very thin on the ground. “When this place was used as a mental hospital, was Ivor Gurney ever a patient here?”

  Jamie shook his head. “Oh, no. You see, he died in 1937. It seems likely that he was involved in the song cycle though. It would have seemed appropriate, I feel.”

  “Yes, it would. But how could he have been?”

  “I’m getting vibes. Which means I’m clutching at straws blown past in the wind. Here’s my provisional explanation, by which I mean guesswork. I suspect he had some hand in the whole idea of different poetic reactions to the slaughter, maybe with himself coordinating the whole scheme. It was to be a timely warning, with another war in the offing. Then he died, but by that time he’d handed on all the stuff to someone else—someone in his then home, wherever it was. When the government took over this place, this successor was moved here and brought all the papers with him. Why nothing was done about the whole idea, which was so near completion, I could make a guess at: revelations about the sheer hell of World War One didn’t sit easy with the people who were prosecuting World War Two. It wouldn’t have contributed to redoubling everyone’s war effort, which was top of the agenda.”

  “That sounds very convincing.”

  “Yes, doesn’t it?” said Jamie with a cherubic smile. “But it is just a guess. Remember that. Oh, God—there’s Lord something-or-other. He’s a possible sponsor. I must go and say nice things to him. As Disraeli nearly said, ‘Everyone likes flattery, but when it comes to sponsors, you must lay it on with a trowel.’ ”

  Jamie raised his hand in farewell and had only just moved away when his place was taken by somebody else, who had clearly been waiting. How could she not have noticed the woman? Felicity thought, a broad-brimmed, bellicose-breasted woman crusader, probably in her fifties and not improving with age.

  “Porritt. Janet Porritt”—shoving her fist in Charlie’s direction.

  “Charlie Peace.”

  “Inspector Peace, eh? Or so I’m told. How did you get here?”

  “My wife bought two tickets.”

  “No, I mean why are you here?”

  “My wife used to teach English at the university. She’s into the First World War—and of course into a lovely house like this. That’s all. Policemen must have their hobbies and outside interests. People always think there must be something up when they see policemen at functions like this. It’s the same with politicians. ‘What’s he up to?’ they say. Nothing is the answer, in this case anyway. I’m with my wife.”

  “So this is your wife. I see.” It sounded as if Mrs. Porritt could have said more on that subject but decided against it. “Because you know we—I mean, we on the board—are very well advised legally. And everything is done by the book. Gatherings of this sort to encourage sponsorship are a feature of gallery life these days, and we’ve done everything—”

  “Please, please,” said Charlie, putting up his hand as if he were on traffic duty. “Let me say it again. I’m here socially. I’m here with my wife, and I’m here to listen to music and have a drink. There is nothing more to my visit—nothing.”

  He turned toward Rupert Fiennes, and Mrs. Porritt began to chunter, not too silently, going away.

  “Sorry I’m sure,” she said over her shoulder. “Only trying to help.”

  Felicity grinned at her husband. “You’ve just uttered a half-truth or two.”

  “Not for the first time,” said Charlie cheerfully. “And some of the others have been on oath. Fancy a walk in the gardens? Get rid of the alcohol fumes, and the fumes of self-righteousness?”

  “Yes—I’d like to see the gardens at night.”

  They moved out into the larger Drawing Room, then through to the entrance hall, where the usual admission-charge booth was situated—not manned to extract cash at this hour, but still manned, by a large, broad-shouldered man. They smiled and drifted out through the main door and then round to the side of the house that sloped down to the lodge, and the converted-stables building. The solidity of the manor hushed to a whisper the high-pitched talk of the would-be or could-be patrons, and for a moment there was silence, broken almost immediately by a voice.

  “Doesn’t it seem the most peaceful place on earth?”

  Turning, they saw the man they had just passed in the hall. They had taken him for a bouncer, or for a more genteel equivalent of one. Perhaps they had been mistaken.

  “Hello. I’m Felicity Peace. Do I detect an Australian accent?”

  The man grimaced. “Just a trace. A bloody soupçon. I have noticed it prevents a lot of people in this country from taking me seriously. So I’ve decreased the Shane Warne touches.”

  “You shouldn’t take it too seriously. The same people as flinch at yours would also flinch at a Birmingham accent, or an Ulster one. They’re not to be taken seriously. This is my husband, Charlie.”

  “And one who’s also had trouble here with his accent—in my case Cockney.”

  “Hello,” said the man, shaking his hand. “Welcome to Walbrook. I know you’re a policeman, and that’s why I followed
you.” His glance strayed to the path from the house that came from the other side of it, but also led down to the stables. Sir Stafford and Lady Quarles were walking slowly, with a sort of stateliness, hand in hand. They stopped a couple of hundred yards away and looked round the magnificent vista. “It struck me,” the man went on, “that we have a lot of contacts with lawyers, but we have none at all with policemen. I’m Wes Gannett, the director here. Graduate of the University of Sydney. I wondered if we three could get to know each other, just so that when I need a bit of advice—or even, perhaps, you, Inspector, needed a bit of information or background stuff to an art robbery or something of that sort—we might contact each other.”

  Charlie thought. “You know there is some vague talk of co-opting Felicity onto the board of the Trust?”

  “Oh, good.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not at all. The Trust is—how shall we put it?—a variegated body. I’d like to add a member who does not think me a ruffian who is two generations away from the convicts and thus unfitted to take care of one of England’s minor heritage buildings.”

  “I see. Well, I’ve no objections to staying in touch on matters of mutual interest.”

  “That’s great,” said Wes, apparently sincerely glad and grateful. “My wife died last year. It was a blow to me in every way. I don’t do cooking, but there is a fine cook in the village who’s already volunteered her services when I want to entertain. Perhaps you could come round and the three of us could have an unstructured discussion over dinner?”

  “Delighted to,” said Felicity. Her eyes strayed to Sir Stafford and Lady Quarles. “They look so peacefully happy. From a distance.”

  “So, I’m sure, did Burke and Hare,” said Charlie.

  “And in love,” said Felicity, ignoring him.

  “My knowledge of Burke and Hare doesn’t extend that far.”

  “They certainly seem contented,” said Wes Gannett. “They’ve got everything they wanted.”

  Felicity digested this.

  “Have you ever wondered,” she asked, “why you were given the job here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because with your Australian background you were surely less experienced in the necessary fields than some of the British applicants—and there must have been many of them. And your one or two stately homes in Australia would be very different.”

  “Oh, very different. In any case I’ve not been employed in any of them.”

  “So why do you think you got the position?”

  A little smile played around Wes’s full lips. “Perhaps for the very reasons you’ve just mentioned as making me an unlikely appointee.”

  “ ‘Where ignorance is bliss—’ ”

  “They’d be unwise to rely too much on my ignorance,” said Wes Gannett.

  CHAPTER 3

  Reconnaissance

  The letter to Felicity was not slow in coming—less than a week after the concert at Walbrook Manor it arrived, on thick notepaper resistant to the hands. “Dear Mrs. Peace,” Sir Stafford’s letter began. How did he decide how to address me? Felicity wondered. Not Miss Coggenhoe, her maiden name, which he probably didn’t know. Not Ms. Peace or Ms. Coggenhoe. She thought, I suppose I’m showing I’ve passed my sell-by date just for thinking about it.

  I have consulted with all the members of the Walbrook Manor Trust Board, and by a big majority they were in favor of your being offered a place on the Trust Board. I am delighted. Your own achievements in fiction, your position as a part-time lecturer at Leeds University, with some degree of specialization in early-twentieth-century literature, and above all your obvious lively interest in all the arts, which is so desirable for a Trust which will have responsibilities that span a wide spectrum, make you a clear choice for the position.

  You will be very welcome, and I look forward to introducing you to your fellow trustees at a meeting on Saturday, January 14th, in Walbrook’s stable complex.

  Yours sincerely,

  Stafford

  Felicity thought this over for a couple of days so as not to be thought to be too enthusiastic, then replied:

  Dear Sir Stafford,

  I was pleased and honored that you and the Board of Trustees thought I might be useful to the Walbrook Trust. I am happy to accept and look forward to an enjoyable and useful period on the board. Perhaps I should tour Walbrook before the first meeting to see how it will be organized before Spring, when the more extensive opening times will become operative. This will be a very exciting time for the Trust—especially so for you, and now for me too.

  Yours sincerely,

  Felicity Peace

  That letter produced a response. Sir Stafford wrote back immediately to say he was pleased that she could accept his offer, that if she would tell him when she would come, he would do his best to be available and would show her the behind-the-scenes aspects of the operation. If he was occupied elsewhere, “I will ask my wife to do the honors of the dear old house, which she and I both love so much.”

  Felicity noted the cool tone of the letters. She had the feeling that Sir Stafford and Lady Quarles were already taking on the mantle of lord and lady of the manor. She decided that, before visiting Walbrook for a guided tour (which was what she would undoubtedly be given whatever she might actually prefer), she would visit on a Tuesday and see as much as was possible to see by herself. She always set great store on her own observation and felt it was necessary to see the place on her own before a hurried tour that tried to put ideas into her mind. Therefore shortly before Christmas she put Thomas into his occasional nursemaid’s care and drove to Walbrook for what she hoped would be a leisurely tour, ready to explain why she needed to come early and unannounced to take her own view of the house and its visitors.

  “Hello,” she said at the admissions desk. “I’m—”

  “Oh, I saw you at the concert,” said the middle-aged woman behind the grill. “You’re coming on the board, aren’t you? You’re very welcome, Mrs. Peace—”

  “Felicity.”

  “Ah—Sir Stafford was not quite sure.” The woman put her hand up to her mouth. “Forgets things he’s just been told and makes a lot of mistakes. Nothing too terrible as yet, so we live in hope . . .”

  “It will come to us all,” said Felicity comfortably. “My husband calls it ‘the great unmentionable topic.’ ”

  “He has a point. Now, you must accept a free ticket today, as a gesture—”

  “Do you mind if I don’t? I’d like to start as I mean to go on. I’ll pay the normal entrance fee.”

  “Very well, if you prefer.” The attendant was bridling a little at the rejection of her gesture. “It’s six pounds. . . . Thank you very much. You’re very generous.”

  “Not at all,” said Felicity as she turned and walked into the first room of the house. As she began the tour in the manner and direction that pasted-up notices suggested, she heard the telephone being taken up in the attendant’s booth.

  She took in first the Long Drawing Room, which she had seen the night of the concert. Ropes hindered her tour, stretching from the hall door to the one into the next downstairs room, and they thus kept her from a close scrutiny of the furniture, which looked in less than pristine condition, and of the fine mantelpiece, rather overdressed with vases and small statues. The pictures too were not to be inspected too closely. There was provided, however, one of those little table-tennis bats to inform the visitor about the most important pictures—in this case portraits by the ubiquitous Allan Ramsay, with a small Reynolds of three young children, a Gainsborough, and to vary the monotony of similar-shaped and expressionless faces, a seascape by Constable. Felicity guessed that the bigger names were not represented by examples of their better works.

  She passed into the next room.

  This was what had been described on her last visit to the house as the Music Room, where the concert had taken place. It was still described in the same way on a neat, little placard over the door.
As she walked through, the attendant who had watched her tour round the Long Drawing Room slipped through and watched her in the smaller one. Felicity took in the whole room and one change immediately struck her.

  “The picture over there,” she said to the woman. “I was here for the concert ten days ago, and there was a picture of a rather luscious eighteenth-century lady. It’s gone, and now we have a very respectable Victorian lady.”

  “Oh, yes. They came and made the changeover last week, before opening time. It’s not going. It had been away for cleaning and restoration, and it was hurried up so it could be in place for the concert. Now Sir Stafford is going to inspect it to see if the restorers have done all we asked them to do.”

  “Oh, I see. I suppose she’s popular with visitors.”

  “Well, she was very pretty, wasn’t she? And I believe the person who painted it was well known, though I can’t now remember his name.”

  “Yes. . . . And of course that particular Lady Quarles ran off with the footman, which gives it a definite interest of a kind.”

  “Oh, it does.” The woman leaned forward to confide something usually kept secret. “Only we don’t volunteer that sort of information—it seems . . . inappropriate.” She was obviously using a word that had been fed to her.

  “Does it?” said Felicity. “It’s a very long time ago.”

  “Oh, but we’re sort of custodians. We have to think of the feelings of the family who used to live here.”

  “I suppose you do, even if they’re mostly dead. What was the family called? Or was there more than one family who was called ‘Lord of the Manor’?”

  “I believe there was. There were the Fienneses—it was one of them who gave the manor over to the Trust. He’s a lovely old boy—one of the real old-fashioned gentlemen—you know the type. You don’t meet them often these days.” The woman was procrastinating, Felicity felt sure, because his was the only name she knew.