Death and the Singing Birds Read online

  ‘After all,’ Lady Ansley had continued, ‘we haven’t had an official invitation to this art festival, merely that all-encompassing verbal mention at luncheon. If it weren’t for Lady Enid’s friendship with Sir Gilbert, I would quietly forget about it, but I fear we should all be present.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nell murmured, wondering what the dowager would make of the Clerries’ view of art when she saw it. Africa and the Clerries were a big leap from Sir Gilbert’s portrait of her thirty years ago as a Victorian lady at the height of her glory. Come to think of it, what was she, Nell, going to make of this new avant-garde movement? Was it a mere passing fad, she wondered, or were the Artistes de Cler here to stay? Would the new artists in Paris such as Picasso and the Dadaists recognize them?

  With this in mind, she had taken the longer route back to the east wing, down the grand staircase to the Great Hall, in order to take another look at the dowager’s portrait. The Victorian age had certainly passed, but it was still a magnificent painting. Lady Enid was majestically seated, clad in full evening dress and plentifully supplied with jewels including a tiara, her hand resting on a proud-looking dog at her side. Nell had tried to imagine the dowager whittled down to a bony structure, but that was definitely lèse-majesté and Lady Enid already seemed to be glaring down her from her portrait as if she could read her mind.

  Back in the kitchen, the chatter about Saturday’s festival continued until nearly lunchtime, when the coming deadline concentrated minds on the job. Once in the servants’ hall, however, it broke out again.

  ‘We’re all working out how we can get there, Miss Drury,’ Kitty told her excitedly, ‘thanks to Mrs Fielding,’ she added diplomatically, obviously having noticed Mrs Fielding’s ample chest ready to rise with indignation. ‘We’ll go in two groups, one at three o’clock, the other at half past five.’

  The servants’ hall could seat over forty if needed, although in practice they were rarely all there together, but today it was nearly full, with one or two of the garden staff present. They rarely came to the east wing, usually choosing to eat with Mr Ramsay, who was in charge of the stables and garages. Other servants came and went as their duties allowed. Mr Briggs often preferred to eat in Pug’s Parlour, the old name for the butler’s room and place where the upper servants traditionally dined. Today, though, he was quietly eating lunch in the servants’ hall despite the hubbub.

  ‘When will you be going to the festival, Mr Briggs?’ Jenny Smith was obviously trying to draw him into the general excitement, but he merely stared at her blankly. Whoops! Danger signal, as Nell knew all too well.

  ‘The art festival at Spitalfrith Manor,’ Jenny prompted him.

  Mr Briggs looked puzzled, then smiled at them all and slowly left the room. He hadn’t given his usual cry of distress, and his departure caused no great concern, save to Nell, although Jenny looked taken aback, too. What, Nell wondered, had upset him about Jenny’s statement? It had perhaps demanded too much of him, but no more than that.

  The conversation at the table had now moved on, although Saturday’s event was still its focus. Mrs Fielding appeared to be the most knowledgeable on the subject of Spitalfrith.

  ‘I was told by Mr Peters who heard it from the telegram boy that guests are arriving at the manor today. Guests,’ she emphasized heavily. ‘A person has already arrived at Sevenoaks railway station enquiring about a taxicab. A most strange person. He was wearing a bright yellow suit.’

  ‘Yellow?’ repeated Kitty, open-mouthed.

  ‘As the sun, so Mr Peters was informed. And worse!’

  An intake of breath from her audience, as she continued, ‘A bright yellow hat with a feather.’

  There were too many trees in the countryside, Lance Merryman decided, removing a leaf from his delightful new yellow jacket. He’d had to pay the taxicab driver twice as much as he suspected the usual fare would have been, as several other cab chauffeurs had taken one look at his fashionable attire and decided they could not oblige – well, poor them! And here he was at Spitalfrith Manor in the middle of the countryside, quite unlike his native London or Paris where he now dwelt. Not, he hoped, for much longer. He tried to reassure himself that even Gilbert was not foolish enough to let anything (or rather anyone) mar the Artistes de Cler exhibition at the London Academy of Modern Art arranged for next year. London was the thing nowadays. Paris might host excellent designers such as Molyneux, but he, Lance Merryman, would rule London. His designs would take Fashion Tomorrow Magazine by storm – and Vogue would be hammering at his door.

  Lance looked around him as the taxicab drove away and left him standing on the forecourt with his suitcase awaiting a footman to welcome him in. There seemed to be a great number of trees overhanging the forecourt. Very rural. Trees were all very well as a concept for the Artistes de Cler, and for the theme of Africa they were even better – ‘diamonds positively glittering on the leaves, my darlings, and lions strolling among all those naked tree trunks’ – but London was to be his El Dorado. There was just one snag to his plans: the spectre of the monstrous Lisette who had ruined his time in Paris by slandering his winter collection. Now that she had married poor Gilbert, she would doubtless continue her campaign against him, but after the London exhibition next year he could break away from the Artistes de Cler.

  He noticed an elegant, statuesque figure appearing through the trees lining the forecourt. For a moment he had feared it was Lisette, but to his relief it was Miss Huntley-Doran, dear Thora, poetess and fiancée of the Clerries’ so very noble founder, Pierre Christophe – to whom he must pay due deference, of course. Given that no footman appeared to be rushing from the house to carry his luggage, he was relieved that he was no longer isolated in this strange world of fields and woodland.

  ‘Miss Huntley-Doran – Thora!’ he cried out in welcome, mentally recladding her out of that most unfortunate purple jumper suit and into one of his own silken creations. ‘Are we not fortunate to be here amid the beauty of the countryside?’ The stately Thora was always reasonably friendly to him, unlike Pierre, who treated him as a court jester.

  Thora looked anxious. ‘Are we?’ she asked. ‘Does this really inspire you, Lance? I myself find Hampstead more artistically supportive. Have you read my “Elegy to a Fallen Hero”, for example? I wrote it there, and it was when he first read it that Pierre asked me to join the Artistes de Cler.’

  ‘Your poetic gifts are outstanding,’ Lance murmured diplomatically. In his view, Pierre had only one goal where dear Thora was concerned – marrying into her wealthy family. ‘Is dear Pierre here yet? No doubt—’

  ‘He might be,’ Thora interrupted, looking distinctly cross. ‘Have you seen Lisette?’

  He shuddered. ‘Our dear hostess?’ was all he could manage to reply. ‘Not yet.’ And then he realized what she was fearing: that the magnificent Pierre might be with that snakey lady. What fun, he thought. Of course, there had always been delicious gossip about Pierre and Lisette …

  Pierre Christophe drew up outside Spitalfrith Manor and contemplated this grey, uninspiring-looking mansion, one hand lazily resting on the door of his brand-new 14/60 Lagonda while he did so. Well, the Lagonda was his for five days anyway. He couldn’t afford to hire it for longer. No mere railway travel for him. Sleek and beguiling, the Lagonda represented the principles of the Artistes de Cler, and Thora would adore it – unfortunate though it was that it was such a temporary possession. But he was, after all, the founder of the Clerrian movement, and as art was a business, one could not ignore such sordid matters as money. There were times, he considered, when it was necessary to spend it without regard for bank accounts.

  He had many concerns about this visit. The first was the need to impress Gilbert with the importance of the artistes’ appearance at the exhibition next year, in view of the fact that although Gilbert was a member of the Artistes de Cler, his fondness for his old style of painting sometimes overrode his convictions about the worthiness of their cause. Some of his fellow artistes – in particular Lance Merryman – had no sense of occasion. Lance would undoubtedly arrive clad in his usual flamboyant attire, and Pierre shuddered at the thought of his Thora at the same house party as that brightly clad butterfly. Lance’s private life was his own affair, but he should have some regard for those around him. Thora’s family would not be impressed.

  Pierre’s second concern was Thora herself. Everything depended on his new fiancée – his new rich fiancée – who now truly believed in the artistes’ principles. As she was not an artist but a poetess, it had taken much patient explanation on his part to show her just how well her poems suited the Clerrian way of thinking. Nothing must go wrong with this festival on Saturday, nor with the plans for next year’s Academy of Modern Art exhibition in London’s Kensington. His career depended on it.

  Which brought him to his third and major concern as he sprang down from the Lagonda. The presence of Lisette Rennard, his former mistress and model, now Lady Saddler. If only he had known earlier that Gilbert had married her two months ago, he wouldn’t have persuaded Thora to join them this weekend. He had known that Gilbert had used Lisette as a model in Paris, but for him to marry her so suddenly after he, Pierre, had shed her from both her roles in his life had been a shock. And here she would be the hostess at Spitalfrith Manor. He had hoped that a sense of propriety would keep her away from the Artistes de Cler now that his betrothal to Thora had been announced, but that was doomed. Lisette would be here with her dark eyes and dark, lustrous hair that flowed over her slender shoulders – when it wasn’t dragged back into an elegant chignon to display the wonderful contours of her face. The angular body, the perfect model, the perfect mistress. But not the perfect woman to have around when one’s future wife, with her old-fashioned morals, was at one’s side.

  Surely even Lisette, Pierre comforted himself, would not be a danger to the exhibition next year. Those of his fellow Artistes de Cler who were present this weekend – Thora, Lance, Vinny Finch, Gert Radley and Gilbert himself – would be eagerly discussing it. Even Lisette could not stop it now.

  ‘Pierre, mon cher! Bonjour!’ Pierre saw Gilbert waddling towards him, arms outstretched. ‘Welcome to Spitalfrith.’

  There was no sign of Lisette thankfully, but she would be there, waiting, casting her dark shadow. Pierre braced himself.

  The whole village seemed obsessed with this festival, Nell fumed, having remonstrated with the butcher for bringing beef shin instead of flank. Normally the most punctilious of men, Mr Podland had been so abashed that he seemed about to fall on his sword like the king’s chef in France whose fish didn’t arrive in time.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Drury, it’s that big delivery to Spitalfrith – took my mind right off what I was doing,’ he apologized. ‘And I don’t have no sausages. Three hundred is what they wanted. Made with chitterlings, which I ain’t never heard of. What they’ll get is good straight pork. And shrimps, they said. It’s August, I told ’em. No shrimps. Anyways, I’m a butcher, not a fishmonger. I’ll do them some nice ham puffs. Sir Gilbert said they’ll do, but now I’ve the job of making them.’

  Nell did her best to sound compassionate while running through her mind what she’d say to Mrs Squires who had ordered sausages for the servants’ lunch. There was, however, no sign of Mrs Squires when she enquired on her return to the kitchen.

  ‘Gone to the manor. She’s helping Mrs Hayward,’ Kitty sang out to her. ‘Mrs Fielding says we all should.’

  Nell groaned. It was only Thursday and the festival wasn’t until Saturday. Meanwhile, there was the small matter of the servants’ tea and supper to cope with (normally Mrs Squires’ responsibility) even as she called out ‘Pommes dauphine’ for the family dinner.

  ‘I will do this,’ Michel shouted back, rushing over to the stoves and tripping over the meat trays that Kitty had left on the floor beside her.

  Nell closed her eyes and counted to ten. ‘This is a kitchen, not a circus,’ she yelled as Michel clambered to his feet, only to back into Muriel carrying and then dropping a tray full of china from the scullery.

  It was at this moment that Lady Clarice suddenly appeared, a situation all but unknown at Wychbourne Court. There was an unspoken agreement that the family did not appear in the east wing without due warning. None had been given, and Lady Clarice was flushed and clearly eager to talk.

  ‘Miss Drury, can you spare just a moment for some exciting news?’ she asked, but didn’t wait for her reply before rushing on. ‘I have been doing some research into Spitalfrith Manor, and I have made the most thrilling discovery.’

  Flaming fishbones, what next? Nell managed to fix a smile on her face, as, leaving chaos behind her, she escorted Lady Clarice out of the kitchen and into the Cooking Pot, otherwise known as her Chef’s Room retreat.

  ‘I know you’ll be so pleased,’ Lady Clarice continued, as Nell seated her at the small table, which, as always, was covered with pads of writing paper and books of recipes.

  This sounded ominous. Nell waited in trepidation.

  ‘Spitalfrith does have a ghost – and, oh, Miss Drury, it is the ghost of a soldier. It must surely be my beloved Jasper. He lived there for several years before he departed for that terrible war with the Boers. After his death, his parents left Spitalfrith, but now I’m sure that Jasper haunts it. He will be awaiting me there on Saturday, and I believe it may not be in the house – though I shall investigate there also – but in the dell where he courted me.’ She blushed.

  Nell summoned up her courage to prepare her for disappointment. ‘There will be a lot of people around, Lady Clarice; that might deter him. And we shall only be there in daylight hours and outside the house, so don’t be too disappointed if he doesn’t appear.’

  Lady Clarice smiled. ‘Jasper will find a way.’

  When she returned to the kitchen, Nell’s fears were justified. During her absence, the kitchen had not been ahum with work or even clearing up the debris. On the contrary, it appeared to be at a standstill as Jenny Smith held forth on a subject on which she was knowledgeable and, it seemed, up to date: Lord Richard’s love life.

  ‘About twenty-one or two, I’d say,’ Jenny informed her interested audience. ‘Not tall – not pretty, but looks as though she has a mind of her own. The sort you’d look at twice – or several times if you were Lord Richard.’

  That brought a laugh, but awareness of Nell’s presence rapidly brought order to her staff. Jenny laughed. ‘Sorry, Nell. But with all this going on about Spitalfrith, it’s inevitable that Lord Richard will be dashing after somebody to do with the festival tomorrow.’

  ‘And this damsel is?’ Nell enquired, casting an eye on Kitty and the progress of the peaches au vin blanc for dinner.

  ‘Sir Gilbert’s daughter, Petra. Lord Richard had met her – or seen her, anyway – at Sevenoaks railway station this morning and driven her to Spitalfrith.’

  Poor girl, Nell thought. ‘Did she look as though she could stand up to her stepmother? She’ll need to.’

  ‘Short answer: yes,’ Jenny replied. ‘Whether she’ll win or not is less certain.’

  ‘No, Father,’ Petra Saddler said firmly, ‘I will not pose for the Clerries.’

  She had come all the way from London at her father’s request, but this was the last straw. The very idea of posing at Saturday’s Festival de Cler, with the whole village sniggering, was not her cup of tea, and she was well aware that this suggestion came from the Snake who knew how much she’d hate it. (The Snake was her private name for her stepmother – Madame Lisette Rennard, as she had been before poor Papa stupidly married her.) Petra had done her best to be polite to the Clerries when she visited her father in Paris and met his new friends, but were they really friends? In her view, they had taken her father away from his true calling in art. Couldn’t he see they were in a blind alley leading nowhere? The Clerries had lured him into feeling he had to be avant-garde in his work, rather than remain with his true calling alongside artists like Sir William Orpen and the late John Singer Sargent.

  Her father looked perplexed. ‘I can’t think why you are so reluctant. It is an honour.’

  ‘Being gawped at by a crowd of strangers while I freeze in a flimsy Greek costume is not an honour. Especially if it’s to be shown in next year’s exhibition—’

  ‘But if the Clerries paint the true you—’

  ‘You don’t know the true me,’ Petra said in exasperation. ‘None of these people know or want to know the true me. I don’t know the true me, and as for Saturday’s festival and then the exhibition next year—’

  ‘Ah. My dear, I am having second thoughts about that,’ he began even more nervously. ‘Your stepmama does feel that …’

  ‘Once and for all, she may legally be my stepmother, but I do not regard her as such, Papa.’

  ‘If you could just get to know her a little better …’

  Know her better? Petra shivered. How about getting friendly with a snake? And now it seemed Father was having second thoughts about the Academy of Modern Art exhibition, probably because the Snake was not one of the Clerries herself; she only modelled for them. True, the exhibition mattered not a jot to Petra, but it did to these weird guests staying with them. And it would do Father no good either if it was cancelled now, after all the hullabaloo. He was so far in with his own work for the Clerries that withdrawing would be worse than going ahead with it.

  This weekend was going to be worse than she had feared. As far as she could judge, the only sane one among the five guests was Vinny Finch, a tall, quiet man who winked at her when the Clerries were greeting the last crazy arrival. That had been Gert Radley, who had marched up the drive in sturdy shoes, heavy walking skirt and a haversack on her back.