Chapter 2
An Unexpected Turn Of Events
In order to get to his room Bertie had to pass Ginger's door and on impulse, he tapped on the oak.
There was a slight pause before Ginger's voice came from within asking, "Who is it?".
"It's me, old boy," called Bertie. "Who did you think it was?"
"Are you alone?" asked Ginger, ignoring Bertie's question.
"Yes, of course I am!" expostulated Bertie. "What do you think I am, the Seventh Cavalry?"
"Just a minute," Ginger told him and Bertie heard the key turn in the lock.
"Come in," invited Ginger without opening the door.
Rather puzzled, Bertie pushed the door open and went in. He had disturbed Ginger in the process of taking a bath and the young man was naked apart from a towel around his hips. Droplets of water glistened on his shoulders and chest where, in his haste to answer the door, he had not finished drying himself completely.
"Ah, I understand now, old boy," breathed Bertie, enlightenment dawning. "You wouldn't want to entertain Celia dressed like that," he smiled.
"Certainly not!" replied Ginger with warmth. "Your cousin seems fascinated by me," he observed curiously. "I can't think why."
Bertie coughed delicately. "Ahem, I rather think it has as much to do with your background as your boyish good looks," he told Ginger. "Celia has always had rather a thing for …" he hesitated before continuing, "how shall I put it? The lower orders?"
Ginger flushed. Bertie was intrigued to notice the colour only reached as far as the base of his neck. His shoulders and chest remained as white as before.
"I wish she didn't," he muttered uncomfortably.
"So do her parents, old boy," averred Bertie sadly, thinking Ginger had never really got over Jeanette's death1. He went across and sat on the bed as Ginger disappeared into the dressing room to complete his preparations for dinner. They continued conversing through the door which Ginger had left open.
"Hadn't you better be getting dressed?" asked Ginger when he finally emerged, clad in his evening wear. "It can't be long before they'll be sounding the gong."
"No rush, old boy," Bertie told him calmly. "My man, or rather, the man Celia has lent me, will have laid out my clothes and drawn my bath. It will be but a moment to bathe and dress. I'll be ready well before they summon us." He stood up and went to the door.
"I'll pop along as soon as I've got the old boiled shirt on," he remarked as he opened it, "and escort you down to the drawing room. Just in case Celia waylays you, if you see what I mean," he added from the doorway with a wink and a wicked grin.
"Go and get dressed!" growled Ginger, struggling with his bow tie.
Bertie chuckled and retreated, leaving Ginger to make yet another attempt to get a reasonable butterfly to adorn his shirt collar.
When Bertie returned, elegant in his dinner jacket and immaculate bow tie, Ginger had finally mastered the art of neatly tying the scrap of silk at his neck and was sitting in an armchair near the open window, reading a book while he was waiting.
Ginger looked up as Bertie stuck his head round the door and marked his place with an old envelope, closing the book with a snap. He put it on the table at his elbow, next to the letters he had been writing earlier, then stood up and joined his companion ready to descend to the drawing room. Just as he did so, there came a sharp report, like a car backfiring. Bertie and Ginger exchanged glances.
"What do you make of that, old boy?" queried Bertie.
Ginger looked puzzled. "It sounded like a pistol shot," he opined, "but it couldn't be. No one would be shooting small arms at this time of night, and it wouldn't be poachers; not their weapon. It must have been a backfire, somewhere out on the road."
Bertie nodded, unconvinced. "Sounded closer, though," he mused. "Must be deceptive in the still air." He shrugged his shoulders dismissively and opened the door preparatory to going downstairs.
As they went out into the corridor together, the dinner gong reverberated through the house.
The other guests were already assembled in the drawing room when Bertie and Ginger reached it. The murmur of conversation met them as they opened the door and went in.
Celia came across to greet them and offer sherry. Her willowy body was encased in a figure-hugging black evening dress which set off her fair colouring to perfection. A rivière of diamonds sparkled at her neck and matching studs glinted in her ears.
Ginger declined the sherry and looked around the room. All the guests were there except for Alfred Cliffe.
Bertie followed his gaze and drew the same conclusion. "Trust the bounder to be late," he murmured, helping himself to a glass from the tray.
The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece struck eight and the butler came in to announce that dinner was served. Celia hesitated, unwilling to let the meal spoil, but inclined to give the errant guest a few moments' grace.
"I'll go and see what's keeping him," Bertie offered. "You take the rest of the guests in to dinner and we'll join you as soon as possible."
Celia seized on the offer gratefully and slipped her arm through Ginger's, murmuring, "you won't mind taking me in, will you?"
Ginger felt himself blushing at her attention, but could not be ungallant. "Of course not. I'd be delighted," he told her as Bertie disappeared in the direction of the stairs.
She flashed Ginger a grateful smile and they followed Lady Conway and Colonel Hitchcott as they led the guests into the dining room where the table groaned under a scintillating display of silver, glassware and gold-edged porcelain that boasted the family escutcheon. Flowers made a bright splash of colour in the epergne that graced the centre of the brilliant expanse of white linen damask. Ginger thought Celia had spared no effort to make things seem like the old days before the death duties and taxes that made her life so difficult.
As if she had read his mind, she squeezed his arm gently and murmured into his ear, "one has to make an effort, you know. The PGs expect it. It's called keeping up appearances."
Ginger smiled ruefully, wondering what was keeping Bertie. Celia's perfume was intoxicating and he found her closeness unsettling. Surely Cliffe must be ready to come down to dinner soon, he thought, to release him from the awakening of memories he had thought long buried.
As if on cue, Bertie appeared in the doorway to the dining room. He looked rather pale, Ginger thought.
"Excuse me, old girl," Bertie murmured to Celia in a low voice. "I need to talk to Ginger for a moment. I'm afraid Cliffe is unwell and won't be coming down to dinner. You'd better carry on without him. Don't bother to have anything sent up, he won't be able to eat it."
So saying, he caught Ginger by the arm and led him into the drawing room.
"What is it?" asked Ginger as soon as they were out of earshot. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
"I have, in a manner of speaking," Bertie told him. "You remember we thought we heard a pistol shot ..." When Ginger nodded, he continued, "well it was. Someone has drilled Cliffe straight through the forehead while he was dressing for dinner. He's as dead as mutton, lying on his bedroom floor."
Ginger's eyes opened wide as he looked at Bertie shocked. "Good heavens!" he ejaculated. "No wonder he won't be coming down to dinner! Are you sure he didn't shoot himself?"
"Absolutely, old boy. There was no weapon. Admittedly, I didn't search the room, but I think if he'd killed himself he couldn't have hidden the gun."
"What are you going to tell Celia and your aunt?" asked Ginger, looking at the door to the dining room.
Bertie hesitated. "I don't know, old boy. It's a bit of a poser. I don't want to spoil the evening, so I think we'd better wait until after dinner, when we can have a word with Celia in private without attracting too much attention. She can break it to my aunt later. I've locked the door to Cliffe's room and I've got the key here," he showed Ginger the bedroom door key and then put it back in his pocket, "so no one can get in and disturb anything. I didn't touch anything while I was in there, apart from the key, and the door wasn't locked when I went in, anyway. We'll have to call the local police, I suppose, as a matter of courtesy. They'll want to interview everybody."
"They're not going to like it if we delay," commented Ginger. "And I can't say I'm keen on the idea of making polite conversation all through dinner as if nothing has happened, knowing that there's a dead man upstairs and a murderer on the loose. We could end up like "Ten Little Indians."
"You've been reading too many whodunits, my lad," Bertie admonished him crossly and Ginger grinned. "There is this about it," added Bertie, "the list of suspects is going to be a long one. After the affair of the dog this morning, I should think your name will be at the top."
"That's alright," returned Ginger smoothly. "You and I both have an alibi for the time of the shooting. I wonder who else does."
"No doubt we shall find out in due course," remarked Bertie, heading for the dining room. "Come on, old lad, let's bite the bullet."
"You could have chosen a better phrase!" Ginger told him dryly as they opened the door and belatedly took their seats at the dinner table.
1 See Rite of Passage
