An Interrupted Breakfast
Mr. Victor Stanworth, the host of the little party now in progress at
Layton Court, was, according to the reports of his friends, who were
many and various, a thoroughly excellent sort of person. What his
enemies thought about him—that is, provided that he had any—is not
recorded. On the face of it, at any rate, however, the existence of
the latter may be doubted. Genial old gentlemen of sixty or so,
somewhat more than comfortably well off, who keep an excellent cellar
and equally excellent cigars and entertain with a large-hearted good
humour amounting almost to open-handedness, are not the sort of people
to have enemies. And all that Mr. Victor Stanworth was; that, and,
perhaps, a trifle more.
If he had one noticeable failing—so slight that it could hardly be
called a fault—it was perhaps the rather too obvious interest he
displayed in the sort of people whose pictures get into the
illustrated weeklies. Not that Mr. Stanworth was a snob, or anything
approaching it; he would as soon exchange a joke with a dustman as a
duke, though it is possible that he would prefer a millionaire to
either. But he had not attempted to conceal his satisfaction when his
younger brother, now dead these ten years or more, had succeeded in
marrying (against all expectation and the more than plainly expressed
wishes of the lady’s family) Lady Cynthia Anglemere, the eldest
daughter of the Earl of Grassingham. Indeed, he had gone so far as to
express his approval in the eminently satisfactory form of settling a
thousand a year on the lady in question for so long as she continued
to bear the name of Stanworth. It is noticeable, however, that a
condition of the settlement was the provision that she should continue
the use of her title also. Gossip, of course, hinted that this
interest sprung from the fact that the origins of the Stanworth family
were themselves not all that they might be; but whether there was any
truth in this or not, it was beyond question that, whatever these
origins might be, they were by now so decently interred in such a
thick shroud of golden obscurity that nobody had had either the wish
or the patience to uncover them.
Mr. Stanworth was a bachelor, and it was generally understood that he
was a person of some little importance in that mysterious Mecca of
finance, the City. Anything further than that was not specified, a
closer definition being rightly held to be unnecessary. But the
curious could find, if they felt so minded, the name of Mr. Stanworth
on the board of directors of several small but flourishing and
thoroughly respectable little concerns whose various offices were
scattered within a half-mile radius of the Mansion House. In any case
these did not seem to make any such exorbitant demands on Mr.
Stanworth’s time as to exclude a full participation in the more
pleasant occupations of life. Two or three days a week in London in
the winter, with sometimes as few as one a fortnight during the
summer, appeared to be quite enough not only to preserve his financial
reputation among his friends, but also to maintain that large and
healthy income which was a source of such innocent pleasure to so
many.
It has been said already that Mr. Stanworth was in the habit of
entertaining both largely and broad-mindedly; and this is no less than
the truth. It was his pleasure to gather round him a select little
party of entertaining and cheerful persons, usually young ones. And
each year he rented a different place in the summer for this purpose;
the larger, the older, and possessing the longer string of
aristocratic connections, the better. The winter months he passed
either abroad or in his comfortable bachelor flat in St. James’s
Street.
This year his choice of a summer residence had fallen upon Layton
Court, with its Jacobean gables, its lattice windows, and its
oak-panelled rooms. Mr. Stanworth was thoroughly satisfied with Layton
Court. He had been installed there for rather more than a month, and
the little party now in full swing was the second of the summer’s
series. His sister-in-law, Lady Stanworth, always acted as hostess for
him on these occasions.
Neither Roger nor Alec had had any previous acquaintance with their
host; and their inclusion in the party had been due to a chain of
circumstances. Mrs. Shannon, an old friend of Lady Stanworth’s, had
been asked in the first place; and with her Barbara. Then Mr.
Stanworth had winked jovially at his sister-in-law and observed that
Barbara was getting a deuced pretty girl in these days, and wasn’t
there any particular person she would be glad to see at Layton Court,
eh? Lady Stanworth had given it as her opinion that Barbara might not
be displeased to encounter a certain Mr. Alexander Grierson about the
place; whereupon Mr. Stanworth, having ascertained in a series of
rapid questions that Mr. Alexander Grierson was a young man of
considerable worldly possessions (which interested him very much), had
played cricket three years running for Oxford (which interested him
still more), and was apparently a person of unimpeachable character
and morals (which did not interest him at all), had given certain
injunctions; with the result that two days later Mr. Alexander
Grierson received a charming little note, to which he had hastened to
reply with gratified alacrity. As to Roger, it had come somehow to Mr.
Stanworth’s ears (as in fact things had a habit of doing) that he was
a close friend of Alec’s; and there was always room in any house which
happened to be occupied by Mr. Stanworth for a person of the
world-wide reputation and attainments of Roger Sheringham. A second
charming little note had followed in the wake of the first.
Roger had been delighted with Mr. Stanworth. He was a man after his
own heart, this jolly old gentleman, with his interesting habit of
pressing half-crown cigars and pre-war whiskey on one at all hours of
the day from ten in the morning onwards; his red, genial face, always
on the point of bursting into loud, whole-hearted laughter if not
actually doing so; his way of poking sly fun at his dignified,
aristocratic sister-in-law; and the very faint trace of a remote
vulgarity about him that only seemed, in his particular case, to add a
more intimate, almost a more genuine note to his dealings with one.
Yes, Roger had found old Mr. Stanworth a character well worth
studying. In the three days since they had first met their
acquaintance had developed rapidly into something that was very near
to friendship.
And there you have Mr. Victor Stanworth, at present of Layton Court,
in the county of Hertfordshire. A man, you would say (and as Roger
himself was saying in amazed perplexity less than an hour later),
without a single care in the world.
But it is already ten minutes since the breakfast gong sounded; and if
we wish to see for ourselves what sort of people Mr. Stanworth had
collected round him, it is quite time that we were making a move
towards the dining room.
Alec and Barbara were there already: the former with a puzzled, hurt
expression, that hinted plainly enough at the inexplicable disaster
which had just overtaken his wooing; the latter so resolutely natural
as to be quite unnatural. Roger, strolling in just behind them, had
noted their silence and their strained looks, and was prepared to
smoothe over anything in the way of a tiff with a ceaseless flow of
nonsense. Roger was perfectly well aware of the value of nonsense
judiciously applied.
“Morning, Barbara,” he said cheerfully. Roger made a point of calling
all unmarried ladies below the age of thirty by their Christian names
after a day or two’s acquaintance; it agreed with his reputation for
bohemianism, and it saved trouble. “Going to be an excellent day, I
fancy. Shall I hack some ham for you, or do you feel like a boiled
egg? You do? It’s a curious feeling, isn’t it?”
Barbara smiled faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Sheringham,” she said, lifting
the cosies off an array of silver that stood at one end of the table.
“Shall I give you tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please. Tea with breakfast is like playing Stravinsky on a
mouth organ. It doesn’t go. Well, what’s the programme to-day? Tennis
from eleven to one; from two to four tennis; between five and seven a
little tennis; and after dinner talk about tennis. Something like
that?”
“Don’t you like tennis, Mr. Sheringham?” asked Barbara innocently.
“Like it? I love it. One of these days I must get someone to teach me
how to play it. What are you doing this morning, for instance, Alec?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m not doing,” Alec grinned, “and that’s playing
tennis with you.”
“And why not, you ungrateful blighter, after all I’ve done for you?”
demanded Roger indignantly.
“Because when I play that sort of game I play cricket,” Alec retorted.
“Then you have fielders all round to stop the balls. It saves an awful
lot of trouble.”
Roger turned to Barbara. “Do you hear that, Barbara? I appeal to you.
My tennis may perhaps be a little strenuous, but—— Oh, hullo, Major.
We were just thinking about getting up a four for tennis. Are you
game?”
The newcomer, a tall, sallow, taciturn sort of person, bowed slightly
to Barbara. “Good-morning, Miss Shannon. Tennis, Sheringham? No, I’m
sorry, but I’m much too busy this morning.”
He went to the sideboard, inspected the dishes gravely, and helped
himself to some fish. Scarcely had he taken his seat with it than the
door opened again and the butler entered.
“Can I speak to you a moment, please, sir?” asked the latter in a low
voice.
The Major glanced up. “Me, Graves? Certainly.” He rose from his seat
and followed the other out of the room.
“Poor Major Jefferson!” Barbara observed.
“Yes,” said Roger with feeling. “I’m glad I haven’t got his job. Old
Stanworth’s an excellent sort of fellow as a host, but I don’t think I
should care for him as an employer. Eh, Alec?”
“Jefferson seems to have his hands pretty full. It’s a pity, because
he really plays a dashed good game of tennis. By the way, what would
you call him exactly? A private secretary?”
“Sort of, I suppose,” said Roger. “And everything else as well. A
general dogsbody for the old man. Rotten job.”
“Isn’t it rather funny to find an army man in a post like that?”
Barbara asked, more for the sake of something to say than anything;
the atmosphere was still a little strained. “I thought when you left
the army, you had a pension.”
“So you do,” Roger returned. “But pensions don’t amount to much in any
case. Besides, I rather fancy that Stanworth likes having a man in the
job with a certain social standing attached to him. Oh, yes; I’ve no
doubt that he finds Jefferson uncommonly useful.”
“Surly sort of devil though, isn’t he?” observed Alec. “Can I have
another cup of coffee, please, Barbara?”
“Oh, he’s all right,” Roger pronounced. “But I wouldn’t like to be out
with that butler alone on a dark night.”
“He’s the most extraordinary butler I’ve ever seen,” said Barbara with
decision, manipulating the coffee-pot. “He positively frightens me at
times. He looks more like a prize-fighter than a butler. What do you
think, Mr. Sheringham?”
“As a matter of fact, you’re perfectly right, Barbara,” Alec put in.
“He is an old boxer. Jefferson told me. Stanworth took him on for some
reason years ago, and he’s been with him ever since.”
“I’d like to see a scrap between him and you, Alec,” Roger murmured
bloodthirstily. “There wouldn’t be much to choose between you.”
“Thanks,” Alec laughed. “Not to-day, I think. He’d simply wipe the
floor with me. He could give me nearly a stone, I should say.”
“And you’re no chicken. Ah, well, if you ever think better of it, let
me know. I’ll put up a purse all right.”
“Let’s change the subject,” said Barbara, with a little shiver. “Oh!
Good-morning, Mrs. Plant. Hullo, Mother, dear! Had a good night?”
Mrs. Shannon, small and fair like her daughter, was in all other
respects as unlike Barbara as could well be imagined. In place of that
young lady’s characterful little face, Mrs. Shannon’s features were
doll-like and insipid. She was pretty enough, in a negative, plump
sort of way; but interest in her began and ended with her appearance.
Barbara’s attitude towards her was that of patient protectiveness. To
see the two together one would think, apart from their ages, that
Barbara was the mother and Mrs. Shannon the daughter.
“A good night?” she repeated peevishly. “My dear child, how many times
must I tell you that it is quite impossible for me to get any sleep at
all in this wretched place? If it isn’t the birds, it’s the dogs; and
if it isn’t the dogs, it’s——”
“Yes, Mother,” Barbara interrupted soothingly. “What would you like to
eat?”
“Oh, let me,” exclaimed Alec, jumping up. “And, Mrs. Plant, what are
you going to have?”
Mrs. Plant, a graceful, dark-haired lady of twenty-six or so, with a
husband in the Soudanese Civil Service, indicated a preference for
ham; Mrs. Shannon consented to be soothed with a fried sole.
Conversation became general.
Major Jefferson looked in once and glanced round the room in a worried
way. “Nobody’s seen Mr. Stanworth this morning, have they?” he asked
the company in general, and receiving no reply, went out again.
Barbara and Roger engaged in a fierce discussion on the relative
merits of tennis and golf, for the latter of which Roger had acquired
a half-blue at Oxford. Mrs. Shannon explained at some length to Alec
over her second sole why she could never eat much breakfast nowadays.
Mary Plant came to the aid of Barbara in proving that whereas golf was
a game for the elderly and crippled, tennis was the only possible
summer occupation for the young and energetic. The room buzzed.
The appearance of Lady Stanworth caused the conversation to stop
abruptly. In the ordinary course of events she breakfasted in her own
room. A tall, stately woman, with hair just beginning to turn gray,
she was never anything but cool and dignified; but this morning her
face seemed even more serious than usual. For a moment she stood in
the doorway, looking round the room as Major Jefferson had done a few
minutes before.
Then, “Good-morning, everybody,” she said slowly. “Mr. Sheringham and
Mr. Grierson, can I have a word with you for a moment?”
In deep silence Roger and Alec pushed back their chairs and rose. It
was obvious that something out of the ordinary had occurred, but
nobody quite liked to ask a question. In any case, Lady Stanworth’s
attitude did not encourage curiosity. She waited till they had reached
the door, and motioned for them to precede her. When they had passed
through, she shut the door carefully after her.
“What’s up, Lady Stanworth?” Roger asked bluntly, as soon as they were
alone.
Lady Stanworth bit her lip and hesitated, as if making up her mind.
“Nothing, I hope,” she said, after a little pause. “But nobody has
seen my brother-in-law this morning and his bed has not been slept in,
while the library door and windows are locked on the inside. Major
Jefferson sent for me and we have talked it over and decided to break
the door down. He suggested that it would be as well if you and Mr.
Grierson were present also, in case—in case a witness outside the
household should be required. Will you come with me?”
She led the way in the direction of the library, and the other two
followed.
“You’ve called to him, I suppose?” Alec remarked.
“Yes. Major Jefferson and Graves have both called to him, here and
outside the library windows.”
“He’s probably fainted or something in the library,” said Roger
reassuringly, with a good deal more conviction than he felt. “Or it
may be a stroke. Is his heart at all weak?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard, Mr. Sheringham.”
By the library door Major Jefferson and the butler were waiting; the
former impassive as ever, the latter clearly ill at ease.
“Ah, here you are,” said the Major. “Sorry to bother you like this,
but you understand. Now, Grierson, you and Graves and myself are the
biggest; if we put our shoulders to the door together I think we can
force it open. It’s pretty strong, though. You by the handle, Graves;
and you next, Grierson. That’s right. Now, then, one—two—three—heave!”
At the third attempt there was the sound of tearing woodwork, and the
heavy door swung on its hinges. Major Jefferson stepped quickly over
the threshold. The others hung back. In a moment he was back again,
his sallow face the merest trifle paler.
“What is it?” asked Lady Stanworth anxiously. “Is Victor there?”
“I don’t think you had better go in for the moment, Lady Stanworth,”
said Major Jefferson slowly, intercepting her as she stepped forward.
“Mr. Stanworth appears to have shot himself.”