Aurora Page 8

  “I am inclined to. Yes.”

  “Good. I’m very glad.” He looked as if he meant it, too. “I should leave now. I am to lunch with Sally McBain in town.”

  ‘‘Lady Alice had no trouble recognizing you.”

  “She couldn’t have recognized me. Just wanted a new beau to play with, I expect.” He laughed. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”

  He turned to direct some comment to Marnie, and Rorie said a few words to John. The two gentlemen soon arose to leave together. As soon as they were gone, Marnie said. “Kennie is going to get a place for us when Clare moves here. Some other house, so we won’t have to live with her. I’m very relieved he mentioned it. Truth to tell, I was not looking forward to living with her.”

  “You might have managed to steal back your engage­ment ring,” her sister suggested.

  “More likely she would have got my gold band from me too! John is convinced our newcomer is Kenelm.”

  Rorie was convinced too, without quite knowing how it had happened. He hadn’t proved a thing, and she had been charmed into it, which was not right. She must keep a corner of her mind open to doubt.

  The corner was still open for something to occupy it when Clare called in the afternoon, asking specifically to see herself, and not Marnie, although Marnie as well went along to the saloon.

  “My solicitor is gone off to London to make arrange­ments for the formal questioning,” Clare informed them. “I mean to get it done as quickly as possible so that that man has no opportunity to make mischief, to wangle his way into everyone’s confidence and discover what Kenelm would know. Mr. Coons says the questioning board must be composed of family, old friends and scholastic associ­ates of Kenelm. Some schoolmates will be selected without the man’s knowing who they are, to prevent his getting to them. The interview will take place at Raiker Hall a week from today. I wish it could be sooner. That gives him too much time. In the interim, I refuse to see him at all, and I do feel, girls, that you ought to refuse him admission here too. You will look perfect fools when he is exposed as an impostor in a week’s time if you have let him run tame here.”

  “We will look no more foolish than Lord Dougall,” Marnie pointed out.

  “That was a clever stroke on his part, having the wits to strike up a flirtation with Sally McBain to get himself invited to Bradhurst Hall. And he managed to get to Rutley’s before me too, to inform his grandparents they were not to recognize him.”

  “He said he met you coming out as he went in,” Marnie told her.

  “Did he say so? Well, that proves he is a liar, not that it needed proving in my opinion.”

  It was impossible to know which was lying, but in any case if the man was Horace Rutley, he would presumably have been in touch with his grandparents long since, and not have left it to this late date.

  “What did the Rutleys say about Horace?” Rorie asked.

  “They haven’t heard from him since he left, they say. I took a sharp look about to see if they had had the place done up lavishly—a dead giveaway Horace had been send­ing them money—but there was nothing of the sort. A shabby little hole, and filthy to boot.”

  “From what one hears of Horace Rutley, he wouldn’t be the kind of son to send his grandparents money,” Marnie mentioned.

  “No, not in the ordinary way. He was fonder of his mother, actually. Perhaps because he didn’t know her very well and could keep his illusions, but then this fellow who is calling himself Raiker has money to throw about.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with Horace at all,” Rorie said, her interest sharpened to hear Clare knew more than she had ever said before.

  Marnie latched onto a quite different part of the speech. She knew the man wore a well-cut coat and rode a fine mount, but “money to burn” was an unknown piece of intel­ligence and required explaining.

  “Indeed yes,” Clare told her. “He has bought himself a dashing curricle and team of grays, has set himself up with a groom and valet from London and all the rest of it. I heard he has taken over the largest suite at Lord Dougall’s, and has the stables filled with boxes and cartons of objets d’art from India.”

  “Then he was in India!” Rorie said.

  “Yes, apparently that story about America was a mis­take, but no one ever knew Horace went there. He left here, that was all we actually knew. There is a rumour running around the village about the man’s having opened a very considerable account at the banker’s as well, but it is only rumour. Everything gets exaggerated out of all proportion. As far as that goes, there is no saying what schemes he has been up to all these years. He might have managed to come into money, one way or the other. The emerald necklace would have been a good start.”

  “You think now it was Rutley who stole it, and not Kenelm as you used to say?” Marnie asked, pleased to catch her relative up in this little inaccuracy.

  Clare was far ahead of her, and had her answer ready. “It becomes clear to anyone whose head is not turned by the man that the two of them have been together. How else should Rutley know so much about us? It is perfectly obvious to me, who knew Kenelm so much better than everyone else, that Kennie stuck at owning up to some things, and they will be the man’s undoing. Well, I’m off, ladies. Will you see me to my carriage, Rorie ?”

  This was a departure from the usual routine, but Rorie was interested enough to discover what Clare wanted with her that she went along happily enough. “Your poor sister is besotted with the man,” Clare said sadly. “It will be for us to prevent her making a dreadful fool of herself. I wish you to keep me informed what she is up to.”

  This was of course understood by both ladies to mean what he was up to. “I have not taken sides, Clare.”

  “You are on the side of right and truth, I trust?”

  “Certainly I am, and so is Marnie.”

  “Well then, where is the problem? You must help me, Rorie. The family must stick together and balk this fel­low’s schemes. If he succeeds, it will mean you have me on your hands here at the Dower House, you know. Think about it!” she said, and left with an ironic laugh.

  It was a terrible enough thought to consider, but the man was a step ahead of her—had already removed that little impediment in Marnie’s way by promising a differ­ent arrangement. It was hard to say which of the two was the wilier schemer. They seemed a pretty even match.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Nothing of staggering interest occurred during the next week. Kenelm was busy ingratiating himself with the neighbourhood. He was seen in the village every day with Lady Alice, who paraded him amongst her friends as though he were a prize of war. Her set accepted him wholeheartedly, and under the protection of Lord Dougall he was being invited to the best homes. There was no communication between Kenelm and Raiker Hall except as took place indirectly through the Dower House. He twice came to visit Marnie and Aurora, bringing on the second occasion a pretty silk scarf from India for each of them and a set of ivory carved elephants for Mimi. Nor did he forget Malone. He rifled his treasure chests for some artifact to get a rise out of her, and with an unerring eye, chose a reproduction of a voluptuous goddess, Parvati, wife of Siva.

  “Goddess, is it?” she asked, her eyes bulging at the scantily clad lady before her. “Looks like a belly dancer to me. And what has she got a beehive on her head for?”

  “That is a sort of crown, I expect,” Marnie told her.

  “I’ll not be genuflecting to this one,” Malone decreed. “St. Anne and St. Anthony are good enough for me. I’ll just stick this away in a drawer so my Mimi don’t see it and go getting ideas. Is this the way the Hindu gods carry on then?” she asked Kenelm.

  “Oh yes. They have raised the fine art of love to a religion,” he assured her.

  “No better than I expected of them. They’ve made the sins into virtues. I suppose it’s a sin in that place to be doing your neighbour a good turn.”

  “It’s viewed askance,” he assured her readily.
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  Clare came three times to them, bringing nothing but questions. Marnie mentioned inviting Kenelm to dinner, but with Clare’s constant reminders that she could prove him an impostor, the invitation was delayed, just in case. She did behave with perfect civility, however, when she met him at dinner at the Spencers’. Under the circum­stances, Lady Spencer thought the dowager Lady Raiker would not care to attend, so saved her the embarrassment of having to refuse by not inviting her. This was a cruel blow for Clare, after the promise at the party of an invitation, but she hardened her heart to all such slights, merely storing up the memory for retribution after the man was got rid of.

  The day of the interview came at last. School friends from Eton had been contacted and brought to Kent for the occasion. An aunt and uncle with whom the alleged Lord Raiker had not been in contact since his return, but who had been familiar with him before his running away, were chosen to represent the family. A schoolmaster and an old tutor were also there, as was a retired footman who had been in service during Kenelm’s residency at Raiker Hall, since retired. A battery of miscellaneous questions was hurled at the claimant’s head, and he acquitted himself well enough that the verdict was in his favour. In the opinion of the committee, the man was Kenelm Derwent, Lord Raiker, and so they would inform Lord Wiggins, the judge handling the case.

  The dowager Lady Raiker squared her shoulders and set her jaw to do her unpleasant duty. “You leave me no option, sir,” she said to Raiker, “but to tell the truth. You are not Kenelm Derwent. He is dead, and I can prove it.”

  There was a hushed, awful silence in the Blue Saloon. The questioners looked at the man they had just decided was Kenelm, they looked at Lady Raiker, they looked at each other, and said not a word. There was dead silence for forty-five seconds, when the claimant recovered his wits and broke into unholy laughter. “Clare, you witch!” he said. “Who the devil have you murdered and chucked into a grave to have a body ready against my return?”

  “I shall overlook that slanderous remark, sir. Mr. Coons, you will proceed with the exhumation order we have had made up to cover this contingency. I think there will be no doubt as to the identity of the corpse. It will be long decayed, of course, but no doubt the clothing and some personal effects will bear me out.”

  “What? Did you actually dress your victim up in one of my outfits?” Raiker asked. “You are up to anything. I always knew you were as devious as a nawab, but I never began to appreciate your foresight till now.”

  “There is no point in continuing this discussion,” Clare said to her solicitor, then turned a disdainful eye to Raiker. “You will be notified of the hour of exhumation, sir, that you may have your counsel there, and yourself, if you have the stomach for it.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I want to see what outfit I chose for my interment. Where am I buried, Mama?”

  “Kenelm is buried in the family plot, naturally, as any member of this family would know.”

  Kenelm turned to the committee members. “Am I to assume the verdict in my favour still stands? I am the living Kenelm Derwent, while simultaneously mouldering in my grave?” he asked with relish.

  His old schoolmates were eager to support him. How the deuce could anyone but Kennie know about putting the frog in Chuck Dalmy’s milk, or sousing that old mugger of a tutor with a bucket of water when he was slipping out the back door to meet his doxy, or the series of anonymous letters perpetrated during their last term at Eton, threat­ening the headmaster with revelations of his scarlet past, and the man a dead bore who never did a thing wrong, but still went into a quake every time a letter was received? Such were their questions to the claimant, who entered into the memories with delight and a plethora of details that led some to believe he had been the instigator of all the mischief. The school friends were convinced, but agreed to go along with the others and withhold judgment, as their number did not constitute a majority in any class.

  There were, of course, questions posed to Clare to ex­pand on her announcement, but she sat like a sphinx, giving away nothing. The meeting broke up, and Lord Raiker turned his mount immediately down the road to inform the ladies at the Dower House of the latest devel­opment, and to try to discover of them who the corpse might be, though he had a fair idea. They had been waiting on pins and needles for his arrival, as he had arranged to come to them at once, whatever the verdict. Malone too was on hand. She had become a firm supporter of Raiker—admitted quite bluntly she had become “abscessed” with the whole affair, and rarely thought of anything else. The butler announced him, and he entered smiling broadly.

  “He used the wrong name,” he said. “He ought to have called me the late Lord Raiker.”

  “You got here sooner than we expected you,” Malone assured him.

  “Late as in dear departed. Mama’s got me killed and buried in the family plot. Well along in decay by now, as it seems I have been there ever since I ran away.”

  Three shocked faces tacitly demanded an explanation. “Yes, quite a shocker she has been saving up. I am no more. Gone to my just deserts long ago. I’m dying to hear how I met my end—no pun intended. She wouldn’t tell us a thing, not a single detail. I wonder how the devil she means to account for my untimely demise. Some terrible accident, I suppose. Dead drunk and walked into a pond.”

  “No, it can’t be that,” Rorie pointed out. “You must have met a more disgraceful end, or you would have been buried properly, with an announcement and funeral ser­vice and so on.”

  “How quick you are, Miss Falkner. And perfectly right, of course. I met with some disgracefully fitting end.”

  “She has dropped dark hints from the beginning that you performed acts too atrocious for us to hear about,” Marnie reminded him.

  “Suicide! She’s had you killing yourself,” Malone de­cided at once.

  “I wonder if that’s it. No—that isn’t bad enough for me. It was more likely justifiable killing. I was caught out in some beastly crime and it was necessary for one of them to do me in.”

  “A duel?” Rorie mentioned.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see what the carcass tells us,” Raiker said. “Do any of you happen to know where I am buried? I would like to pay my last respects to whatever remains of my mortal remains. I am in the family plot, Clare says.”

  “Oh, in that case, I think I know,” Marnie said. “There is an unmarked grave just at the very edge of the family plot. It has been there ever since I came to Kent with Bernard—a recent grave when first we came. We asked Clare about it, and she implied, though she didn’t actually say, that it was a stillborn child of one of the unmarried servant girls. The inference was that it was done up quietly to save the girl from public disgrace. It is rather a smallish grave, but would hold an adult I suppose. The corpse must be in a small box.”

  “I wonder if I got a coffin at all. A simple shroud to hasten my decay is more like it. Can you show me the spot, Marnie?”

  “I can’t leave at the moment. I am expecting Mr. Berri­gan,” she explained with a becoming blush. “On business. He is helping me look about for a cottage, as you were kind enough to say, Kenelm, that you would help me a little in that respect, and I would not like to continue on here with Clare.”

  “I have been looking into a place for you myself, and thought you might be happy at Gypperfield’s place. It is up for sale, you know, and Dougall tells me it is quite a bargain.”

  “Gypperfield’s place! Oh, I could never afford it; it is much too grand.”

  “I told you I would look after you, my dear, and I don’t wish to see Bernard’s family in a cottage. Have Berrigan take you to Gypperfield’s. The agent—Hudson is his name—has the keys. He will be happy to take you through it. I told him we would probably be around to look it over.”

  “Oh, Kenelm! I hardly know what to say. It is finer than here. Ever so lovely. I would adore to have it.” Her eyes shone. “But are you sure you can afford it?”

  “Certainly. I didn’t quite s
it on my thumbs while I was away, you know. Full of juice. There is plenty of money to be made in the east. Can you tell me exactly where the grave is? And I’ll go have a look by myself.”

  “Rorie—you know where it is. Why don’t you take Kenelm?” Marnie suggested.

  “Would you?” he asked, turning to her.

  “I would be happy to.” She was happier, more excited than a trip to a graveyard warranted, for this excuse to be walking with Raiker alone. Many times she had seen Lady Alice swaggering through the village on his arm, and had always felt a twinge of anger, jealousy, to see it. She felt in some unreasonable way that as she had seen him first, as a gypsy in the forest, she had a claim on him. She was nearly totally convinced now he was Kenelm, and indeed the neighbourhood at large no longer admitted of such question in the matter. In the interest of justice she did not completely close her mind, but if her mind still held a doubt, her heart had long since decided on his innocence.

  But as they went together, their talk was of a business nature. “Other than Clare’s little surprise, how did the questioning go?” she asked.

  “It was ridiculously easy. I had them all convinced. They decided I am me before Clare exploded her shell. Well, my old schoolmates and Smidgins, a footman who had made a pet of me in my youth—there could be no question. Aunt Hennie and Uncle Alfred too—I spent two summers with them when I was ten and twelve. They knew me at once. Little things, you know, about what kind of cookies Hennie used to have baked for me. That sort of thing. Truth to tell, I would have had a little trouble recognizing them. How old-looking Hennie is become.”

  “Why is she called Hennie?”

  “Short for Henrietta. Named after Grandmama.”

  All the little details came so easily, so readily, that even her mind was convinced. If his school friends accepted him, how could not she? “I suppose you are thinking the same as I am myself, about this mysterious body that is supposed to be you. It must be Horace Rutley,” Rorie said.

  “I am convinced of it, and my only question is what she has planted with the body to convince the world it is me. She mentioned clothing and personal effects. God, to think she must have been laying her plans for ten years!”