Death of a Heavenly Twin Read online

  Having spent two years at a drama school, followed by as many months in a repertory company, he had been cast in a supporting role in a film producer’s idea of a working class comedy, playing a lordly nitwit, by whom the working class heroine had become temporarily dazzled. Ignoring the fact that the part happened to be one in which a cross-eyed newt could scarcely have failed, the critics had gone overboard about his performance, singling him out with one voice for the rave notice. Whether his golden looks had influenced their judgement is a guess I should not care to hazard, but they had undoubtedly accounted for the merry chink of coins at the box office. To the jubilation of all concerned, what had promised to be an unpretentious, mediocre little film had turned out to be one of the biggest money spinners of the year and, with a little help from his agent’s and his own astuteness a new star was born.

  For Kit’s was more than just a pretty face. There was a shrewd little brain ticking away behind it, a truth which had been demonstrated in his very first press interview, in which he had claimed to be the product of a slum background, who had never set foot in a theatre until after he left school. This was a fairly bright move, since it not only made him acceptably trendy, but also carried the implication that he was a rather more talented actor than any of us might have supposed. There were those who maintained that it was also quite untrue, and that his father was a prosperous business man living in relatively posh style on the outskirts of Nottingham; and it sometimes seemed to me, particularly when he was unsure of himself, that Kit had acquired his knowledge of English neither at school nor his mother’s knee, but in front of a television set. He had picked up every cliché of the mass media and was rarely able to complete even the most incoherent statement without the rider that that was what it was all about.

  However, for publicity purposes, Kit’s own version of his social origins met all requirements, and he had daringly followed it up by the more risky manoeuvre of becoming engaged to the third or fourth richest girl in England. Her name was Sarah Benson-Jones and it was at her family’s house, a few miles north-west of Oxford, that we were now going to spend the Easter weekend.

  I had only met Sarah once in my life, although I had friends who knew her better, and I confess that once had seemed enough. It may appear odd, therefore, that I should have elected to drive forty miles with a bad tempered and bickering actor in order to spend three days under her roof but it had come about through the intervention of her father.

  His name was Sir Magnus Benson-Jones and he was a major tycoon, operating in the oil world among other fertile fields of tycoonery, and with powers of life and death, so I was reliably informed, over governments, corporations and petrol pump attendants in every quarter of the globe. However, contrary to the popular image normally projected by such characters, Sir Magnus was no greedy, reactionary tyrant. He was, or had succeeded in becoming, a liberal minded, culture loving humanitarian, devoting much time and money to philanthropic enterprises, of which rural conservation and racial integration were both high on the list. It was the first of these which was now taking me temporarily into his life, for on Easter Saturday the grounds of Eglinton Hall were to be given over to a combined fête, flower show and children’s gymkhana, in aid of the South Midlands Conservation Society, and several weeks previously the request had come to me, via Kit, that I should mount the platform at 3 p.m. and declare the proceedings open.

  Before I could turn aside with a laughing negative, Kit had whipped out a letter from Sarah, repeating the invitation in rather less peremptory terms.

  After expressing her regret that we did not meet more often, etc., she apologised for begging favours from anyone so busy as myself, etc., and hoped that I would be their guest from Thursday to Monday, in which invitation she also included my husband.

  She had evidently done some homework on the last subject, for she had not only got Robin’s name and rank correct but had alluded to the fact that his early days in the Force had been spent with the C.I.D. at Dedley, a mere seven miles from Eglinton Hall.

  In view of this, it was not inconceivable that she also knew or would shortly find out that the week before Easter had been earmarked for one of Robin’s periodic conferences with some gentlemen of the Sûreté, and he was not expected back until Saturday evening, thus ruling out any chance of my using him as an excuse to decline. This, combined with an ingrained, occasionally disastrous curiosity, eventually induced me to accept, on the understanding that I should leave on Saturday evening.

  Recalling these matters, I turned to Kit, who had lapsed into a brooding silence, and said:

  ‘It’s funny about Sarah. Her letter might have been written by a retired headmistress, but I suppose she can’t be a day over twenty-four?’

  ‘Wrong. She’s a day over twenty-seven.’

  ‘Really? I wonder why she’s never married? I remember her as being fairly beautiful and so on; not to mention rich and clever. And it isn’t as though she had a career or anything.’

  ‘Are you joking? She has a career which makes yours look like a bag of old beans. She took over as Dad’s hostess, secretary and right hand what’s-it when she was twelve and she’s been at it ever since.’

  ‘I see. And the apple of his eye, presumably?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So what a tribute to you that she has now changed her mind.’

  ‘Oh, you know how the rich are? They only want to mix with people who are as loaded as themselves, and there aren’t so many of them in the Benson-Jones bracket. Sarah could afford to marry just about anyone, but she wouldn’t look at me if I wasn’t pulling in thirty thousand a year.’

  This was not very lover-like talk and I raised no objection when a minute later he swung across the road and drew up outside a small but affluent looking pub. Even if another drink failed to sweeten his mood, it could hardly make it sourer.

  It was called the Eglinton Arms and the yard in front of it was divided into two sections, one half marked out as a car park and the other dotted about with tubs of hyacinths and some very new looking rustic tables and benches.

  ‘Quite a coincidence,’ I remarked, getting out of the car. ‘Or are we already in Benson-Jones-land?’

  ‘Right. The house is four miles up the road, but I need a stiffener before we go over the top.’

  He got it too, in more senses than one. There was only one other car parked in the yard, so the chances of his being recognised had been fairly remote, but luckily the occupants turned out to be a cheerfully uninhibited party consisting of two girls and a young man. By means of some noisy whispering on the part of one of them, the news was relayed to the others, whereupon they all leaned back in their chairs and kept their eyes fastened on Kit for the whole ten minutes we remained in the bar.

  This had an even more intoxicating effect than the double scotch which went with it, and he played up to them with a will, patting my hand, throwing himself about and laughing uproariously at nothing at all.

  I was puzzled by this performance, until it began to dawn on me that his ill humour owed as much to the prospect ahead as to the humiliations he had left behind. It was the first time I had heard him speak so frankly about Sarah and her father and the underlying resentment suggested that, however much they might attract him, the riches and power of the Benson-Jones world cut him down to size even more cruelly than the thinly veiled impatience of Peter Bliss and the production unit.

  It was a state of affairs which did not make the coming weekend any more alluring and as soon as we were on the road again I began pumping him about out hosts. Since I was committed to spending two days in this rather charged atmosphere, it was to my advantage to find out as much about it as I could.

  ‘How about the other one?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t there a sister?’

  ‘Yeah. Name of Julie.’

  Most of the fizz had gone out of him once the audience was left behind but, fortunately for me, the soothing effects of the whisky were a little more durable.

  ‘Who
lives at home with Daddy too?’

  ‘You bet!’

  ‘Younger?’

  ‘By half an hour.’

  ‘Really? Lucky for you, in a way?’

  ‘In what way?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Just that there’ll presumably be someone to take over the reins when you and Sarah are married. I take it this Julie is the apple of his other eye?’

  ‘Oh, sure, but basically that’s not the way it is. They’re supposed to be identical, but it hasn’t worked out. Sarah got the brains, as well as all the luck. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘What kind of luck?’

  ‘Well, the thing about Julie is she’s crippled. Not too seriously, but enough to make it tough.’

  ‘Born crippled?’

  ‘No. I imagine that wouldn’t be so bad. You’d probably get adjusted easier. Julie was okay till she was around twelve. They were in Beirut or somewhere and there was this polio epidemic. The mother caught it too and died. That’s when Sarah began taking over.’

  ‘I see. And has she taken over Julie as well?’

  ‘That’s what it’s all about. Prising Sarah loose from her father is uphill work, but it’s nothing to the problem we have to face up to with Julie.’

  I considered this for a while and then said: ‘Well, there’s only one answer that I can see.’

  ‘Name it.’

  He was slowing down as he spoke and immediately afterwards made a right turn between two massive red brick columns, each adorned with a sour looking stone griffin perched on top. The one on the left had part of its beak chipped off, which struck me as vaguely symbolic.

  I had been about to suggest that Kit should abandon all idea of removing Sarah from the parental roof and should simply join the circus and live under it himself. However, we were now within sight of Eglinton Hall, at the end of quarter of a mile of straight, tarmac drive, and I had second thoughts. Permanent residence in such a ghoulish, castellated pile was not a fate I would have wished on my worst enemy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sarah met us at the front door, which was a late copy of the entrance to a thirteenth-century abbey and plentifully adorned with cast iron bands and spikes. Unlike the house, she was a pleasure to look at, having a pure oval face, high forehead, huge dark eyes and very white teeth. She also had good manners and greeted me effusively before flinging herself into the arms of her beloved. She was almost as tall as he, about five feet nine or ten, and her movements had some of the same athletic grace. Except for the contrast in colouring, they could have passed for brother and sister.

  She was wearing a maroon Thai silk tunic and trousers which did plenty for a figure which could have got by without any assistance at all. As it happened, I also possessed a Thai silk tunic and trousers which I was rather proud of but there and then rejected the idea of sporting them around at Eglinton Hall. As I have often tried to explain to Robin, it is precisely in anticipation of such emergencies that I am driven to carting about forty tons of luggage along every time I spend a night away from home.

  Two white coated flunkeys were waiting at a respectful distance in the hall, and Kit bounded forward and shook hands with each of them, very much the young master home from the wars, and Sarah asked them if they would be so very kind as to bring our luggage in from the car. She then led the way to the drawing room, saying she felt sure we were ready for a drink. In a sense she was right because one glimpse of the room was enough to send anyone of a nervous disposition straight to the bottle. It was about fifty feet long and a cross between a baronial hall and a gothic cathedral. There were imposing stone fireplaces at opposite ends of the room, and the windows were tall narrow slits, pointed at the top. No doubt they had originally contained leaded, stained glass panes, but these had been replaced by single sheets of clear glass, which made them look even more bizarre and hideous.

  In contrast to all this pseudo-mediaeval horror, the decor and furnishings were of the Beauchamp Place variety, with crystal chandeliers, Regency sofas and console tables dotted around all over the place. I cannot imagine how the problem of filling such a room would have best been tackled, but certainly the Benson-Jones answer left much to be desired.

  Seeing my blank expression, Sarah laughed and linked her arm in mine.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it a monster? I hope Kit warned you, but the trouble is that we’ve all become so used to it that it hardly bothers us now. It’s so utterly ghastly that in some strange way one ends by becoming quite attached to it. This is Julie, by the way, my twin sister; which you get no prizes for having guessed.’

  She had been almost hidden in a high backed, wing armchair when we came in but now made a clumsy attempt to rise. Kit walked over and kissed her, pushing her back in the chair, and she remained seated when Sarah and I approached, smiling up at me and stretching out her hand. I understood exactly what Kit had meant. It was when she smiled that her likeness to Sarah was most noticeable, but her face in repose fell into discontented lines, which blurred the resemblance. She had the same oval face, the same dark hair and enormous dark eyes as Sarah, but the hand which had assembled them had fumbled a little, as though growing bored on the second time around, and the vitality and sparkle had been left out completely. You could tell they were related, but they were no more identical than the fifth carbon copy is to the original page of typing.

  Julie was also wearing a silk trouser suit, but in an unbecoming shade of acid green, and she sat with one foot turned inwards and tucked behind the other, which effectually drew attention to her disability instead of concealing it.

  ‘Do please sit down,’ Sarah begged me, as though her happiness depended on it, ‘and tell me what you’d like to drink.’

  ‘Gin and something, please.’

  ‘Everything’s there. Kit had better mix it for you, as he probably knows how you like it. And help yourself at the same time, darling. Or would it be more sensible to take it upstairs with you?’ she went on turning back to me. ‘Then I could show you your room. Perhaps that might be best? Which would you honestly prefer?’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ I replied, puzzled by so much fuss over a seemingly trivial question, for she was frowning with as much gravity as if the outcome would affect us both for the rest of our lives.

  ‘Yes, I think that might be best, you know. It will give you more time to change and you must be dying for a bath. Not that there’s the least hurry because dinner won’t be ready for another hour; and it’s only ourselves, and Magnus of course. Come along and I’ll show you the way. You’re in your usual room, Kit, next door to Julie and me.’

  It was not a long speech, but contained enough puzzles to keep me occupied for a week, and I maintained a pensive silence as she led me back to the hall and up one of the pair of stone staircases, which curved round to meet in a balustraded gallery on the first landing. Sarah was obliging enough to unravel one small mystery for me when we arrived there. Pointing out her bedroom, she said:

  ‘Julie and I share one, we always did as small children, and we went back to it again when she was ill and needed so much attention. Somehow or other it’s become a fixture now. It probably strikes you as rather odd, at our age, but our room is about the size of the ballroom at Versailles, so it’s not quite so claustrophobic as it sounds. This one is yours, and I do hope you’ll be comfortable. Don’t be put off by the bed, incidentally; the mattress belongs to this century,’ she added, bouncing up and down on it to demonstrate the point.

  It was a black oak four poster with a carved wooden canopy and would have looked more at home in a museum, and the other furnishings were cast in the same sombre mould. Personally, I found the effect uninspiring but curiously restful after the crazy juxtaposition of periods in the drawing room. Reading my thoughts again, or perhaps merely proving that they followed a well beaten track, Sarah remarked:

  ‘Most of the bedroom furniture was thrown in with the house, so we decided not to change it. We had to start from scratch in the downstairs rooms and Magnus
utterly refused to be parted from his beloved treasures. I’m afraid that hideous neo-Gothic isn’t the most suitable setting for them, poor dears, but one does see his point. Things get so ruined when they go into store, and we keep hoping that the right sort of house will come on the market.’

  ‘So you haven’t always lived here?’

  ‘Oh heavens, no; only two years.’

  My suitcases had been brought up, but not unpacked and I began on the one which did not contain the evening trouser suit. The wardrobe was lined with the same fleur de lys pattern as the walls and contained about fifty quilted coat hangers covered in matching silk. Sarah remained seated on the bed and, concluding that she was in the mood for a chat, I gave her another cue:

  ‘What made you move here then, if you think it’s so awful?’

  ‘Politics,’ she replied cryptically, pausing while I dutifully registered surprise, and then adding: ‘Magnus is standing for parliament at the next general election. We used to live in Gloucestershire but as soon as he was adopted here he decided it would be a smart move to buy a house in his own constituency.’

  ‘He must be pretty confident of getting in. Is it one of those safe seats?’

  ‘The answer to that is yes and no. He’s confident all right, but it’s not a safe seat in the sense you probably mean. In fact it’s been a Tory stronghold for generations whereas Magnus is Labour.’

  This time I evinced as much astonishment as I felt certain was expected of me.

  ‘How very impressive!’

  ‘His being a Socialist?’

  ‘Not so much that. Lots of people are, but I never heard of one investing in a mansion on this scale on such a slim chance of its turning out to be their own constituency. It’s what I call optimistic.’

  ‘Well, Magnus is an optimist, although “positive thinking” is the way he describes it, and things invariably do work out exactly as he’s planned them. Besides, if you think of it in a practical way, coming to live here makes a lot of sense. The voters are far more likely to take him to their hearts if he’s involved in local affairs, boosting up trade and so on, than if he were some impersonal figure who appeared on the scene to hold a public meeting once in a while. And you’d be surprised, Tessa, what a lot of petty snobbery still exists in these rural areas. There are plenty of die-hard Tories around, who believe Magnus wants to take all their money away and nationalise the public schools, but most of them are tickled pink to be invited here.’