Mad About the Boy? Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Jack Haldean Mystery Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Jack Haldean Mystery Series

  A FÊTE WORSE THAN DEATH

  MAD ABOUT THE BOY

  AS IF BY MAGIC

  A HUNDRED THOUSAND DRAGONS

  OFF THE RECORD

  TROUBLE BREWING

  MAD ABOUT THE BOY

  A Jack Haldean Murder Mystery

  Dolores Gordon-Smith

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in the UK by Constable,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2008

  First US edition published by SohoConstable,

  an imprint of Soho Press, 2008

  eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © Dolores Gordon-Smith 2008

  The right of Dolores Gordon-Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0065-5 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To my father, Gordon Frederick Whitbread,

  who tells such brilliant stories

  Chapter One

  Arthur Stanton stubbed out his cigarette, peering anxiously through the haze of smoke at his reflection in the mirror. A sharp crack sounded outside the open bedroom window and his fingers twitched, pulling his white tie into a creased ribbon. For God’s sake, couldn’t they stop that bloody noise? Fireworks. He drew a deep breath. Take it easy, Arthur, he told himself firmly, it’s only fireworks. They’re setting up the display for tonight. He threw down the crumpled tie and fumbled for another cigarette. How the hell was he supposed to get ready with all that row going on? Another bang sounded and he shuddered. These weren’t even the fireworks proper. The big show was later in the evening and, compared to that, all these odd bangs and cracks would pale into insignificance. He’d enjoyed fireworks at one time. What the devil was the matter with him? All he had to do was put on a tie.

  He caught sight of his long, worried face in the mirror and clicked his tongue in disgust. For a grown man to be reduced to a state where he couldn’t tie a ruddy tie because of a few mistimed fireworks was crazy. How on earth was he going to cope later on? Why the devil was he here at all?

  He knew, he thought gloomily, the answer to that. He was here because he’d been invited to Hesperus for the ball and to stay for a few days afterwards. This, he’d told himself with a surge of hope, was the chance he’d been waiting for. To be with Isabelle in her own home was an opportunity he’d seized with both hands. Yes, of course he knew there’d be other people about – there were always other people about when Isabelle was there – but he’d painted a picture, a rose-coloured, idyllic picture, of just the two of them. He’d spent the previous fortnight sweltering in a London heatwave, longing for this week in Sussex, dreaming of lazy summer days and rich velvet nights. It was just the sort of weather to go boating on the river or for long walks through the woods or maybe picnicking in some secluded spot. It’d have to be, he thought cynically, very secluded indeed to cut out the hordes of friends Isabelle always seemed to be surrounded by.

  Fool! He looked at the crumpled tie in his hand. The weather was the only thing in that pipe dream that had matched up to reality. Yes, it was summer. Yes, Isabelle was here at home in Hesperus, and yes, there were rivers, woods, shady lawns and long June nights. But for all the chances he’d had to get Isabelle alone, she might as well be standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.

  Aunt Alice and Uncle Phil are holding a ball for their Silver Wedding, Jack had said. Hesperus will be really nice at this time of year. We’re having a fireworks display. You’ll enjoy it. Enjoy it! Jack must know how he felt. Jack, of all people, should have guessed how he’d react and why. Stanton paused. Jack really should have known. So why . . .?

  The hazel eyes in the mirror narrowed. There had been a faint question mark at the end of ‘You’ll enjoy it.’ So Jack had guessed. There had been other questions, too. Bloody marvellous. Stanton’s reflected face twisted. He obviously thinks I’m verging on a basket case. The next thing you know I’ll be giving the loony bin some business. He stopped, chilled, as his stomach clenched in a heavy lump of fear.

  That wasn’t funny He rested his forehead on his hand. Loony bin. Hospital . . .

  He straightened up. There was one person in this world and one person only who could prevent him going back. He forced himself to look at his reflection squarely Me. Me. Jack wasn’t going to stick him in a . . . a . . . He swallowed. A hospital – he forced himself to think the word – again.

  A puzzled look came into the mirrored face. Why on earth had he put it like that? Jack wasn’t responsible. It wasn’t Jack’s fault. Jack had met him at King’s Cross. It was meant to be over. The . . . the hospital had discharged him and he was supposed to be fit for active service once more.

  The Euston Road. The pleasure of being with an old friend. Jack’s an old friend. Hold on to that. He told me he was a friend. I know he’s a friend. But . . . Traffic. So much traffic. He’s talking about cricket scores. Can’t he hear the noise of the traffic? He’s talking about the weather. I can’t hear what he’s saying because of the noise. Can’t he see the crowds? He made me come here. Here, where there are hundreds of people. What’s he saying now? A new musical? What? Do I fancy seeing a show? Go to where there are more people? Aren’t there enough here? There are hundreds of people jostling, pushing. What about something to eat? I’ll be trapped. He knows I’ll be trapped inside a crowded room. Can’t he see the faces of the crowd, waiting for me to panic, daring me to run? There’s an Italian restaurant in Soho. That noise! Oh, God, that noise!

  Everything had gone blank, then Jack was talking to someone, a big man in a blue uniform. ‘It’s all right, don’t worry, officer. He was badly shot up at Passchendaele. We thought he was all right.’ Jack’s anxious face, close to his. ‘Don’t worry, Arthur, I’ll take care of you.’ Liar!

  He’d been taken to . . . to That Place again and Jack had abandoned him.

  The strength of the emotion pulled him up sharp. He hadn’t been abandoned. Jack had helped him. He couldn’t possibly have stayed. After all, Jack had to return to his squadron. He’d given up his two precious days of home leave to meet him and all this was so damned unfair. I ought
to be bloody well ashamed of myself, thought Stanton. It was just that the inside and the outside of that time had never matched but grated away at the back of his mind. For the first time he wondered what Jack had thought about it all. He’d never mentioned it. It might never have happened for all the difference it seemed to make, but, if only Jack knew, that was difficult as well. Because it had happened and it had been – well, difficult. I might as well call it that as anything, he thought; difficult.

  He looked at the crumpled tie again. He couldn’t wear that to the ball. Wearily he took a spare from the drawer, wincing as another firework cracked outside the window. I don’t care, thought Stanton. I’m going to tie this wretched – damn!

  A knock sounded on the door and Stanton guiltily stood up.

  Without waiting for an answer, Jack Haldean came in. ‘Aren’t you ready yet, Cinderella? You’ll be late for the ball.’

  Haldean’s tie, Stanton noticed with a twinge of irritation, was immaculate, like the rest of his dress clothes. He didn’t know how it was, but old Jack somehow always looked more foreign in evening dress than in ordinary things, a bit like a cultured gypsy mixed with some Spanish hidalgo, with his black hair smoothed down and his white shirt emphasizing the Mediterranean darkness of his skin. He looks as if he’s about to dance a tango or start the Inquisition or, thought Stanton grumpily, lead some ruddy dance band. Then he met the warm friendliness of those dark eyes and, for the second time in as many minutes, felt ashamed.

  Haldean looked round the room curiously. ‘Where’s your valet?’

  ‘He gave notice.’ Stanton hurriedly knotted his tie. ‘I haven’t had a chance to replace him yet. Didn’t I tell you?’ He looked in the mirror and frowned. ‘Will that do, Jack?’

  Haldean twitched the recalcitrant cloth into place. ‘It will now. Come on, everything’s about to kick off.’

  Privately, Haldean was concerned. He’d been unhappy for a while about his old friend. Arthur was naturally a cheerful, kindly sort, sensitive to other people’s feelings, who’d go to an awful lot of trouble without making a fuss or even without thinking there was anything to make a fuss about. A dependable bloke, thought Haldean, which sounded virtuous but dull. It wasn’t dull; Arthur had mixed it with an amiable goofiness which leavened out the solid worth, and he wasn’t perfect. He was forgetful, late for meals and lost things but those weren’t really faults. Naturally, after what had happened in the war, he couldn’t be expected to be the life and soul of the party, but he’d been getting there. To outward appearances Arthur had come through the war unscathed and looked much the same as he always had; a tall, well-proportioned man with deep hazel eyes, a firm jaw, high forehead and brown hair that would not, despite his best endeavours, stay fashionably sleeked back. And he had been getting over it. Now? Now he looked washed out and nervy. At a guess that was partly the fireworks – the evening had been punctuated by random cracks and bangs – but Haldean had no hesitation in laying the blame for Arthur’s nerves squarely on his cousin Isabelle’s shoulders, and that, too, was partly due to the war.

  If he hadn’t been in the army Stanton would have met Isabelle ages ago and would have witnessed her transformation from a leggy schoolgirl with spots into an acknowledged beauty. Quite when the miracle had happened Haldean didn’t know, but there was no doubt that Isabelle, with her green eyes, her rich auburn hair and her wicked grin, had a shattering effect on quite a number of young men. Stanton should have been just another name on the list. But Isabelle clearly liked Arthur, liked him very much. Liked him so much, in fact, that Haldean had caught himself thinking how pleasant it would be to have his cousin married to his best friend.

  Then Isabelle had met Malcolm Smith-Fennimore and Stanton had been eclipsed. Because Smith-Fennimore, merchant banker, aviator, racing driver, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed and fair-haired, wasn’t just some idle rich bloke. He was deeply sincere, troubled by the world around him and obviously hungrily searching for happiness. Isabelle had taken one look and melted. Which left, thought Haldean, poor old Arthur out in the cold and no mistake.

  However, no matter how fraught the poor chap’s feelings were, they still had to go to the ball. A hum of animated conversation met them as they as they rounded the curve of the stone staircase. The house was thronged with people in evening dress. Isabelle was in the middle of the hall, talking politely to the new arrivals.

  She looked up and smiled as she saw them. Haldean heard Stanton’s quick intake of breath. It wasn’t surprising. Isabelle was lovely anyway but now, dressed for the ball, she was simply beautiful. She rid herself adroitly of a stout woman in satin with pearls and feathers and zigzagged through the crush to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘So there you are,’ she said in an undertone. ‘I’ve been waiting ages. Why on earth everyone doesn’t go into the ballroom instead of hanging around in the hall, I don’t know. Jack, will you dance with Squeak Robiceux?’

  ‘The terrible twin? Delighted, old thing,’ said Haldean, taking her arm. The three of them stepped round the edge of the crowd and walked towards the ballroom. ‘Shall I take on Bubble Robiceux as well? There’s a reduction for quantity.’

  Isabelle shook her head. ‘Bubble hasn’t got a problem. She’s as thick as thieves with Tim Preston and that’s why Squeak’s a bit high and dry.’

  ‘I’ll gladly dance with Squeak,’ put in Stanton. ‘She must feel a bit lost without Bubble.’

  ‘She does,’ said Isabelle. ‘Thanks, Arthur. That’s nice of you. Step in if you see her stranded, won’t you, Jack?’

  Haldean grinned. ‘Trust old Uncle Jack. As always, I shall be a willing lamb to the slaughter. I shall hold her hand, glide her round the dance floor and, if necessary, whisk her into the conservatory and whisper sweet somethings into her shell-like ears. All part of the service. Moderate charges and families waited upon daily.’

  ‘There’s no need to go overdoing it,’ said Isabelle. ‘I could imagine you being worryingly magnetic if you really turned on the charm. You might look like South American Joe, but keep it under wraps, will you? I want her entertained, not heartbroken.’

  ‘I shall aim for modified rapture.’ He nodded to Lawson, the footman, splendid in full livery, who announced them at the top of his stentorian voice, and went into the ballroom, smiling as he caught the eye of Aunt Alice who stood with Uncle Philip, greeting the guests.

  Haldean whistled involuntarily. Aunt Alice had really been to town. The last ball at Hesperus had been at Christmas and, despite its size, the room had been snug with Christmas colours of green and red. Now, on this night in high summer, all the french windows stood open and the smells of the garden mixed with the heady scent of the cascades of white roses spilling down the walls. Under the diamond brilliance of the huge chandelier the silver ribbons looped round the walls glistened like threads of frost, reflected in the glassy shine of the deeply polished floor. The orchestra was tuning up and there was a buzz of excitement from the people thronging the room. He smiled at his cousin. ‘This looks tip-top.’

  Isabelle looked round the waiting crowd and gave a happy little wriggle of anticipation. ‘We’re going to have a wonderful time.’

  And they were, thought Haldean. Later on he’d slip up to the balcony to see what it looked like from up there. He grinned. That had been a real childhood treat. He, Isabelle and her brother Greg had been allowed to sit on the balcony and eat ice-cream and watch the dancers below before being packed off to bed. Those had been magical nights, the rich, mingling colours of the women’s dresses contrasting with the black and white of the men. It was the smells that whisked him back, a heady mixture of perfumes, warm people and the oil-and-chalk smell of the ballroom. At the far end of the room was the conservatory. Now that had been an unobtainable Mecca when he was a kid. There was a whole room packed with elaborate pastries, rafts of tiny sandwiches, lemonade and gold-topped green bottles in glittering ice. He wished Greg was here to share it all, but Greg was far away from Sussex, sweltering in the
tropic heat of Malaya. He had gone out two months ago, working as the assistant manager in a rubber firm, and it was anyone’s guess when he’d be home again. Just for a moment Haldean felt a twinge of sadness but shook it off. Hello, things were about to get going.

  Uncle Philip stepped up on to the orchestra stand. ‘I’m not much of a hand at speeches . . .’ he said. That was true enough, but his obvious sincerity as he thanked everyone for their company and good wishes was more moving than a polished performance would have been. His broad smile at the enthusiastic applause which greeted his words spoke for itself.

  The clapping died down and there was an expectant rustle as the leader of the orchestra announced the first dance.

  Stanton coughed. ‘Er . . . I say, Isabelle, are you engaged for this dance?’ His face lit up. ‘You aren’t? I don’t suppose you would? Would you?’

  Isabelle favoured Stanton with a smile. ‘Of course I will.’

  Stanton caught his breath once more and took her arm.

  That, thought Haldean, was downright cruel. Dance with poor old Arthur, yes, but was there really any need to gaze at him with that ‘If You Were the Only Boy in the World’ expression? It was a downright shame Greg wasn’t here. He’d tell her. But Greg wasn’t here. Which meant, thought Haldean glumly, that he’d have to step into the breach. Why on earth couldn’t she let him down gently instead of pouring petrol on the flames? As soon as Smith-Fennimore walked into the room Arthur would be dropped with a thud. He really was going to have to tackle Isabelle about it. Arthur couldn’t take it. The poor devil had been getting downright twitchy recently. His nerves hadn’t skinned over enough for this sort of treatment. Damn it, Belle, stop it, he mentally pleaded as he saw her hand caress his friend’s arm. And Arthur should have more sense.

  With his good mood well and truly dented, Haldean turned away to go in search of a drink.

  What he found was his old friend Tim Preston, marching down the side of the ballroom with a scowl on his normally good-tempered face. ‘That bloody man,’ he said.