Once Jane Blume had withdrawn in the wake of the ladies - after applying fresh powder and lipstick - the gentlemen were left to their port and cigars - or, in Emerson's case, more water.
"This is a fine place you have here," said Oswald. "Has it been in the family long?"
Reginald stiffened. Wallace Emerson's face took on slightly furtive expression.
"I acquired it six years ago," he said.
"From my uncle, the late Earl," said Reginald curtly.
Wallace smiled, a positively feral smile.
"Yes indeed. I suppose, young man, that you might well have been in my place here tonight. Had things been different."
"Eh?" said Oswald. "I thought there was an Earl of Staughton."
Reginald shrugged. "No-one has seen or heard of him since the War. He was demobbed from the Army and ... disappeared. It's possible that he might have contracted the Spanish influenza in some out of the way place, died, and been buried in a nameless grave. After all, more people died of the flu than were killed in the war.
"If he isn't found in two years' time, then he can be declared legally dead and yes, I will become the Earl. But of course, I have every hope he will turn up before then."
"So you say!" interjected Wallace with a coarse laugh.
Reginald smiled thinly. "It's true enough. Without the Hall, and, more importantly, the lands, the title will be an empty thing. And I have learnt, quite forecefully, that many things we think are valuable are in fact hollow. The War taught me that ... as it taught many others ... "
Davyd had nothing constructive to add to the conversation and so sat through it in silence, lighting a cigarette and offering the fine case around. Politics certainly wasn't a soldier's field, in any case...
As the men continued to drink port and smoke an after dinner cigar, Major Dessard approached Emerson and Oswald, drink in hand.
"Well, now that the ladies have retired", he smiled, "I guess it wouldn't be rude to discuss ventures. Young Oswald told me of interests you have abroad, Mister Emerson. I hope you wouldn't think it forward if I asked whether you were looking for investors."
The Major smiled amicably. "I have done quite well, with my pension, investing in mines in South Africa, but I'm always looking for any other opportunities."
He flashed another grin at the two men.
Miles Secord sat quietly watching the other men, as he had observed the people at the dinner. He found one could always learn more about others by listening rather than speaking. He enjoyed the bold taste of the port, recognizing the excellent quality of the drink. He regretted not making it to pre-dinner sherry on time. He hadn't realized, as they trudged through the snow after the wreck of the Rolls, how deeply it would effect him. He had spent the extra time in his room trying to understand why the event had disturbed him so much. At last he concluded that the grinding of the metal on the ground reminded him of the great armored tanks they had used at Ypers. An odd reaction, he felt, but all the more interesting because of it.
Now, apparently the men were to discuss business. Miles decided that, even though he was relatively uninterested, he really should give some slight thought to the wealth he had inherited.
He smiled as he joined the men. "Hello, Emerson, I'm glad you invited me to this little get together."
He nodded to Oswald and Dessard, "How do you do? I'm Miles Secord, of the Long Island Secords. I couldn't help but hear your mention of mines. What type of mining are you interested in, Major Dessard?"
"Diamonds." The Major's teeth flashed. "A nice little setup outside of Cape Town. Quite profitable, quite profitable indeed. And they're always looking for investors, bright young men looking for a profitable speculation. I got involved with the business before my discharge, when I was stationed on the Continent in His Majesty's service."
Wallace, strangely, looked discomforted. Then he rose to his feet. "Well, I have work to do. Enjoy your port, gentlemen, and join the ladies when you wish."
The Viscount smiled, as if the tense conversation from moments ago had never happened.
"Really!" Clifford began, "Wally works too much! It's Christmas Eve! Even the good lord took a day off, if I remember correctly..." He had withdrawn from his jacket a sleek silver case, and now he removed a black cigarette from within it. Fitting the thing into the end of a long, black cigarette holder, he leaned forward a bit and lit it with one of the many burning candles on the table.
Sitting back, he regarded the men around him with a devilish grin. Lifting the port, he swirled it a bit and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Finally his gaze settled on Reginald.
"I say, Staughton, you should pop down to one of my shops sometime..." he began earnestly, looking the man up and down with a (highly-magnified) trained eye. "Our tailors will fix you right up!" Then his countenance quickly became serious. "Or have you lost weight recently? That must be it! Smashing!" he added, before sipping the port.
"Not recently," said Reginald. "I got my tails before the War. That took a bit of weight off most of us. And sometimes something more too."
He looked across at Secord and Smyth, both - from their bearing - military men. And Secord's prestigious war record was well known. And there was something more too - in their eyes. He gave them a short nod.
Davyd returned the nod, understanding it instantly. Reginald, if his memory served him correctly. He made a mental note to speak to him, and also to the famed and esteemed Miles Secord, when the opportunity arose, then got back to his port.
"To be honest, Fenwick," said Reginald curtly, "I haven't bothered too much about clothes the last few years. Seeing ... men die ... horribly ... gives you a new perspective on things ... "
"Ah, yes... that really was some dreadful business," Clifford replied, thinking back on his years during the war. He took another pull from his cigarette...
He reached out a hand to the brandy decanter. "I don't remember, Fenwick," he said. "Which regiment were you with?"
"Hmm?" Clifford reacted, pulled back to the here and now. "Oh, my! I'm afraid the closest I came was having a dietary regimen! My eyes being what they are, I'd have been useless... probably more use to the enemy!" he tittered. "My time actually was spent working in the textile factories... the looms, doing some tailor work... we made you soldiers look so dashing!"
With this he tossed back the remainder of his port, and eyed the brandy decanter...
Secord smiled. "It sounds like you had a pretty fine position. I'm afraid though, all your fine work was hidden for the most part under mud and blood. There aren't many uniforms that look too dashing under those conditions." He considered a moment, "But after we got hosed off, and went to Paris...well, dashing went pretty well with the ladies. My thanks for your fine efforts."
Dessard just snorted disdainfully at Secord's compliment to the countling.
Standing, Clifford laughed, "Ah, think nothing of it, my good man! We all do what we can, don't we? Ha ha..." Taking another pull off of his cig holder, Clifford made his way down the table and poured a generous helping of brandy into his snifter. Lifting it for inspection, he asked the group at large, "I say! Did you fellows see the exhibition in Paris this year? Amazing! Who knew the Chechoslovaks had it in them! Perfectly beautiful pieces!"
"Is that some of this modern stuff?" asked Oswald eagerly. "I'm afraid I ain't much for all that. I like a jolly painting of a horse. We've got some ripping paintings of hunts at home that m'grandfather bought. I think they're frightfully topping. Although I doubt the horses would clear the hedges quite like that.
"And m'uncle's got a fine collection of sporting prints too - although some of those are quite for public display, if you know what I mean!"
Aware that he might have said something a bit risque, Oswald lapsed back into bashful silence.
Davyd Smyth rose to his feet, glad to finally be free of the pointless conversation. "Seems I've quite a bit of headway to make up for with the ladies this evening ... " Lighting a new cigarette, he left the room.
After they had been upstairs to refresh themselves, the ladies gradually returned in ones and twos. Anja entered the drawing the living room, still with Lucinda. She looked a little put out not to be the first there - as Jane Blume was sitting on the sofa.
"Ah, there you are," she said. Have you had some coffee? Some liqueurs?"
Gradually, all the ladies gathered ... Hermione, unexpectedly, entered the room through the morning room. Anja looked at her in surprise.
"You used the back stairs?"
"Yes," said Hermione. "I heard someone go past my room in that direction just after we reached our rooms ... I thought it was a short cut."
Anja shrugged. "Perhaps. But it is hardly the done thing."
"Where is my purse?" she said suddenly. "I must have forgotten it."
She turned, with a smile, to Hermione. "Dearrrrr Miss Smithson, will you go to the dining rrrroom and retrieve it?"
"Ohhhh!" said Lucinda. "I wouldn't like to do that ... go into the room with all those men and their port and their wild stories!"
Anja shrugged, sipping at her glass of green chartreuse.
"What matter? She's just a fan ... one of those ghastly harrrrrpies that will not leave me alone."
"Hush, Anja darling!" protested Lucinda, laughing. "She might hear you."
"A sensitive young woman," Anna pronounced. "Surely, Miss Ericksson, you do not denigrate those who appreciate you?"
"Oh Anja is always perfectly horrid about her fans!" cried Lucinda. "One day, Anja, one of them will find out what you really think of them ... and then there will be trouble! What if one of them were to talk to the papers?"
Shortly afterwards, Wallace Emerson appeared, and greeted the ladies politely.
"Are you staying with us, darrrrrling?" asked Anja in a slightly bored voice.
He shook his head. "No, Anja. I have important work still to do. So if you'll excuse me, ladies ... No, no, Miss Mulchop. You can relax tonight. Your duties start tomorrow."
He bowed politely, and walked through in the direction of the library.
Anja shrugged. "Always it is worrrrk, worrrrk, worrrrk."
Soon after that, the other gentlemen started to appear. Firstly, there was Davyd Smyth, who seated himself next to Jane, then the other gentlemen drifted in.
When Davyd entered the drawing room and saw Jane sitting there, he very nearly walked back out again. Quickly he calmed and composed himself. ~I've killed a hundred Germans on the battlefields and seen things that would make a civilian tremble for a fortnight; surely I can talk to a gorgeous blonde!~
"Hello there," he said, surprised at how steady his voice sounded. Sitting a respectful distance away from her, he offered his cigarette case. "Do you smoke? Or would you rather I didn't?"
"Oh, yes, thank-you! Be a darling, won't you, and light it for me..." She scooted over with no pretense of merely adjusting her seat. "So kind," she said leaning forward to take the flame.
"Ah..." she sighed. "How I love that first after-dinner fag."
She held the cigarette languidly in her left hand, reclining a bit in her seat, and regarding him through half-lowered lids. The end of her cigarette had been marked with her crimson lipstick so that it was almost as if the thing is burning at both ends.
"I'm Jane Blume," she offered. "What did I hear them call you again? I'm afraid I haven't got much of a memory for people..."
Skewered on the gaze of those amazing eyes, Davyd found that he was leaning forward slightly. "I'm S-Smyth, Davyd Smyth." He managed to tear his gaze away from hers just long enough to look at the lips, then back to the eyes again.
"I say, I've a great book with me that I've just finished reading. I most heartily recommend it. Perhaps I could run it up to your room tonight..."
She threw him an easy, confident smile. "I'm not much for reading," she admitted, "but perhaps we could find something to do-- if you came up."
She took a long drag from the cigarette, the crackle of burning tobacco barely audible in the silence. She turned her head and blew a pretty stream of smoke off to her left, while still gazing at him rather appraisingly out of the corner of her eye.
"Perhaps you could
bring a bottle. I fancy getting drunk tonight."
Hermione returned with the wrap and took a seat, and by now several of the gentlemen had joined them.
"Are we going to have the seance tonight?" demanded Lucinda eagerly. "I must say, I think it will be a perfect scream!"
"No tonight darrrrrling," responded Anja. "I daresay Madame Escuskiovna is tirrred after her so tedious jourrrney. Tomorrrow will be the perrrrfect day. I want my seance held her on Christmas Night."
"But perhaps," she added, "Madame Escuskiovna will play for us instead. I believe you have something of a rrrreputation as a pianist, Madame."
Brandon's ever-present smile slid to one side, suggesting (though not actually presenting) a sneer. "Indeed? Madame is a woman of many talents, then."
Madame Escuskiovna merely nodded, and moving to the piano, sorted through the music stored inside the piano bench. Selecting the Rachmaninoff Prelude in C-Sharp Minor, she sat down at the instrument and began to play with considerable verve.
Davyd silently counted himself out of the seance; if everyone he'd known decided to speak to him from the other side he'd be up all night. He was quite surprised that so many people were happy to entertain such foolishness, but to each their own...
At the mention of music, he looked at Jane with a smile. "The food of love. I never realised how hungry I was..."
Last of the gentlemen to arrive was Oswald Skeffington-Nottle.
"I say," he said. "There's a bally tray in the morning room with a ruddy great teapot on it!"
"Ach!" said Anja in annoyance. "It is this so healthy Bengers! I must take it to him at once!"
"Why, Anja, it will be cold now!" protested Lucinda, laughing. "And Madame Escuskiovna's tea!"
"The tisane will be hot," replied Anja. "It was in the new Stay-Warm pot that Wallace loves so dear. And Bengers .. does the temperature of slimy sludge matter?"
So saying, she got up and walked into the morning room. A moment later she returned, carrying the tray. She waved away offers of help.
"No, no, I can manage. If Wally is to be disturbed once he has started work, it is best that I do it."
And so saying, she disappeared through the door towards the library, the gorgeous beading of her headdress sparkling in the light.
For ten minutes, all was calm (apart, possibly from the music) and then suddenly a piercing scream rang out. And another.
A woman's voice - calling out in mortal agony.
And then a man's voice, hoarse and anguished.
"Help me! For God's sake, help me!"
It was Wallace Emerson's voice ... and it came from the library.
End of Chapter 4
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