Free Stately Homicide by S. T. Haymon

‘I’m going to let you into a secret. Mr Winter’s not the only one to know some Latin! Just in case there are some of you who feel, like him, that I’m planning to lower the tone of Bullen Hall – to make it, shall we say, a bit vulgar – if there are any who think that, let me say at once that you’re absolutely right! Because – watch for it, here comes the classical bit – vulgus in Latin means the crowd, the multitude – in other words, all the people who ought to be flocking to Bullen Hall and, instead, are staying away in their thousands. A little judicious vulgarity, so far from spoiling Bullen, will be like opening a window in a stuffy room, and letting in some much-needed fresh air. There!’ Shelden pushed a wayward lock from his forehead. ‘I’ve said it while I still have enough of that gorgeous wine in me to give me courage. Nothing’s going to happen in a hurry, I promise you that. There’ll be no one breathing down your necks. Most of the time, you’ll be glad to hear, you won’t even know I exist. Wearing my other hat, as you may or may not know, I’m a writer. Francis isn’t the only one at Bullen with literary plans, whatever comes of them. Miss Appleyard has done me the enormous honour of commissioning me to write a biography of Appleyard of Hungary, the first, full-length portrait, warts and all, of one of the heroes of our time. The tremendously exciting thing is that Miss Appleyard has turned over to me, with unfettered discretion to make what use of them I will, all the family papers, private and personal, relating to her brother. It’s the kind of opportunity any biographer would give his eye-teeth for, and all I can say is that I hope most fervently that the finished work will justify the great trust she has placed in me.’
    There was quite a lot of clapping when it was clear that the speech was really over, though exactly what people were applauding was less clear. His pretty blue eyes, as likely as not, thought Jurnet, who had long ago tumbled to the fact that speeches which went on for more than two minutes, so far from imparting information, actually sucked it out of the atmosphere like some linguistic vacuum cleaner, leaving its listeners, if anything, more ignorant than before.
    Francis Coryton, in a puzzled kind of way, inquired of the room at large: ‘What did he mean, “Whatever comes of them”?’

Chapter Eight
    Chad Shelden returned to the settee to find that the Hungarian, Ferenc Szanto, had taken his place, and was deep in conversation with Elena Appleyard.
    The latter greeted the new curator’s return with: ‘I’ve been telling Ferenc that he’s to be your translator, when it comes to anything in Magyar.’
    â€˜But that’s marvellous! I’ll try not to be too much of a nuisance. Though, of course, Mr Szanto, quite apart from that, I’ll be pumping you for your own personal memories of Laz Appleyard.’
    â€˜Ah!’ returned the Hungarian, who appeared fairly impervious to the new curator’s charms. ‘Memories, is it, you want? I thought, from what you said just now about warts and all, that what you wanted was the truth.’
    Shelden, looking startled but wary, protested: ‘But of course! Your memories of what really happened.’
    The Hungarian shook his head in a parody of astonishment.
    â€˜This from a writer of biography? To equate what happened with the memory of what happened? Elena, you sure you hired the right guy?’
    Still smiling, if with a little less than his usual eagerness to please, Chad Shelden said: ‘I think you can take it I’ve had enough experience to make a proper allowance for the fact that any description of a person or an event is inevitably filtered through the mind and personality of the observer. Besides, I warn you –’ back to the playfulness which normally served him so well –