Free Mad About the Boy? by Dolores Gordon-Smith

‘You deliberately provoked him. How could you?’
    â€˜What the devil’s a Churny whatever it was?’ demanded Sir Philip.
    â€˜They were thugs,’ said Smith-Fennimore quietly. ‘Thugs and murderers.’
    Charnock spared him a glance of lazy unconcern. He didn’t bother to look at his sister. ‘They were enthusiastic supporters of the Tsar. Perhaps a bit over-enthusiastic at times. I had a fancy to find out which side he was on and I did. It made him see red, in every sense of the word.’ He glanced at his watch and raised his voice so he could be clearly heard, revelling in being the centre of attention. ‘How early it still is. Far too long to wait for lunch. I’m going to the pub to celebrate. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since I came here.’ His eyes flicked over to Lord Lyvenden. ‘You’ve got some more interesting associates than I gave you credit for. How come you’re on visiting terms with a Bolshie?’
    â€˜A Bolshevik!’ exploded Sir Philip. ‘Lyvenden, what the devil’s going on?’
    Lyvenden, who had been sagging quietly in a corner, bristled. Haldean caught Stanton’s eye. Lyvenden was brave enough now any danger was past. ‘The Bolsheviks are no friends of mine, Rivers. I think I may say without fear of contradiction –’ he was gaining confidence with every word he spoke – ‘that you have known me long enough to concur with that remark. But any commercial enterprise, my dear fellow, especially one as fraught with difficulties as mine, renders one liable to contact with some very strange company indeed.’ He was nearly back to his old verbose self. ‘It would be foolishly indiscreet of me to say more, as the affair is not mine to discuss. What I can say is that the Government are fully cognizant of the man who has so unfortunately intruded on the peace of this Sabbath morning and see eye to eye with me in my treatment of the matter. I have their complete confidence, Rivers, I am happy to say.’ The cringing, frightened figure of a few moments ago had vanished as if he had never been. ‘Complete confidence.’
    Haldean was glad to see that his uncle, although soothed, wasn’t entirely won over.
    â€˜The Government agree with you?’ said Sir Philip, incredulously. His expression left no one in any doubt as to his opinion of the Government. ‘Well, all I can say,’ he added, ‘is that if being in business means that you have to deal with that sort of gentry, thank God I’m not in business.’
    Lunch was a strained meal, which, after the tragedy of the night before and the melodrama of the morning, was hardly a surprise. As was usual in the summer months, coffee was served on the terrace afterwards, where things were more relaxed but far from smooth.
    Haldean felt a stab of sympathy for his aunt, who was trying to make conversation against the odds. Lord Lyvenden still had the jumps from his fright that morning (and he had been very badly frightened – what
had
that bloke wanted?), his wife, when she spoke at all, was bitterly sardonic, Mrs Strachan (was she Lyvenden’s mistress?) gushed, Malcolm Smith-Fennimore was wrapped in introspection, as, uncharacteristically, were the two Robiceux girls, and as for Isabelle . . . Well, at that moment he could have happily taken a sandbag to Isabelle.
    For Isabelle was being very, very nice to Arthur, and he, poor fool, was drinking it in. What the hell was she trying to do to him?
Leave him alone,
he begged, trying to indicate his thoughts with his expression, but Isabelle wouldn’t switch it off. She was being breathtakingly pleasant. Smith-Fennimore looked at the pair of them with a puzzled frown and, under the guise of refilling his coffee cup, moved closer. Isabelle suddenly became aware of him and faltered, before carrying on her conversation with Arthur, her glance flickering between the two