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Authors: Catriona McPherson
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tale as his chest, still as a stone. He was dead.
Chapter Three
Buttercup and Daisy might, I am sure, have put poor Robert Dudgeon callously out of their minds and had a perfectly pleasant evening; certainly they kept lapsing out of assumed solemnity and beginning to giggle over old memories of school until a glance at Cadwallader sobered them again. For Cadwallader, awash with guilt, sat with arms on knees, hands hanging down, staring at the floor. Every so often he would raise his head, catch someone’s eye and heave a great sigh before looking down again, until one began to wish he were more like the husbands one was used to, who at least would be sighing and hanging their heads all alone in their library. But then I should be the cold spoon in the souffle, for I did not feel quite as unperturbed as the other two at the thought of Robert Dudgeon’s death. I alone had spoken to the man for one thing and I had played my small part in persuading him to spend what transpired to be his last day in life doing something he very clearly did not want to do. So I could understand Cadwallader’s feeling awkward, but he was wallowing rather.
‘I’ll never forgive myself,’ he said for the dozenth time. Daisy broke off in the middle of a story and composed her face, hardly sighing at all. Buttercup had no such scruples, but issued a moan that I hoped was partly in jest, for one should not be able to summon such scorn for a husband of six months’ standing.
‘You have nothing to reproach yourself with,’ I said, ignoring the memory of his heavy-handed blustering the evening before. Cadwallader rolled his eyes at me.
‘He knew,’ he said simply.
‘Don’t be a goose, darling,’ said Buttercup. ‘How could he have known?’
‘Search me,’ said Cadwallader. ‘But he did. Look how hard he tried not to do it. And I made him. And now he’s dead.’
‘But Cad,’ I said gently, ‘he didn’t die of being the Burry Man. We don’t even know why he did die yet, do we? And he’s done it for twenty-five years without coming to any harm, so –’
‘Exactly!’ said Cadwallader. ‘All the more reason we should have taken him seriously when he put his foot down this year. He knew.’
‘Knew what?’ said Daisy, crossly. She was tugging at her fox fur and hungrily eyeing the drinks tray. Cadwallader had come straight into the Great Hall and we had followed him, expecting a decent little interlude of serious thought and quiet remarks – five minutes maybe – and then a leisurely bath and a large cocktail, but we had been sitting around the edges of the table for forty minutes now, marooned by Cadwallader’s gloom, and it was getting rather irritating. Even when my own father died, my mother changed in time for dinner.
‘Daisy does have a point,’ I said. ‘What could Mr Dudgeon possibly have known? If it was a heart attack or an aneurysm, which it must have been, then it came out of the blue. And if he had known that his heart was weak or whatever, he would have told us last night and he wouldn’t have climbed that wretched pole.’
This seemed unanswerable and Cadwallader changed tack.
‘ I should have known,’ he said. Daisy and Buttercup both groaned.
‘Now you’re just being silly,’ I told him.
‘At least, I should have known better,’ said Cadwallader, and this was said in such a small sad voice that no one groaned or moaned or sighed at all and my heart went out to him. It was all new, I supposed, this being in charge of a staff, and although Dudgeon’s death could not possibly have had anything to do with the Burry Man it was an unfortunate sequence of events to occur so early in Cad’s stewardship of the estate.
He was staring at his feet again. Daisy tapped her watch and mimed eating and then below us, startlingly loud, we heard a dull clanking sound.
‘Front door bell,’ said Buttercup. ‘Melodious, isn’t it?’
‘I bet that’s the police,’ said Cadwallader.
The scrape of
Chapter Three
Buttercup and Daisy might, I am sure, have put poor Robert Dudgeon callously out of their minds and had a perfectly pleasant evening; certainly they kept lapsing out of assumed solemnity and beginning to giggle over old memories of school until a glance at Cadwallader sobered them again. For Cadwallader, awash with guilt, sat with arms on knees, hands hanging down, staring at the floor. Every so often he would raise his head, catch someone’s eye and heave a great sigh before looking down again, until one began to wish he were more like the husbands one was used to, who at least would be sighing and hanging their heads all alone in their library. But then I should be the cold spoon in the souffle, for I did not feel quite as unperturbed as the other two at the thought of Robert Dudgeon’s death. I alone had spoken to the man for one thing and I had played my small part in persuading him to spend what transpired to be his last day in life doing something he very clearly did not want to do. So I could understand Cadwallader’s feeling awkward, but he was wallowing rather.
‘I’ll never forgive myself,’ he said for the dozenth time. Daisy broke off in the middle of a story and composed her face, hardly sighing at all. Buttercup had no such scruples, but issued a moan that I hoped was partly in jest, for one should not be able to summon such scorn for a husband of six months’ standing.
‘You have nothing to reproach yourself with,’ I said, ignoring the memory of his heavy-handed blustering the evening before. Cadwallader rolled his eyes at me.
‘He knew,’ he said simply.
‘Don’t be a goose, darling,’ said Buttercup. ‘How could he have known?’
‘Search me,’ said Cadwallader. ‘But he did. Look how hard he tried not to do it. And I made him. And now he’s dead.’
‘But Cad,’ I said gently, ‘he didn’t die of being the Burry Man. We don’t even know why he did die yet, do we? And he’s done it for twenty-five years without coming to any harm, so –’
‘Exactly!’ said Cadwallader. ‘All the more reason we should have taken him seriously when he put his foot down this year. He knew.’
‘Knew what?’ said Daisy, crossly. She was tugging at her fox fur and hungrily eyeing the drinks tray. Cadwallader had come straight into the Great Hall and we had followed him, expecting a decent little interlude of serious thought and quiet remarks – five minutes maybe – and then a leisurely bath and a large cocktail, but we had been sitting around the edges of the table for forty minutes now, marooned by Cadwallader’s gloom, and it was getting rather irritating. Even when my own father died, my mother changed in time for dinner.
‘Daisy does have a point,’ I said. ‘What could Mr Dudgeon possibly have known? If it was a heart attack or an aneurysm, which it must have been, then it came out of the blue. And if he had known that his heart was weak or whatever, he would have told us last night and he wouldn’t have climbed that wretched pole.’
This seemed unanswerable and Cadwallader changed tack.
‘ I should have known,’ he said. Daisy and Buttercup both groaned.
‘Now you’re just being silly,’ I told him.
‘At least, I should have known better,’ said Cadwallader, and this was said in such a small sad voice that no one groaned or moaned or sighed at all and my heart went out to him. It was all new, I supposed, this being in charge of a staff, and although Dudgeon’s death could not possibly have had anything to do with the Burry Man it was an unfortunate sequence of events to occur so early in Cad’s stewardship of the estate.
He was staring at his feet again. Daisy tapped her watch and mimed eating and then below us, startlingly loud, we heard a dull clanking sound.
‘Front door bell,’ said Buttercup. ‘Melodious, isn’t it?’
‘I bet that’s the police,’ said Cadwallader.
The scrape of
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