“We’re not supposed to be mentioning it, old girl.” He had turned pink. “But if I’m seen as being in service to my country, then I’m not going to object. I’m pleased to meet you, my lady. And you, Your Highness.” He nodded to Zou Zou. “We were coming down to London anyway and I saw this advertised in the newspaper so I thought it would be a treat for the wife—a chance to show off the new frock she got in Paris.”

  “It looks very stylish,” I said politely.

  It was her turn to blush. “I told Percy it was an extravagance to spend that much on a dress, but he said that we’ve got the brass so why not. And now I’ve got the chance to wear it. But yours looks lovely, Your Highness.” She gushed as she indicated Zou Zou’s frock, stunning as always in midnight blue.

  “Do call me Zou Zou. Everyone does,” she said with that charm that melted everyone she met.

  Now Mrs. Crump went really pink. “Zou Zou. Fancy that. Well, all right, Your Highness.”

  Sir Mordred clapped his hands, making us look up. “May I say welcome to my humble abode and to what promises to be an exceptional evening. For those who have not met me yet, I am Mordred Mortimer. This is my son, Edwin, and over here is my daughter, Sylvia, and her husband, Stanley.”

  I glanced to where he was pointing and saw a couple standing off to one side. They did not appear to be at ease with the situation. She had a discontented, defiant look on her face, and his eyes were darting around nervously. But they managed a weak smile.

  “And may I introduce my neighbors,” Sir Mordred went on. “Lord and Lady Mountjoy, Sir Hubert Anstruther and the princess Zamanska, Lady Georgiana and Mr. O’Mara.” He paused, then added, “You see I live in a frightfully well-connected area. “

  “You’ve omitted us,” Mrs. Bancroft said.

  “Oh, my apologies,” Sir Mordred replied. “So I have. Colonel and Mrs. Bancroft also live in the neighborhood. Although they were formerly in India. But not the same part as my parents.”

  “Big place, India,” the colonel said.

  “I’m expecting my publisher to join us and he’ll be bringing some more distinguished people with him. Edwin, go round to the front of the house to wait for them. Go on. Off you go.”

  Edwin obeyed. We exchanged polite conversation as we sipped champagne. Then we looked up as more guests arrived.

  “Oh good. This must be them now,” Sir Mordred said. Then he frowned. “I have no idea who this is.”

  A big man with the ruddy outdoor complexion of a farmer was coming toward us, followed by a petite and shy-looking woman. Sir Mordred stepped forward. “Good evening,” he said. “And you must be…” He held out a hand.

  “Don’t you recognize me, old chap?” the man said in a hearty voice. He gave a loud laugh. “Well, I suppose it has been almost forty years, and I don’t exactly recognize you either.” He clapped Sir Mordred on the shoulder. “It’s Tubby, old chap. Tubby Halliday. I know it’s been a while since we played on the rugby team together at Harrow. You were a damned useful fly half, I remember.”

  “Oh, good God. Tubby Halliday,” Sir Mordred shook his head in disbelief, making that silver hair sway with a life of its own.

  “So you do remember. Jolly good! I wrote to you after I saw the article on you in the Daily Express. I said to Mildred, ‘It says the chap went to Harrow and he has to be about the same age as me. So it has to be Shrimpy Mortimer. He was in Druries House with me.’ ”

  “Tubby Halliday,” Sir Mordred repeated. “Druries House. Well, that takes me back. You’re right. I would not have recognized you, apart from the girth.”

  Tubby patted his impressive paunch and chuckled. “She puts me on a diet from time to time. Doesn’t do any good. The quack tells me I have to watch what I eat or the old heart won’t like it, but I enjoy my food too much. You only live once, that’s what I say.” He guffawed again and glanced at his wife, who gave him a disapproving frown. He turned back to Sir Mordred. “I can’t say you’ve got a middle-age spread. You always were a skinny little thing. You’ve grown taller since, and that hair, old chap. Nothing like that dark mop you used to have. Went gray early, did you? Don’t tell me it’s dyed?” He laughed again. “I suppose writers have to look the part, don’t they?”

  When Sir Mordred didn’t reply he went on. “When you didn’t answer my letter I said to Mildred, ‘It must have got lost in the post. They are so dashed inefficient these days,’ and we decided to come to this do of yours to see if I’d got it right and you really were the Mortimer who was in my dorm. And by God, you are!”

  Sir Mordred nodded, giving what seemed like a forced smile.

  “But don’t tell me Mordred was your real name. Wasn’t it something ordinary like Billy?”

  “Robert,” Sir Mordred confessed. “Although I was gifted with Shrimpy as soon as I went to school, of course. I found there had been a Mordred in the family, so it made the perfect nom de plume.”

  “Well, I never.” Tubby shook his head. “We only knew you as Shrimpy, didn’t we? I can’t tell you how glad I am to have met you again. We don’t live that far away. Across the border in Hampshire, you know. I farm several hundred acres. Never thought I’d wind up as a farmer, but I inherited the estate and, well, someone has to run it. And I’m the local magistrate, of course. Keeps me busy. Out of Mildred’s hair, eh, old thing?” And he put an arm around her slight shoulders.

  “Do have some champagne,” Sir Mordred said, rather stiffly. “And the food is quite good. We’ve got a French chef for the occasion.”

  “Don’t know if we’re big fans of foreign food,” Tubby said. “Good plain English fare is enough for us, eh, Mildred?”

  I noticed she never said a word but nodded each time she was addressed. Champagne was handed to them.

  “We completely lost touch with you after school,” Tubby said as he drained his glass rapidly and looked around for a second one. “Wondered where you were. I heard you went abroad. Was that right? Back to India? You did come from India, didn’t you?”

  “I did. But actually I did what sons of the junior branch who are not going to inherit anything do. I went into the army right after school and was sent out to South Africa during the Boer War.”

  “That must have been a lark,” Tubby said. “Having those Zulus charging at you with their spears while you mowed them down with your guns.”

  “They were damned brave,” Sir Mordred said sharply. “Quite fearless, actually. Good fighters, and of course there were many more of them, which made it quite an even playing field.”

  “And what about the Afrikaners? You had to fight them too, did you? That can’t have been too hard. A lot of bloody peasants waving their pitchforks at you. Not a trained fighter among them.”

  “I felt quite badly, if you want to know the truth,” Sir Mordred said. “It was their country after all. They were there first.”

  “But we won, that’s the main thing,” Tubby said.

  “War is never pleasant. It left me feeling quite disillusioned. I had no wish to return to England with my regiment after it was over. I’d had enough of army life.”

  “Don’t tell me you deserted?”

  “Oh no. All quite legit. I’d done my seven years by then.”

  “So where did you go?”

  “I stayed on in South Africa for a while,” Sir Mordred said. “I rather liked the wide-open spaces. And then I found I’d inherited this title and the estate that went with it, so I returned here.”

  “Lucky for you. I didn’t realize you had a title in the family.”

  “Neither did I,” Sir Mordred said. “It turns out he was a third cousin I’d never met. Quite a surprise when I got the letter from the solicitor, I can tell you.”

  “And when did you start writing books? Once you became lord of the manor? Mildred loves them, don’t you, old thing? The scarier the better.”

  Mildred nodded again.

  “I’d always dreamed of being a writer, toying with writing since I left school,” Sir Mordred said. “Actually I’d written poetry before that.”

  “You sly dog.” Tubby gave that big laugh again. “I don’t remember you writing poetry at school.”

  “It’s not the sort of thing one broadcasts to other boys, is it?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Were you always fascinated by macabre topics, Sir Mordred?” Zou Zou asked, bringing us into this conversation.

  “Not really. I think it was the war, seeing witch doctors in action and the way the chaps there believe in the whole spirit realm. I started to look into it. And then the desert when we were prospecting—the sun, the wind, the sand, and the remoteness of it. It plays with the imagination, you know. I got the idea for my first book on the passage back to England and the rest is history, as they say.”

  “Made a packet of money at it, I see.” Tubby nodded as he looked around the grounds. “Nice spread you’ve got here. But this wasn’t the house you inherited?”

  “Good God, no. That’s in Northumberland. I have it rented out to a tenant these days. I prefer living closer to London and my publisher.”

  “Well, now we’ve hooked up again, we must get together with the other chaps from the rugby team,” Tubby said. “You’ll come to the next Old Harrovian dinner, won’t you? Sitwell-Smythe and Tomlinson would be tickled pink to meet you again. And remember Buffer Benson? Good old Buffer. He’s now an MP, of course. Sir Henry Benson. Pompous as hell. But he was asking about you only the last time we met. Happy days at school, eh?”

  “Not particularly for me,” Sir Mordred said. “I was far from home and my family. I felt a bit lost, to tell the truth.”

  “You never showed it. You were a good sport in those days. Rugger. Cricket. Midnight feasts.”

  “Father,” Edwin called, making Tubby break off from his happy memories. “Sorry for interrupting, but I think your publisher has arrived.”

  A group of people had just come around the side of the building. At the front was a balding, serious-looking man with horn-rimmed spectacles and a worried look on his face, and behind him a most glamorous and good-looking couple. I had never been to the theater much, but I thought I recognized them from magazines. And behind them a more ordinary-looking older couple who had a healthy outdoor look to them.

  “Mordred, old man. Good to see you,” said the first of the group, obviously the publisher.

  “Phillip. Good to see you too. I see you’ve brought a whole charabanc-full with you.”

  “As requested, old chap. May I present Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Olivier.”

  The gorgeous dark-haired man came forward. “How do you do?” he said in a voice to match his appearance. “My wife, Jill.”

  The equally gorgeous woman gave a charming smile and shook Sir Mordred’s hand. “How lovely to meet you. We adore your books, don’t we, Larry?”

  “If I ever get time to read something that’s not a script I have to learn,” Laurence said. “But I have to admit I’m intrigued about the possibility of playing a vampire, if we film your book.”

  “You’d be perfect,” Sir Mordred said. “Let’s talk about it over dinner, but first I must greet these other new arrivals. Please have some champagne, and the canapés are quite delicious.” He turned to the publisher as he took another couple by the arm and ushered them forward. “Not more film stars, Phil?”

  “No, old boy. But I bring you a couple of celebrities. This is the world-renowned archeologist, Max Mallowan. And his wife is another of my clients. I don’t know if you two have ever met. Her name is Agatha Christie. Agatha, come and say hello to a fellow scribbler.”

  And the simply dressed woman moved toward us. “How do you do?” she said in a deep, rich voice.

  Chapter 13

  July 25

  At Blackheart Manor

  All going swimmingly so far, although Sir Mordred seems a little out of sorts. I rather suspect he didn’t expect his publisher to bring a fellow writer. Her name is Agatha Christie and it seems that most of the company have read her books. Her husband is jolly interesting too. He has conducted digs all over Mesopotamia.

  Sir Mordred gave a formal little bow, then shook Mrs. Mallowan’s hand. “I’ve heard of you, of course. Delighted to meet you. What is it you write again?”

  “She writes crime novels, just like you, old boy,” the publisher said.

  “Only my murders are not quite as dark and violent,” Agatha Christie replied calmly. “Not a demonic possession in sight. Nor a tortured serial killer. Or a haunted mansion.”

  “But you look like far too nice a lady to be writing any sort of crime,” Sir Mordred said, attempting to be gallant.

  She gave a little smile. “I’ve always found that the most innocent-looking people are capable of the cleverest crimes, haven’t you? That’s why our novels are so important. In real life they probably get away with murder most of the time. We have a chance for justice.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying,” Sir Mordred said, grabbing a passing tray and handing her a glass of champagne. “In real life you can kill with the most ordinary of substances and nobody ever suspects.”

  “That’s why we have to have our clever sleuths,” Agatha said. “The quiet ones. The observers.”

  “I like my detectives to be rather flamboyant,” Sir Mordred said. “Especially the one who is a vampire.”

  “Quite.” Agatha nodded pleasantly, but I thought she had put him in his place rather well. He obviously hadn’t enjoyed the encounter either. As they moved into the crowd Sir Mordred sidled up to his publisher. “Whatever did you want to bring her for?” he hissed. “Surely one crime writer is enough for this gathering. Are you trying to steal my thunder?”

  “Not at all, old chap,” the publisher replied. “They happened to be visiting the office and mentioned that they were staying with friends in the next village over from this place. I said I was coming to see you and she expressed interest in your poison garden. So I could hardly say no.”

  “I would have.” Sir Mordred moved away from him. He looked around. “We all seem to be assembled, I see. Why don’t we take our tour of the grounds. Edwin, Sylvia? Where are my assistant tour guides?”

  His gaze fell upon his daughter, who looked as if she was in the process of creeping back to the house. “Where do you think you’re sneaking off to? Come on. Buck up.”

  “You don’t need us, Daddy. Surely you only want one center of attention today?”

  Sir Mordred eyed her coldly. “You’re supposed to be the hostess here. Look lively and take a group of folk around the kitchen garden.” He walked over to her and took her arm. “You’re my daughter. I expect you to behave like it,” he said in a low voice.

  She shrugged him off.

  “You hardly notice my existence for the rest of the year,” Sylvia said. “You don’t ever treat me like a daughter, and now suddenly you want me to pretend I live at this monstrous place and we’re one big happy family.”

  Sir Mordred frowned. “There’s gratitude for you. The best schooling. A coming-out party and now this.” There was an icy silence. Then he said, “Suit yourself, then. But don’t come running to me next time that pathetic husband of yours has another business failure.”

  “You wouldn’t help out last time,” she said. “Why should I expect anything different?”

  And she broke away from the group, stalking off toward the house.

  “Young girls. So temperamental.” Sir Mordred turned to give the group an embarrassed smile. “I blame that husband of hers. Not the right type of person. Way too common. I warned her. She’ll regret it.” He clapped his hands. “Right. Edwin. Lead on. You take some of the group to the kitchen garden first so there won’t be too many of us in one spot at a time.”

  Edwin looked very uncomfortable after the unpleasant scene. I nodded to Darcy. “Come on, Edwin,” I said. “You can be our tour guide.”

  Darcy followed, as did Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan, Zou Zou, Sir Hubert, and his friend the explorer. Those two were in deep conversation and lagged behind all the time, making us wait for them to catch up.

  “Do buck up, Hubie darling,” Zou Zou said.

  So he was now “Hubie darling,” was he? She liked to move fast.

  I found myself at the front with Edwin.

  “She won’t hear the last of this,” Edwin said as Sir Mordred’s group moved off in a different direction. “My father does not take kindly to people who oppose him. Unfortunately he can’t cut off her allowance. That was left to her by our mother. She was the rich one.”

  “You also get an allowance from her, do you?” Darcy asked.

  “We were both left a small allowance, but I don’t inherit the bulk of the fortune from her until I’m twenty-five. Neither does Sylvia. A stupid condition of her will, influenced, I suspect, by my father. I can’t wait. A penniless position is not one I enjoy.”

  “Your mother was American, I believe,” Darcy said.

  “She was. The proverbial American heiress come to find herself a title in exchange for a fortune. I don’t think there was ever much love involved. In fact I’ve always wondered…” He broke off, staring at his father’s back. His father was now opening the gate to the poison garden.

  “She died rather suddenly,” Edwin said. “It was quite a shock.” He glanced back at the group following him. “Right, if you’d all come this way. I’ll show you what a currant bush looks like. And an artichoke if you’re very good.”

  He strode on ahead, leaving me wondering about what he had said. Was he hinting that he suspected his father had something to do with his mother’s death? I glanced at Darcy but he seemed not to have noticed, chatting now with the archeologist, Mr. Mallowan.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit Mesopotamia,” I heard him say.