‘Please call me Gareth,’ he said. Her perfume wasn’t your off-the-shelf Boots brands, he thought idly, and he guessed the bangle studded through with shining white stones was not costume jewellery.
‘Gareth,’ she echoed. ‘Gareth it is. Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Helen Lambert-Chide.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. Daughter? Granddaughter?’
‘Neither. I am David Lambert-Chide’s wife,’ she said, smiling at his discomfort.
25
He was guided by Helen Lambert-Chide down the staircase and eventually taken into a spacious though comfortable-looking room. It had its fair share of opulence — antiques, wood panels, crazily long brocaded curtains closed against the dark outside; a mammoth stone fireplace with logs crackling and spitting in a black iron grate. It had all these things and yet somehow did not feel in the least threatening. There was, surprisingly, plenty of contemporary works on display, from bronzes to paintings, ceramics to stone carving. The room was far less starchy or intimidating than the grand entrance hallway, he thought.
As they entered the room a man rose slowly from his chair. Gareth’s first impressions of David Lambert-Chide were mixed. At first glance he looked every bit as old as his ninety-odd years said he should; his frame was thin, bent and frail, supported by an ebony walking stick topped off with a silver knob; he had a waxen face heavily carved by lines and creased into folds by the years from which pale watery eyes peered; he had no hair save a prickling of white at the top of his ears, and no discernable lips to speak of. When he held his hand out to shake Gareth’s he noticed how skeletal it was, with veins standing out like thin threads of blue wire.
But his grip was unexpectedly firm and he pumped Gareth’s hand up and down with energy.
‘Good evening, Mr Davies,’ he said, the voice not that of a frail old man at all. His eyes also lit up when he smiled and his face took on an altogether more youthful, timeless look. ‘I’m so glad you could come to Gattenby House. You have met my wife, of course,’ he said as she came to his side. He snaked a spindly arm around her slender waist. ‘Take a seat, Mr Davies,’ he said. ‘We must talk. I find it builds an appetite.’
‘I will leave you to it then,’ said Helen, once more passing Gareth a luscious smile before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
‘Please call me Gareth,’ he said, taking a seat opposite him. He watched as the old man lowered himself gently into his own chair. It seemed there was pain in his knees; he gave a glimmer of a grimace. It soon passed.
‘And please call me David,’ he insisted. He offered Gareth a drink from a range of spirits laid out on a table by his side. ‘I can recommend the Highland malt,’ he said, pouring out two glasses without waiting for a response. He handed over the glass. Gareth didn’t argue.
‘Firstly, I’d like to thank you for finding the brooch.’ He sat back, the hand holding the glass shaking a little.
‘I can’t really take any credit for it. It sort of fell into my possession, so to speak. You obviously value it very much.’
‘I value it more than you appreciate. ‘Did you think my wife attractive?’ he asked out of the blue.
The question took him very much by surprise. ‘Why yes, she’s a very attractive woman.’
‘My fourth,’ he said, his face dropping serious for a moment. ‘Possibly my last. But who knows?’ He drained his glass. ‘You’re not married, Gareth?’
‘Is it that obvious? You’re right, I live on my own.’
‘Escaping a wife or escaping marriage altogether?’
‘Not given it much thought,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, marriage is an almost outdated institution these days, according to some. It doesn’t guarantee you love.’
‘Or trust,’ he said. ‘A word of advice, Gareth; never trust a woman. Take it from a man with long experience of them.’ The face was deadpan. Gareth couldn’t make out what was going on behind those pale eyes. Then he smiled, largely Gareth guessed, at his bemused reaction to the bald statement. ‘Do you think my wife too young for me?’ he asked. Again the question came from left of field.
‘That’s not for me to say,’ he returned guardedly. ‘It’s no business of mine.’
‘But you think it nevertheless. I am well over ninety years of age, and Helen is barely into her twenties. You must have formed an opinion, surely.’
‘I am your guest,’ he reminded. ‘It would be rude of me to express any opinion, especially as you have been so welcoming to me. And I’m certain that even if I had an opinion it would hardly matter to a man of your success and standing. What do you care what I think? I rather fancy you don’t care what the entire world thinks.’
He studied Gareth carefully; Gareth could almost hear his mind ticking over. ‘You’re correct, of course,’ he said at length. ‘In time you will — hopefully you will — grow old, as I have grown old. And though you will look at yourself in the mirror and see an old man staring back at you, there will be this other person inside you who thinks, who is this strange old man? You see, I don’t feel old; I don’t feel old at all. In my heart, in my head, I am a little older than Helen. One day you will understand this.’
Gareth could see that his presence was almost irrelevant. Lambert-Chide had sunk into a dark world of his own. When his eyes rested on his guest, it appeared as if he didn’t see him, his mind working over something else, some distant memory. ‘Do you think about death, Gareth?’ he said eventually.
‘I don’t give it much thought,’ he said, which was not quite the truth. Since Fitzroy’s death he had given it plenty of consideration. ‘I suppose every now and again it springs to mind. It’s unavoidable.’
‘Unavoidable,’ he repeated, nodding. ‘When you look at me, do you see someone past their prime, one foot in the grave?’
He thought about his response carefully. ‘You look very good for your age,’ he observed, ‘and your mind is obviously as sharp as a razor.’
‘Lord Byron called death the King of Terrors, did you know that?’ Gareth admitted he did not. ‘Above all else death strikes fear into all of us,’ Lambert-Chide continued. ‘We spend our lives ignoring it, trying to put it off, trying to extend our pathetically short lives. But the King of Terrors gets us all in the end.’ His clawed hand squeezed the silver top of his cane. ‘But take me, for instance, I am poised close to the cliff-edge of death. I may keel over as we speak; I may go to bed tonight and my eyes may never open in the morning. I live with death as my close companion, hidden but waiting to spring at any time.’
‘But you’ve had a long and successful life,’ Gareth pointed out.
‘How easy to say when you are still so young with the rest of your days stretching ahead of you. Yet I am not ready to die,’ he said firmly, as if merely saying so could help stave it off. ‘The shell of my body is admittedly weak, but up here in my head I am brimming with life and promise. Death comes when I am at my prime. That cannot be right and I will fight it. I will fight to stay alive. I for one refuse to give in to the King of Terrors.’
Gareth didn’t know how he should respond to any of this. He simply hadn’t expected it. Nor could he work out what purpose it served except to make Lambert-Chide feel a whole lot better about things. It certainly put a bit of a dampener on his mood and the evening had barely begun. Perhaps he read the unease in Gareth’s face, for he smiled disarmingly and became at once the affable host. ‘Forgive me,’ he said brightly, you must think me most odd.’ He didn’t expect a reply. He bent to a small device resting by the whiskey glass and pressed a button. ‘Randall, can you come in, please?’ He turned again to Gareth. ‘I am most pleased that you found my family’s lost piece of jewellery. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions about its discovery? We are naturally intrigued.’
‘There’s not a lot to say, actually,’ Gareth admitted.