Clouds among the Stars. Victoria Clayton

says I’m heartless and decadent. Ha! Merci du compliment.’ I could see that Ophelia, despite her expressions of derision, actually minded. I stopped feeling quite so sorry for Crispin. It was very stupid of him to repeat his mother’s remarks. ‘He says he’s sure she’ll come round eventually to our marriage if we show her we’re repentant. If he thinks I’m going to bed forgiveness from that ghastly old countess, he must be even more stupid than I thought!’ I had rarely seen Ophelia so moved. ‘If I were covered with warts, I’d think twice about abusing other people. I’d hide under a stone and hope that people would be kind to me.’

      ‘Is she really covered with warts?’ Cordelia looked fascinated.

      ‘She has two. On her chin. Huge and hairy.’

      ‘Poor thing. She can’t help that, I suppose,’ I said.

      Ophelia turned on me, her eyes blazing. ‘Why are you always sorry for everyone but me? I suppose you’d like me to marry Crispin and be bored to death and patronised by that hateful old woman. I’m sick of you being holier-than-thou!’

      ‘I’m not!’ I very felt near to losing my temper. ‘It’s just that you despise people who aren’t beautiful – as though they wouldn’t be if they could. No one wants to be ugly –’

      ‘Christ!’ Ophelia got up from the table and slammed out of the room.

      ‘Don’t mind it,’ said Maria-Alba, who was washing up at the sink. ‘She is looking for a goat.’

      ‘A goat?’

      ‘Sì. Espiatorio. A thing to blame.’

      ‘Oh, I see, a scapegoat. Am I irritatingly goody-goody?’

      ‘Not all the time,’ Cordelia said kindly. ‘Sometimes you’re a bit wet but you’re still my favourite sister, by far.’

      ‘Thank you very much.’ I felt gloomy. We were getting terribly on each other’s nerves. Quite apart from the fact that I hate rows, surely when everything was so miserable we ought to try to stick together? Anyway, during a quarrel our family always fell into the same divisions, which had more to with temperament than the merits of the argument so the rows were pretty pointless. Perhaps this is the case with all families. My mother and Bron were generally in league, and my father, Ophelia and Cordelia were usually on the same side. Portia was my ally on these occasions of family feud but God only knew where she was now. I wondered, not for the first time, if I ought to consult Inspector Foy but I was afraid Portia would be angry with me for making a fuss.

      Wherever one turned one’s thoughts there seemed to be doubt and difficulty. I took a covert look at Maria-Alba as she bent to give Mark Antony and Dirk their breakfast biscuits. At least they were settling down together. Mark Antony had established ascendancy the day before by springing claws like flick knives and hissing like a maddened cobra. Dirk had rolled on to his back and ratified the peace treaty before the ink was dry, like a dog of sense.

      Maria-Alba began to dry the cups. She had black rings under her eyes and her hands were shaky. She had made delicious little custard and raisin buns for breakfast so she must have risen early. Insomnia was one of the first signs with Maria-Alba that things were going seriously wrong. I hated the idea that she might have to go back into the psychiatric unit. For all our sakes we could not afford to allow what was left of our domestic structure to break down. I resolved not to lose my temper or provoke any more quarrelling, even if it meant knuckling down under insult. I was given the chance to put theory into practice immediately.

      ‘You bitch, Harriet! You bloody little traitor!’ Bron was standing beside me, clad in his dressing gown, his hair ruffled from sleep. He thrust a newspaper into my face. ‘I’m sacking you as a sister! From now on you’re no relation of mine! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to bring myself to speak to you again! And nor will the others when they see this!’

      I was bewildered. But one glance at Bron’s face convinced me this was not play-acting. My heart began to race. ‘What is it? What have I done?’

      Bron slammed the paper down in front of me and pointed to a headline. ‘Read it!’

      ‘My Unhappy Family. Waldo Byng’s Daughter Confesses All. An exclusive story by Stanley Norman.’ Under the caption was a large photograph of me grinning into the camera, my chin resting on the top of Dirk’s head.

      ‘Oh, but I didn’t. I only said “no comment” whatever they asked me –’

      ‘So where did they get this?’ Bron real aloud in a voice modulated by fury.

      ‘Oberon Byng, aspiring thespian and young man-about-town seems likely to follow in his jail-bird father’s footsteps in more ways than one. After being expelled from school for impregnating the matron he has had a chequered career. A few undistinguished stage roles have been interspersed with nefarious dabblings, receiving stolen goods and drug trafficking. He is now being investigated by Scotland Yard with regard to a serious charge of fraudulent land deals.’

      ‘Oh! Oh dear! I only said – Stan was telling me about his family and it seemed polite – I didn’t say you’d been dealing in drugs, only that you were suspended for a term for taking that hookah to school that Pa brought back from an opium den in Shanghai, and smoking it in the junior common room. And I just mentioned the car you bought that turned out to be stolen, though it wasn’t your fault, and you lost all the money for it. He’s just turned everything around and made it all sound terrible! He seemed so nice and friendly and I was sorry for him. Oh God, I’m so sorry!’

      ‘You absolute imbecile! Don’t you know that’s what journalists always do? It’s the oldest trick in the book.’

      ‘I wasn’t thinking. I’d forgotten about him being a reporter and he was so depressed. His wife’s an invalid and they haven’t got any money. I was trying to cheer him up.’

      ‘What a sap you are! Well, I hoped you’re pleased to have your photograph splashed all over the Daily Banner. There isn’t even the smallest one of me.’

      I hung my head in shame.

      ‘I say, Ophelia’s going to be hopping mad when she reads this.’ Cordelia gave a whoop of glee. ‘Jolly well serves her right. Listen!

      ‘I have it on the authority of her sister that Miss Ophelia Byng, formerly an actress, was jilted at the altar by the Hon. Crispin Mallilieu. He is the second son of the Earl and Countess of Sope. When the Earl brought the marriage service to a halt by voicing his objection to the alliance of his son with the daughter of a suspected murderer, the bride-to-be fainted and had to be carried from the church by four of the officers who were to have formed the guard of honour. According to her sister, Ophelia has locked herself in her bedroom, still dressed in her bridal finery, surrounded by magnificent wedding presents from England’s most aristocratic families, which she refuses to return.’

      ‘He’s making it all up!’ My indignation was unbounded. ‘It’s a crib from Great Expectations! Of course I didn’t say any such thing!’

      ‘I’m sure Ophelia will be comforted to know that,’ said Bron drily.

      ‘If I could get hold of that hateful liar I’d – I don’t know what I’d do to him. It’s all wild invention – apart from the bit about you getting Matron pregnant. I wish I hadn’t told him that.’

      ‘Golly! Look at all this about Portia.’ Cordelia’s voice was awed.

      ‘Even worse is the present predicament of Portia Byng who, her sister reports, has left the country in mysterious circumstances, escorted by a man who is wanted by the police for crimes ranging from illegal immigration to homicide. According to a reliable informant, Mr X, thought to be of Albanian extraction, is known to his associates as The Gravefiller. Chief Inspector Charles Foy has been in touch with Interpol, acting on a tip-off that she has been taken to Albania. The informant has also revealed that Mr X has a harem of girls in his mountain hideaway, kept under guard to satisfy his unbridled sexual depravity.’