by Richard Hull
‘Your opinion is not wanted. Certainly, a Burgundy dinner.’ James contemplated the prospect with satisfaction. He was quite surprised to hear himself once more contradicted.
‘Claret, to my mind. Personally, I consider that a day is wasted unless I drink claret at both lunch and dinner.’
‘A pretty hint! I never heard such a thing. Waste all my best claret on you!’
‘It won’t be wasted,’ was Gregory’s quiet comment.
‘How do I know? And you turn up your nose at Burgundy. My boy, my boy, you don’t know my chateau-bottled Clos St George.’
James had all the appearance of meaning what he said, but his nephew was not deceived.
‘Please don’t think that I despise Burgundy. I only say that I prefer claret, but really, Uncle James, you ought to be ashamed of yourself; trying to put a fast one across me like that.’
James Warrenton pretended not to have heard clearly.
‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘Fast one?’
Into the not very subtle trap Malcolm of course fell.
‘I really can’t see what there was in what Uncle James said. The Clos St George is excellent—’
‘And château-bottled?’ Gregory inquired innocently.
‘Well, I’m—’ Even Henry Malcolm saw that the question was not quite so innocent as it sounded. ‘I’m not sure if it is or not.’
‘I am.’ Gregory was quite definite.
James Warrenton went off to the cellar happily. It would be a long time before he stopped referring to Henry as the man who thought that the vineyards of Burgundy were dotted with châteaux. But meanwhile, though Gregory had passed the slight test of knowing that there was no such thing as a château-bottled Burgundy, it remained to be proved if he knew anything about claret or not. James thought a minute as to quantity; Emily, she always drank water; himself, Thompson, and four nephews. Then, with a smile, he went to more than one bin. He might have too many nephews, but he didn’t see why he shouldn’t have some fun.
He was so amused that he was a little late coming down that evening and all the party, except Gregory, were there before him. As he came into the room it so happened that the conversation stopped. At once the suspiciousness natural to his nature and accentuated by his deafness was aroused. So, they were all talking about him, were they? He looked round. Emily was confused; Arthur had clearly been in the far corner of the room whispering to the red-faced, over-genial rector; from Christopher’s eyes the momentary look of interest was being replaced by his habitual air of slight boredom.
The silence was broken by Julia.
‘Good evening, James. We’ve all come to see him.’
‘See? Oh, Gregory. Not me, I suppose. I didn’t know you were coming.’ He relapsed for a moment into mental calculations about the claret. ‘I hope it’s—’
‘I never take more than half a glass, so it will be all right.’ Julia leant towards his ear.
‘That’s true, but there’s no need to shout.’ Then he stopped and looked at his sister. He had always disliked her habit of answering his thoughts. He was about to say so when the rector descended upon him.
‘I really feel as if I were intruding into a family party. Malcolm tells me that he never met his cousin before last night, and Arthur says that he only knows him very slightly, so that as a comparative stranger, except of course to dear Mrs Vaughan and her sons, I feel that I ought not to have — as I said — intruded.’
Silly blustering fellow, thought James. You could hear what he said though, that was one comfort; or would have been if you had wanted to hear it. But this pretence that they were talking about Gregory when he came in and not himself was a little thin. On the whole, he rather snapped Thompson’s head off.
‘Can’t be intruding if I ask you, can you? Can ask who I like into my own house, can’t I? That’s why I’ve asked Gregory to stay — for some time.’
Arthur looked round. He had feared as much! Judging by the flush on Malcolm’s face, he was right too in his guess as to how that person had handled the situation. He only just suppressed a sigh which his uncle might have noticed. Malcolm’s tactlessness would mean more work for him if Gregory was to be got rid of, as he intended that he should be, finally but amicably.
At the moment, however, nothing more was said, as simultaneously dinner was announced by Rushton’s most correct voice and Gregory arrived. In one of his frequent detached moods, Christopher observed the meeting of his brother and his two cousins. It was all very well to talk about the ties of blood, but there was no doubt that there were three people who in their different ways, consciously or unconsciously, disliked each other cordially. Their very appearance was a contrast, Malcolm’s red hair and sandy moustache and burly figure inclined to stoutness was that of a passionate man, who might do foolish things in a fit of temper, but was incapable of subtlety, who would always be in trouble and would constantly be quarrelling, but who would at least let you know if you were his friend or his enemy — especially the latter. There was no doubt that Gregory was included in the list; but was Arthur? On the whole Christopher thought that Henry wanted, though perhaps without knowing it, to regard Arthur as one whom he disliked, but that he had not been given an opportunity. At present there was a state of neutrality, not armed, almost benevolent, but Christopher thought that one day it would develop into war.
He turned his attention to his brother. Arthur, judging by the volume of clearings of his throat, was not at his ease. He was fumbling with the eye-glass which he had recently taken to affecting, but otherwise his manner was as suave and calm as his well-fitting dress shirt and the carefully brushed black hair slightly tinged with grey. He appeared to be giving his attention to the monologue that was continuing between and during the mouthfuls of James’ dinner, but actually Christopher knew very well that Arthur was really considering only Gregory.
Accordingly, he turned his own attention to where, apparently rather bored, Gregory was sitting. Although Gregory’s mother had been the eldest of Jude Warrenton’s children, her only son had been rather the child of her old age. Certainly, he looked younger than all of them except Emily. But in years and appearance only, Christopher shrewdly decided, not in character. You could always tell, he thought, these people who were born to their parents late in life. They had a precocious air during their childhood and they were always a little too old for their age. Certainly, Emily looked as if she was rising forty, not thirty, and Gregory behaved as if he might be fifty.
Dark, in not at all a bad-looking sort of way, debonair, and very much a man of the world, it was perhaps unfair to be too hard on him tonight. He must know that though the dinner-party might be more or less in his honour, some at least of the company did not exactly welcome him. Perhaps he ought to be pardoned for his air of ‘Well, here I am and if you don’t like it, you can leave it! I don’t care a fig for your opinions!’ It might be defensive. All the same it was certainly offensive. Christopher suspended judgment and turned his attention to the conversation.
The soup and a glass of sherry had been served, and Rushton was pouring out the claret. Christopher cocked his head on one side. Rather early this! He knew his uncle objected to his best claret being drunk with the fish. Probably, he thought, it was a bad claret. Almost absentmindedly he refused it and asked for water, thus earning a snort of contempt from his uncle who was quite capable of imitating the well-known story of William IV and leaping to his feet and saying that no one should drink water at his table.
Before, however, James could say anything, Gregory leant forward and in a quiet, self-possessed way made his first remark, other than good evening, to Arthur.
‘Don’t you find it very tiring?’ he inquired languidly.
Arthur paused with a piece of turbot in mid-air, completely mystified. Nor was he in the least assisted by his mother’s remark:
‘He can’t. He always does it.’
But Arthur had recovered his poise.
‘What is this about? I mean, d
o let me see the joke.’
‘I only meant the way you clear your throat. I’ve been timing it. Once every six seconds is the general rule, but the fifth hum, so to speak, is a second late and much louder. Interesting. Like the waves, only the ninth is the big one there, isn’t it? I only wondered if it tired you.’
This, felt Christopher, was interesting. An almost open and quite unprovoked declaration of war. Cousin Gregory must have made up his mind pretty quickly. And Arthur, how would he take it? Apparently lying down for the present, but Christopher knew his brother far too well to think that that would be his permanent attitude.
Before, however, Arthur had time to do more than feebly make an attempt to laugh it away as if it were just the friendly directness of a relation, James, who had heard none of this little passage of arms, observed the rector select a large piece of lobster from the sauce and immediately follow it with rather too good a gulp of claret.
‘Enjoying it?’ he asked loudly but casually. ‘Excellent wine, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’ Thompson’s over-hearty voice was positively unctuous, and he only barely avoided intoning. ‘We poor men must be thankful, you know, for the crumbs—’ He drank a little more to cover the fact that his metaphor was a little confused and that claret could hardly be termed a ‘crumb’, but it did not occur to him that the sentiment was out of place. Then, somewhat belatedly, he smelt at his glass. ‘A fine wine, a beautiful bouquet,’ he concluded.
‘What do you think of it, Arthur? Come now, honestly!’
‘I haven’t drunk any yet, but—’ He went through the motions of raising it to his nose and derived therefrom actually no information at all. Then he tasted a little. It seemed to him to be quite sound but definitely uninteresting. He would have liked to have said so, but it was never wise — or polite — to abuse Uncle James’ wine, and he put no reliance in that ‘honestly’. ‘I’m afraid I’m no great judge, but I like it. Yes, definitely, I like it. What is it?’ He tactfully glided the topic to safer channels.
‘Shan’t tell you yet. We’ve got an expert here tonight. At least, so he says. Come, now, Gregory, what is it?’
Very deliberately Gregory ate a little plover before answering.
‘Sound. But, of course, second-class.’
It was too much for Henry. He knew nothing about claret at all, and he cared less, but it seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to put this upstart in his place. Uncle James, he well knew, loathed having his wine abused.
‘Excellent,’ he asserted dogmatically. ‘The Mouton Rothschild, isn’t it?’
‘Little more than a vin ordinaire,’ Gregory ignored the interruption. ‘A palatable beverage, of course, and unexceptionable with water.’
James indulged in one of those hearty guffaws which were so much disliked by the members of his London club as being a definite disturbance of its quiet respectability.
‘Rushton, Mr Gregory doesn’t like that wine. Give him some out of the decanter you will find in the locked cupboard of the sideboard. Here’s the key. I shall take some of that myself too. That is the Mouton Rothschild ‘99 to which you refer, Henry — a little old now, but still excellent. Everybody except Mr Gregory and I, Rushton, will continue drinking the St Julien which they like so much. It’s quite sound, as Gregory said, and if you like some water with it—’ He leaned back in his chair and indulged in another great guffaw, thoroughly pleased with the success of his practical joke until, remembering that his plover was getting cold, he stopped suddenly and began to eat very fast and not too nicely.
So, this young nephew of his did know a thing or two about claret! He was not quite sure whether he was glad or sorry that he had not caught him too. A sharp fellow but do him good to be taken down a peg or two occasionally.
He hardly noticed the effect of his practical joke on the rest of his guests — he would have another excellent story to tell now — strange how Henry had not learned wisdom from putting his foot into it at lunch! But he probably never would learn wisdom — certainly James cared not in the least how he felt. Still, with the departure of the plover, even he noticed that there was a certain silence round the table, and looking up, he noticed the expression on the faces of his guests.
That fellow Thompson was taking it worst. Thoroughly red in the face, he was! Or was it just overeating? In any case, he would draw him a bit further.
‘Gregory’s going to take up the question of Spiritualism with you too, Thompson. He isn’t an expert on that, though, so far — so you may be able to convince him.’
‘Am I to gather that you are a devotee of these curious opinions?’
‘No. I don’t hold any opinions on the subject at all as yet. I’m just going to look into it, that’s all.’
Arthur’s eyebrows went up.
‘And may one ask why? Of course, it’s of great interest to Uncle James, and really, although the rector dislikes my saying so, I am beginning to think there is certainly a case which requires answering. Don’t think that I’m convinced yet. I’ve just got an open mind.’
During all this Malcolm had been bursting to break in.
‘Spiritualism, indeed! A precious lot Gregory cares for spiritualism. All he has done is to take on a bet that he would swindle Uncle James in six months out of an appreciable sum of money by means of it.’
But Arthur was watching his step carefully. He had no intention of allowing anyone to make personal remarks about him with ultimate impunity, but he quite decided to bide his time. He ignored the word ‘swindling’ and pretended to disagree with Malcolm’s anger and to regard the contest as a sporting event. Even so, he could not resist one dig.
‘What, by the way, was the stake which you put up?’ he asked, apparently innocently. ‘I had an idea that—’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘That I had no ready money for stakes? Quite right, though must you say so? Just a little competition of quite a friendly nature. If I fail, I go away — no doubt to your great regret.’
Arthur put on the smile which he considered to be intensely attractive.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, or on us; after all, we hardly know each other yet, perhaps later on when we are better acquainted—’
But the olive branch was rejected. Curtly brushing aside the idea that he had been fishing for compliments, Gregory Spring-Benson turned to his uncle and suggested that as a fair start he ought to be told what the traditional story of the ghost was.
James Warrenton was perfectly willing to do so. ‘Although,’ he said, ‘I would have you understand that I am not quite sure that you ought to refer to a spirit who has passed on as a ghost. Later on, when I am more settled down, I intend to start a home circle and we can get a good medium, not one of these quacks who deceive you, but a genuine one — don’t groan, Thompson, there are such people — to find out what the spirit wants to say to us, or to someone else.’
The rector threw up his hands in horror.
‘A home circle and mediums here! You can’t believe the harm that a bad example like that does in the parish!’
Gregory moved impatiently.
‘Might we have the story now and the argument after?’
With a glance at Emily, Mrs Vaughan got up. She disliked young men who were quite so sure of themselves, but she contented herself with remarking that as dinner was finished and she and Emily knew all about it, they would leave the men to themselves.
All the time, James Warrenton had been burning to start. He was quite indifferent to the fact that the story was an old one to all but one of his hearers. He only hoped that the parson would not interrupt too much; if he did he intended to shout him down. It was not a very long story even as he told it, yet as he filled it with the technical phrases of spiritualism it became somewhat involved.
Robbed, however, of the confusion and irrelevance into which James Warrenton plunged it, it appeared that the ghost dated from about the latter half of the reign of Henry VIII. In those days Amberhurst Place had been much as it was now, ex
cept that the way to the top of the tower that stood at the north-west corner of the house was not closed. Indeed, the twin brothers who lived at Amberhurst with their old father were accustomed to walk frequently in the cool of the evening on the platform at the top. From there they could see the rolling pastures and the woods that bordered the edge of the Great Water in front of the house.
But all had not gone well between the two brothers, twins though they were. The younger had long ago reconciled himself to the fact that when his father died, an event which could not long be delayed, Amberhurst would belong to his elder brother and that one day he would have to live elsewhere. For that he was prepared, but real trouble had begun to ensue when both of them fell in love with the same lady.
For a while both had pursued their suit as best they might and openly told the other of what they intended. But finally, they decided that the suspense could go on no longer. Selecting a friend whom they could trust, they sent him on an embassy to the lady to ask her to choose one of them, and they would abide by her choice.
On the day in early spring when their ambassador was to return, they would wait on the top of the tower and, so that at the earliest opportunity they might know her decision, their messenger was to wear on his broad hat a red plume if the suit of the elder brother was successful, a blue one if the younger had been preferred. If the lady could not make up her mind, there would be no plume at all; if she would have neither, there would be a black plume coming down the path.
It was late in the day when the returning figure could at last be seen, still half hidden by the boughs of fresh green that overhung the bridle-path by the Great Water, and the nerves of both brothers waiting over-long on top of the tower were strained. At length the figure could be seen clearly. He was wearing red.
What happened in the next few minutes was never really known. Certainly, in his excitement the elder brother, waving the answering red plume, jumped on to the low parapet, and from there fell on to the flagged pavement that bordered then as now the lawn outside the window of the long library, and instantly died. But whether he lost his balance, or whether something more sinister occurred, was never known.
