“I would.”
“Well, I don’t see why grandfather shouldn’t have a secretary. I’ll suggest it to him.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t!”
“Oh, I’ll be awfully tactful. I can be frightfully tactful when I like. Here we are!”
They had been walking up an avenued drive and now arrived at a large house—low, rambling and Elizabethan.
Franklin stopped.
“I say,” he said, looking round. “I ought to find some sort of a side door, you know.”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Felicity, sweeping up the steps.
Franklin followed her into a large dim hall with dull gleams of armour against its tapestried walls. A butler came forward as they entered.
“Good-afternoon, Moult,” said Felicity, cheerfully. “I came down a little earlier than I’d arranged. Aunt Marcella and the luggage are following me. This is Mr. Franklin, grandfather’s new valet. We’re simply famished. You might get tea for us in the drawing-room at once, please.”
Moult turned red and moistened his lips. He seemed to be controlling his emotions with difficulty.
“Tea is laid for Mr. Franklin, miss,” he said, duly respectful, “in the servants’ hall, miss.”
Felicity wandered into the drawing-room. Rosemary lay on the Chesterfield reading a novel.
“Rosemary,” said Felicity, “I wish you’d help me about Franklin.”
“After your disgraceful performance the other day,” said Rosemary in her musical drawl, “I don’t know how you dare mention his name. I’m surprised that grandfather didn’t dismiss him at once as aunt wanted him to.”
“But, Rosemary darling, listen. He’s much too good to be a valet. He told me his life story in the train and—–”
Rosemary turned back to her novel with a little groan. “Please spare me!” she said.
Felicity spared her and went disconsolately out of the room.
Franklin had been valet at the Hall now for a week. Sir Digby Harborough was completely satisfied with him. Not so Sir Digby Harborough’s youngest granddaughter. He had refused to assist Felicity along her self-chosen path of Socialism. He passed her in the corridors with lowered or averted eye. When she addressed him he answered, “Yes, miss,” “No, miss,” with expressionless face. He did not look happy. He looked determinedly cheerful and philosophical but not happy. He looked as if he were finding his position harder than he had expected. And his limp as he swung awkwardly about the great house pierced Felicity’s tender heart. She could not rid herself of a feeling of responsibility for him. With youthful, warmhearted impulsiveness she had offered him her friendship, and with youthful, warm-hearted loyalty she refused to take it back, though he declined it a dozen times a day. It troubled Felicity. Rosemary might have helped, of course, but Rosemary was a spoilt beauty, and spoilt beauties weren’t much good at helping.
She went across to the library where her grandfather always worked in the mornings and knocked at the door.
“Come in!”
The tone in which Sir Digby Harborough uttered (though uttered is but a mild way of putting it) those two words proclaimed to all the world that it was one of his bad days. Sir Digby Harborough suffered from the Harborough gout and the Harborough temper. Aunt Marcella was proud of both the gout and the temper. She would have felt ashamed of any elderly relative of the male sex who did not possess both the gout and the temper. Common people might be immune from such things. Not so the Harboroughs. As long as history itself existed there had existed the Harborough gout and the Harborough temper.
In appearance Sir Digby was very red as to the face and very white as to the moustache and very fierce as to the eyes. Sir Digby could burst out on occasions into such aristocratic blue-blooded rage that the very furniture in his vicinity trembled.
Sir Digby was engaged in attending to his morning’s correspondence. This ceremony generally occupied his whole morning, and provided much exercise for the Harborough temper.
He was surrounded by envelopes and notepaper.
“Fools!” he sputtered, as Felicity opened the door. “Confounded imbeciles!”
Felicity came into the room and sat on the edge of his desk, watching him calmly.
He tore open another letter.
“The only sensible one of the bunch,” he growled, handing it to her when he had read it, “from a Professor Foxton, of Leeds University, wanting to come over and see my manuscripts and show me his.”
Sir Digby Harborough was a collector. The collection of miniatures in the blue parlour was famous throughout Europe. In the big drawing-room was a collection of early English china that connoisseurs came many miles to see. In his library was a collection of mediaeval manuscripts. To a fellow collector Sir Digby Harborough would unbend as to no one else. To a fellow collector Sir Digby Harborough was almost human.
“Shall I write the answer, grandfather?”
“NO!”
“You ought to have a secretary, you know, grandfather,” she said tentatively.
It was an inopportune remark at an inopportune moment. Sir Digby Harborough had just shaken his fountain pen to see if there was any ink in it. It had replied in the affirmative with joyous abandon, spattering with ink all the notepaper within its reach. Sir Digby Harborough went from red to purple and turned with fury upon the only human being available.
“Get out!” he roared at Felicity
Felicity got out.
It was a hot day. A thin, scholarly-looking gentleman panted up the drive to the front door of Bridgeways Hall. Like Felicity a week before, he had arrived by an earlier train than was expected. Sir Digby Harborough had ordered that stately, prehistoric, coat-of-armed equipage known to Felicity and Rosemary as “the family hearse” and to Moult as “the kerridge” (Sir Digby disliked motors) to meet the later train, but as Professor Foxton arrived early it was not needed. Sir Digby was not quite ready to receive him, so he was shown into the blue parlour while Sir Digby, puffing, important, excited, arranged his collection of mediaeval manuscripts to their best advantage. Then Moult ushered the visitor into the library.
As Professor Foxton crossed the hall from the blue parlour to the library he noticed two people. A very pretty girl with blue eyes and a long plait of red-gold hair was sitting on a high monk’s chest dangling gleaming black silk-clad legs and reading a novel, and a man was crossing the back of the hall. The man was dressed like a gentleman’s gentleman, but somehow didn’t look like one; only succeeded in looking as if he were trying to look like one. So much Professor Foxton saw in one lightning glance before the library door closed on him and Sir Digby Harborough came forward with outstretched hand to greet him.
The gentleman’s gentleman, who had returned Professor Foxton’s scrutiny with unusual keenness, hesitated, with his hand on the green baize door that led to the kitchen regions, then turned back and approached the pretty schoolgirl.
“Who was that?” he said shortly.
Felicity stared. It was the first time he had addressed her as a human being since their journey from London.
“A Professor something, of somewhere,” she said. “Why?”
“Professor who, of where?” he insisted.
She considered with frowning brows.
“Oh, yes, I remember,” she said, “Professor Foxton, of Leeds University.”
“Stay here a minute,” he said, “I’m just going to telephone.”
He went to the recess at the further end of the hall and Felicity returned to her book.
“Are you sure it was Foxton, of Leeds?” he said abruptly.
“Sure. I saw the letter.”
“Professor Foxton, of Leeds University, is in Switzerland.”
Her speedwell-blue eyes opened wide.
“Then who’s this?” she said.
“That’s what I want to know,” he said, still frowning meditatively. “I’ve seen this chap before, but I can’t think where.”
“How exciting!” said Felicity. “D
o think.”
“I’m trying, to—–”
Suddenly he slapped his thigh and said: “Got it! I say, where’s he been? Anywhere beside the library?”
“Blue parlour.”
“Miniatures there, aren’t there? Go and see if they’re all right. I’m going to telephone again.”
Felicity rose, smiling at him with lazy mischief.
“You’re rather forgetting the ‘miss’ this morning, aren’t you?” she said.
He grinned back at her. He looked young and alive again. The air of forced, dogged servility of the last week had dropped from him.
“Blow the ‘miss,’ ” he said.
He joined her in the blue parlour some minutes later.
“Well?” he said.
“Four gone,” she said slowly, “the four best ones. Someone’s forced the case, and—and—look—the window’s right open at the bottom and muddy footmarks all round it. Someone must have got in through the window.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I wonder,” he said.
“Anyway, let’s go and tell grandfather,” said Felicity.
The party returned to the library from their investigation in the blue parlour.
Sir Digby, purple-faced and incoherent with rage; Professor Foxton, suave and sympathetic, followed by Felicity and Franklin.
“I wouldn’t know the fellow again if I saw him,” said Professor Foxton, “but I remember noticing him skulking in the bushes just outside the window. I only regret not having warned you, but it occurred to me that perhaps he was some under-gardener. He must have opened the window and taken them as soon as I left the room.”
“We must get the police in,” shouted Sir Digby, “There’s no time to lose.”
Franklin spoke for the first time.
“I took the liberty of sending for the police as soon as I discovered the theft, sir,” he said quietly.
Professor Foxton threw him a quick glance. He found the young man’s gaze disconcerting. He bundled his manuscripts into his bag. His manuscripts had proved singularly trivial and uninteresting, but that had rather endeared him to Sir Digby than otherwise. Sir Digby preferred having his own treasures admired to admiring other people’s. This is a not uncommon trait among collectors.
“Well,” said Professor Foxton, as he fastened up his bag and took out his watch, “I’m due at a lecture in town in an hour’s time and I must fly to my train. I could be no further use to you if I stayed. I can only assure you of my sympathy and say how sorry I am that such a pleasant visit should terminate in this way. But it has been, sir, an education to see your wonderful collection of manuscripts. Good-bye.”
He held out his hand to Sir Digby.
Suddenly Franklin stepped forward.
“As the only person known to have been alone in the blue parlour this morning, sir,” he said blandly to the professor, “I’m sure you’ll have no objection to turning out your pockets.”
There was a sudden tense silence. Sir Digby’s face turned a deep purple, but the visitor only smiled, though a close observer might have noticed that there was something suddenly alert and on guard behind his amusement. He turned to Sir Digby.
“Is this your secretary, Sir Digby?” he said.
“No, my valet,” said Sir Digby.
Professor Foxton raised his eyebrows.
“Really?” he said. “From his manner, I thought—–However, the young man’s suggestion is a sensible one. Somehow,” he smiled again, “it never occurred to me that I might be accused of the theft.”
‘‘This is outrageous, sir!” thundered Sir Digby to his valet.
“Oh, but I most assuredly must conform with the suggestion now that it has been made,” said the professor, still smiling.
As he spoke he began to turn out his pockets. The valet watched him closely, unperturbed by his master’s fury.
“And your bag?” he said pleasantly.
“Get out of the room!” thundered Sir Digby. “I dismiss you from my service, sir. Do you hear me?”
The valet took no more notice of the order than if it had been the cooing of a dove.
“The bag?” he said again.
As he spoke he turned it upside down and the manuscripts fell on to the table, leaving it empty. There was no trace of the miniatures. The valet took a penknife from his pocket. Then something strange seemed to happen to the professor’s expression. The smile dropped from it. Something purposeful and desperate took its place. He made a lightning spring towards the open window, but Franklin was too quick for him. He caught him by the wrists and held him as if in a steel trap.
“Rip open the bottom of that bag,” he said to Felicity.
Sir Digby was now past speech. He was mopping his brow with a large silk handkerchief.
Felicity cut away the lining of the bag.
Beneath it were the stolen miniatures.
“Gad!” ejaculated Sir Digby, and then feeling some further expression necessary he said again: “Gad!”
Two policemen passed the window on their way to the front door. The professor made a final desperate, unsuccessful struggle. Felicity closed and fastened the window.
“All right,” said the professor to Franklin, “you can ease off. I know when I’m done.” Franklin released his wrists. “Well, I quite enjoyed the old boy’s gassing and I thought I’d brought it off, but you never know. We all have rotten luck at times.” Then the police entered.
“I remembered his face,” said Franklin half an hour later.
“But at first I couldn’t think where I’d seen it. Then I remembered. He was in my company at the beginning of the war. He’d been had up for theft and had been let off on condition he joined up. He deserted after a few months of it. Then I saw in the paper not long ago that he’d been imprisoned again. He can’t have been out long.”
Sir Digby uttered a growl expressive of interest and gratitude and exhaustion and gout.
Then Moult entered with a pile of letters on a tray.
“The evening post, sir,” he said.
He laid them down on Sir Digby’s desk and disappeared. Sir Digby groaned. It was the last straw. He hated letters and he hated his fountain pen and he was tired and he had gout.
“Perhaps I could see to them, sir,” said Franklin.
An hour later Felicity entered the room. Franklin sat at a small writing table near Sir Digby’s desk, writing.
“I’ve finished these, sir,” Franklin was saying.
“Write one more,” growled Sir Digby. “Write out an advertisement for a valet.”
“I thought I was—–” began Franklin.
“Haven’t you got ears in your head, man?” growled Six Digby. “I dismissed you from my service this afternoon.”
“Then—–”
“Was your father Maurice Franklin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Something about you reminded me of him when you were tackling that villain. I hadn’t thought of it before. He was at Harrow.”
Yes, sir.”
“He was my fag there. Did he send you to Harrow, too, or,” suspiciously, “did you go to one of those confounded, second-rate places like Eton?”
“No, sir,” smiled Franklin. “I went to Harrow.”
“Felicity!” stormed Sir Digby suddenly.
“Yes, grandfather?”
“Find that ass Moult and tell him to tell them to lay another place at dinner, as my secretary dines with us.”
Chapter Two
Three Birds with One Stone
“You know, you’re for it this time, Pins!” said Franklin. “As sure as I’m your grandfather’s secretary, you’re for it this time.”
He was sitting at his desk in the library sorting out Sir Digby’s correspondence. Felicity sat on her grandfather’s unoccupied desk, swinging shapely, gleaming, black silk-enclosed legs. Her thick red-gold plait hung over her shoulders. Her speedwell-blue eyes were innocent and reproachful. She wore her stained-glass window expressi
on.
“Frankie dear, I didn’t really do anything,” she said, in a voice of patient sweetness.
“Oh, no,” said Franklin. “You only led an aged and eminent dignitary a will-o’-the-wisp dance over the highways and byways of Marleigh till midnight. Nothing, of course—absolutely nothing. But the story has got out and has come to the ears of certain members of the family—notably your aunt, Lady Montague’’—Felicity groaned—“and your married brother John” —Felicity groaned again—“and they have come to the conclusion that something must be done about it.”
Dancing devils of mischief chased the injured innocence from Felicity’s eyes.
“It was such fun,” she said, with a little gurgle of laughter. “If you’d seen him, Frankie! You know, you’ve been listening to my enemies’ accounts of it. You’ve never heard mine. You ought to hear mine . . . He was coming to speak on total abstinence in Marleigh, and I know Ronny disapproves of total abstinence. Well, Ronny’s my own beloved, favourite brother, and I’ve got to uphold him, haven’t I? I disbelieve in it myself if it comes to that.”
“Tch! Tch!” said Franklin reprovingly. “Now I hope you haven’t been going the pace with the iced lemonade, Pins.”
“Don’t interrupt,” said Felicity severely. “Anyway, he came, and Lady Deveret’s motor that was to have met him had broken down on the way and there was nothing and no one to meet him. However, the station-master told him that it was only a few minutes’ walk to the village hall, so he very bravely set off on foot. I don’t believe he’d ever set off anywhere on foot in his life before. Then he met me.”
“Ah,” breathed Franklin; “now we’re getting to it.”
“Don’t interrupt, Frankie,” said Felicity again. “You put me out . . . He smiled a fat smile at me and he said in a fat voice: ‘Can you direct me to the village hall, my little maid?’ Yes, he really did. He said ‘my little maid.’ He only didn’t put his hand on my head because he couldn’t reach. Then I looked at him. He was fat beyond the dreams of fatness. He’d got the look of a person who rolls about fatly in fat motor-cars all day. Well, I looked at him and I imagined him strolling fatly down to the village hall (it was just round the corner) and talking fatly about total abstinence to a ghastly crowd of cranks who’d assembled to hear him and then rolling fatly off home to a too large supper (one could see he’d just had a too large dinner) and sleeping till about ten in the morning. He looked like that. So it occurred to me what a far, far better thing it would be to take him for a good long walk than let him spout rubbish about total abstinence.
Felicity - Stands By Page 2
