by Joan Aiken
‘Me boy,’ he said, ‘it’s all Lombard Street to a China orange that I’d turn a blind eye and do nothing about it. Yes, yes, I know –’ raising a quelling hand – ‘I know the Hanoverians are a crew of fire-breathing traitors who want to turn good King James, bless him, off the throne and bring in some flighty German boy. But, I ask you, what do they actually do? Nothing. It’s all a lot of talk and moonshine, harmless as a kettle on a guinea-pig’s tail. Why trouble about them when they trouble nobody?’
Simon wondered whether Mr Cobb would think them so harmless if he were to see the contents of the Twites’ cellar. But just as he was opening his mouth to speak of this the Chelsea church clock boomed out the hour of nine and he had to hurry off to Battersea Castle.
He took the main way, over Chelsea Bridge and through the great gates beyond it. A tree-bordered avenue led to the Castle, which rose like some fabulous pink flower among the encircling gas flares.
‘Oo the devil are you and where the devil d’you think you’re going?’ growled a voice ahead of him. A burly man came out of a porter’s lodge halfway along the avenue and halted Simon by pressing a button which caused two crossed lances to rise out of the ground, barring the road.
‘The Duke has invited me to play chess with him,’ Simon said.
‘Play chess with a ragged young tyke like you? A likely story,’ the gatekeeper sneered. As a matter of fact it was a likely story, since the Duke made friends with all kinds of odd characters, and this the man knew quite well, but he hoped to wring some gate-money out of Simon.
‘I’m not ragged and the Duke is expecting me,’ Simon said calmly. ‘Let me in, please.’
‘Ho, no! I’m not so green as to let riff-raff and flash coves in, to prig whatever they can mill! I’m not lowering that barricade for you, no, not if you was to go down on your benders to me. Not if you was to offer me so much as half a guinea!’
Simon remained silent and the man said angrily, ‘Not if you was to offer me a whole guinea, I wouldn’t open it.’
‘I shan’t do that,’ Simon said.
‘Oh? And why not, my young shaver?’
‘Because you’ll have to open it anyway. The Duchess’s carriage is just behind you.’
The gatekeeper swung round with an oath. True enough, the carriage, which Simon had observed leaving the Castle as he reached the lodge, was pulling up smoothly just behind the man, and the coachman was crying impatiently: ‘Jump to it, there, Daggett. D’you think her Grace wants to wait all night?’
Red with suppressed emotion, Daggett hastened to obey.
Sophie, who was sitting in the carriage opposite her Grace, holding a reticule, a telescope, and a mah-jongg set, dimpled a smile at Simon, and the Duchess inquired:
‘Is that your young friend, Sophie? He looks a very personable lad.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Sophie.
The Duchess addressed Simon. ‘So you’re the young man who is kindly coming to play chess with William and keep him amused while I go to the opera? It is very obliging of you. William detests opera – and I only find it tolerable if I play mah-jongg with Sophie while the singing is going on. But of course one has one’s box and must attend regularly.’
‘I hope you have a pleasant evening, ma’am,’ Simon said politely.
‘Thank you, my dear boy. We shall meet again, I trust. A delightful face,’ the Duchess went on, speaking to Sophie as the carriage rolled away. ‘You have excellent taste, Sophie dear.’
‘Thank you, your Grace.’
The main entrance to the Castle lay up a tremendous flight of curving steps. At the top stood two haughty bewigged footmen in cream-and-gold livery with rose-coloured buttons.
‘Good evening,’ Simon said civilly. ‘I’ve come to play chess with the Duke.’
Evidently they had been told to expect him. One of them led him in through a lofty hall, up another flight of stairs, and across a great black-and-white tiled anteroom to a pair of doors which he threw open, announcing:
‘The young person, your Grace.’
The room Simon entered was a large library with fireplaces on either side. The Duke jumped from a chair by one fireside and came hurrying forward. He was elegantly dressed tonight in satin knee-breeches and a velvet jacket, but still looked absent-minded and untidy – the old-fashioned wig he wore was twisted askew, so was his cravat, and one of his velvet cuffs was covered in ash.
‘Ah, this is a pleasure!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have been greatly looking forward to our game.’ He bustled about, pulling forward a comfortable chair and ringing several bells.
‘You’ll take a little something?’ he inquired. ‘Blackcurrant brandy? Prune wine? Scrimshaw, bring the chess set. Jabwing, prune wine and biscuits.’
The Duke’s chess set was very beautiful. The pieces were of greenish glass, cunningly twisted and carved. The Duke set them out lovingly on a leather board, polishing each one on his cravat. The white men were clear right through, the black were veined with streaks of darker glass.
They began to play, and it did not take Simon long to discover that his Grace was not a very good player. He tended to start well with some bold moves, but then his attention would wander; he would jump up hastily to search for a quotation in a book, or to examine a patch of lichen on one of the burning logs in the hearth.
‘You play very well, my boy,’ the Duke said, after Simon had won two out of the three games. ‘Who taught you?’
‘A friend of mine, sir,’ Simon said, sighing. ‘A Dr Gabriel Field.’
The Duke’s face lit up. ‘Ah, Dr Field! He is an excellent player, is he not? And a dear fellow. Where is the good doctor? I have not seen him this age.’
‘You know Dr Field?’ Simon gazed at him in astonishment.
‘Why yes. I met him at the Academy of Art.’
‘Rivière’s? Where I learn painting?’
‘Oh, you learn painting, do you, my boy? I am not surprised to hear it, for you have the face of an artist. Yes, I met Dr Field at Rivière’s – I am one of the patrons, you know. Marius Rivière was married to my aunt. I often drop in at the Academy. The good doctor and I have many interests in common: he has advised me on several pieces of scientific research, and helped clean my pictures.’
‘Clean pictures, your Grace?’ Simon was momentarily puzzled.
‘Family pictures, Old Masters, that have become darkened with age.’ Simon nodded; Dr Field had given him some instruction in the processes of picture-cleaning on his last visit.
‘Indeed,’ the Duke went on, ‘I wish he would return, for he was halfway through cleaning Rivière’s famous painting of a wolf-hunt and I long to have it completed. See, I will show you.’
He led the way to the far end of the library – a good hundred yards off. Here he turned, blowing a shrill blast on a small gold whistle. One of the footmen came running from the door.
‘Jabwing, light some more tapers, please, and then bring my gruel.’
Soon half a hundred candles had been kindled and by their clear blaze Simon was able to study a large canvas occupying most of the end wall of the room. The picture represented a hunt in a snowy wood, and he could see that it was by the hand of a master. A group of hunters, richly dressed in costumes of thirty years ago, were galloping to the help of two men and some hounds who were being attacked by a pack of wolves.
Half the picture had been cleaned and restored, the other half was still dark with grease and grime, so that hunters and wolves alike seemed to be plunging into a black chasm.
‘It certainly needs cleaning,’ Simon remarked. ‘It looks very old.’
‘In fact the picture is only thirty years old,’ the Duke told him. ‘But it was a great favourite of my father, the fourth Duke, and he would always have it hanging by the fireplace where he used to sit in the evenings. With the smoke from the fire, and the great pipe he smoked, the picture became villainously begrimed. The fair-haired lady on the white horse is Lady Helen Bayswater, my aunt, who was married to the pa
inter; he himself is one of the men on foot, and it is thought that his daughter, too, is somewhere in the picture, the part still uncleaned. She was my cousin; they say she was very beautiful but I never met her. She met my younger brother by chance when both were taking the waters at Epsom, they fell in love, and made a runaway match of it. And they both died in the Hanoverian wars.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Young Justin, their son, is the last of the line, as you can see from the family tree over there.’
Simon looked where he was bidden and saw a chart which meant little to him. Trying to turn the Duke’s thoughts in a more cheerful direction – for he looked very melancholy – Simon suggested:
‘I could perhaps go on cleaning the picture for you, your Grace, if you like. Dr Field taught me how.’
‘Would you, my boy? I should like it of all things! When could you begin?’
‘Tomorrow, sir, if you like.’
‘Famous!’ declared his Grace. ‘I will tell my steward to have the glass removed once more. We had it off for Dr Field, but since he’s been away so long I told the men to put it back, for fear the picture would get sooted over again and all his work go for nothing. Buckle shall find you the Doctor’s cleaning materials. Upon my word, I can’t wait to see those poor dirty wolves made neat.’
He began pointing out objects in the murk at the foot of the canvas, and Simon leant forward, intently studying the untouched area. While he was doing so his eye caught a movement reflected in the picture-glass from the opposite end of the room.
Jabwing the footman had brought in a small tray with a basin of gruel which he placed on the chess table. He then stopped and removed something from the Duke’s chair; quietly, and looking about to make sure he was unobserved (but he did not see Simon watching him in the glass), he bore this object across the room and slipped it into the pocket of Simon’s old frieze jacket which had been left lying on a chair. Then he withdrew silently until, when he was just beside the door, he cleared his throat and said in a loud voice:
‘Your Grace’s gruel is ready.’
‘Thank you, Jabwing, thank you,’ the Duke said absently. ‘You may go – unless – do you take gruel, my boy? No? You are certain? My Cook had a capital way of making it with white wine and sugar – no? That will be all then, Jabwing.’
The Duke returned to the fireside and swallowed his gruel, meanwhile happily discussing the cleansing operation. Simon quietly investigated his jacket pocket to discover what the footman had put in it. His fingers encountered a large, round, hard object which, on being withdrawn, proved to be the Duke’s gold hunter-watch, set with turquoises, which had been left on the arm of his chair.
Simon stared at the article for a moment, with his brow knitted, and then placed it on a small side-table among a number of crystal ornaments. He was curious to see what would happen.
‘I only wish Dr Field would return, he would be so delighted to find that you were helping me,’ the Duke was saying. ‘He is for ever telling me that my pictures need attention, and his own time is limited, poor fellow.’
‘Speaking of time,’ Simon said politely, ‘I think I should be going, your Grace. It must be late.’
‘Should you, my boy? What o’clock is it, then? I’ll ring for someone to show you out.’
By the time Jabwing reappeared the Duke had discovered the loss of his watch and was hunting for it fretfully.
‘Jabwing, Jabwing, I’ve lost my watch. What time is it?’
‘Eleven past, your Grace.’
‘Is it, indeed? I’d no notion it was so late. Jabwing, show the young gentleman out, then come back and find my watch for me.’
Jabwing brought Simon’s jacket and, as he did so, contrived to turn it upside down, as if by accident, and give it a smart shake. A round object shot out of the pocket and fell with a loud rap to the marble floor.
‘Why!’ exclaimed Jabwing in pretended astonishment, ‘isn’t that your Grace’s watch?’
But he spoke a moment too soon, before he had seen what it was.
‘No, it isn’t, Jabwing,’ snapped the Duke testily. ‘Where are your eyes? Any dolt can see that it is a hard-boiled egg!’
‘My breakfast,’ explained Simon, quietly recovering and pocketing the egg.
‘And I should like to know,’ the Duke went on indignantly still addressing Jabwing, ‘what you mean by the outrageous suggestion that my watch would be in the pocket of a visitor, eh? Explain yourself, my man!’
Jabwing was covered with confusion.
‘Entirely a mistake, your Grace – very sorry, very sorry indeed. Only on account of the gentleman’s being a – a rather shabby young gentleman – and the egg’s being so – so round, you know – wouldn’t for the world give any offence –’
‘Well you have given it, blockhead, and it makes it no better to cast aspersions on the young gentleman’s clothes. I’ve a good mind to dismiss you. Don’t let such a thing occur again or you’ll be sent back to Chippings! Goodnight, then, my dear boy. I shall look forward with impatience to our next meeting. Why, there is my watch after all,’ he continued, catching sight of it on the table. ‘I must have laid it there while showing you the Rivière. And, dear me, how late it is!’
Jabwing ushered Simon out and down the great stairway without a word, but his face spoke volumes and if looks could have done it there would have been a banana-skin waiting to trip Simon on every step. As he threw open the hall doors he hissed one word, ‘Interloper!’ in Simon’s ear, and then slammed the door behind him with an insulting crash.
Simon walked down the long drive in a very thoughtful frame of mind. He half wished that he had not suggested coming to clean the picture, but he had taken a liking to the Duke, who seemed a kind old fellow and rather lonely. It was plain, though, that it would be necessary to keep a look-out against such hostile acts as that of Jabwing, who had clearly hoped to get Simon turned out and discredited as a common thief. It was almost, Simon thought, remembering the malevolent gatekeeper and the sour looks of Midwink the valet, as if someone had an interest in keeping him out of Battersea Castle. But why should that be?
Puzzling over this new problem he went home to bed.
7
ONE MORNING, SEVERAL weeks later, Dido waylaid Simon. She had recovered from her fever, but still looked pale, and was shaken from time to time by a dry cough.
‘You never plays with me nowadays,’ she complained. There was a forlorn droop to her mouth, and Simon took pity on her.
‘I’ll tell you what, brat, I shall be free on Sunday afternoon, for Mr Cobb’s yard is closed then and I’ll have finished the other job I’m working on’ – he meant the cleaning of the Rivière, which was nearing completion – ‘so I’ll take you on an outing. What shall it be? A trip down the river on a pleasure-boat? Or shall we go into the country – take our dinners and hunt for highwaymen in Blackheath Woods?’
Dido was enchanted at this offer. Her eyes sparkled and she began to jump up and down on the dirty front steps, hanging on to Simon’s arm in a very exhausting manner, until a fit of coughing obliged her to desist.
‘Clapham Fair! Can we go to Clapham Fair? Pa said he wouldn’t take me, he allus has forty winks on Sunday afternoons, and Ma goes to the Lady Triangulists’ Social, and Pennylope’s gone off … They say there’s a talking pig that’ll answer any question you ask! And there’s whirligigs and flying-boats and giddy-go-rounds and Lambeth cakes and treacle sticks!’
‘All right, all right, don’t deafen me, brat! You shall go to the fair. Only for my sake, will you put on a clean pinafore when we go, and wash your face?’
‘Oh, stuff!’ Dido put out her tongue at him between the railings. Simon waved a hand to her and went whistling away down the street.
The Duke of Battersea was not at home that evening, having been inveigled, for once, into attending a performance at the opera with his lady. Sophie, who sometimes slipped into the library for a chat when Simon was there, had left a note tucked among his cleaning tools, informing him
that she also would be out, escorting her mistress. For fear of being bored, the Duchess would go nowhere without a supply of amusements, reading-matter, and embroidery things, which it was Sophie’s duty to carry. The party would not be home until a late hour.
Simon was disappointed not to see Sophie, but the absence of his Grace’s somewhat fidgety companionship made it easier to get on with the job, and he applied himself with a will, whistling gently between his teeth as he uncovered more and more of the large picture until there was only a patch as big as a top-hat left to clean.
‘Hilloo,’ remarked a supercilious voice behind his shoulder after an hour or two had gone by. ‘How’s the paint-scrubber getting on?’ He turned to see young Lord Bakerloo surveying the cleaning operations somewhat scornfully. He seemed disposed to linger, however, rocking to and fro on his heels, picking up first one, then another of the cleaning tools until Simon longed to tell him to leave them be.
‘How’s old Fur-nose?’ he presently inquired.
Simon replied that Dr Furneaux seemed in the best of health, and civilly asked after Lord Bakerloo’s arm.
‘Can you keep a secret?’ said Justin.
‘Of course.’
‘Well, so can I. Mum’s the word.’ Justin doubled up with laughter at his own wit and added, ‘You won’t see me at that old Academy again for a long, long time, I can tell you.’
Simon made no reply to this, but quietly got on with his work, while Justin wandered about behind him, occasionally singing snatches of a ballad which seemed to consist principally of the refrain:
‘Hip-hap, habble-dabble-oh,
Shall we go
To Haberdasher’s Row?’
until Simon felt there was no place in London that he less wished to visit.
‘Devilish dull here, this evening, ain’t it?’ Justin presently broke off to say. He yawned until his face seemed ready to split. ‘I almost wish I’d gone to the opera with the old gudgeons – not that Aunt Hettie asked me,’ he added sourly. ‘I believe Buckle peached on me; said I hadn’t finished my lessons. By the bye, Uncle Bill charged me with a message to you. I was to ask if you was free to play chess with him on Sunday. Getting jumped-up in the world, aren’t we? My oh me, playing chess with the gentry and nobil-itee.’
