Lady Emmeline and the Swansong Caper

by Anna Reader

  “I was just telling Emmie that I thought we might head down to Mason’s Cottage this weekend, darling. It’s been so long since we’ve all had a few days in Cornwall together.”

  “Capital idea,” Lord Alverstock replied, tucking his napkin into his collar and preparing himself for a hearty breakfast. “As it happens, I was just reading in the paper that there’s going to be a fete in Clovelley over the weekend in honour of that Hardy fellow. You know, the author of all those dismal novels. The man himself may even attend, apparently - trailing corpses, no doubt.”

  “Truly, Pa?” Purdie replied, suddenly fizzing with excitement. She had always been an ardent admirer of Hardy’s work, and had even contemplated changing her name to Bathsheba when she was in her early teens. Algie was very fond of him too, and had flirted with his own, mercifully brief, “Angel Clare” phase – which had largely consisted of him buying a boater, earning some pocket money on the local dairy farm during the summer holidays, and spurning the advances of any young woman foolish enough to make doe-eyes at him (of which there were far too many, for his liking). Thankfully, that had all died a death when an errant cow had trodden on his foot - very nearly ruining his chances of opening the batting for his School’s father and son exhibition match that August – and he was now content to enjoy Hardy’s fiction from a safer distance.

  “So it says,” Lord Alverstock replied, directing his daughter’s attention to the article in question. “It promises to be an excellent day, by all accounts.”

  “Oh, jubilate,” Purdie declared, eagerly scanning through the piece for more details, and by now absolutely determined to make a weekend of it.

  “Well, then,” Lady Alverstock said, wreathed in smiles, “I shall telephone Algie directly. I’m so pleased.” And with that, she left the room.

  “Did you say you’re going golfing, Pa?” Purdie inquired, tearing herself away from the announcement section of The Times, once she had reassured herself that Gussie hadn’t done anything rash. “If we’re heading down to Mason’s Cottage on Saturday, shouldn’t we get cracking with the old heist?”

  “The siren’s song of the green calls to me, my love,” her father replied with a dramatic flourish of the nine-iron. “However, entre-nous, I’ve got Algie’s bit of kit stuffed in my golf bag, and I thought we could drop it off at the Gallery en route. Fancy caddying?”

  “Love to, Pa – but don’t you think people would be rather surprised to see a gentleman wheeling his golf clubs around an exhibition?” Purdie asked, doubtfully. “Do you think we’d be striking an appropriate note of discretion?”

  “One of the few advantages of being a peer of the realm, Emmeline,” Lord Alverstock replied, “is that one can be as eccentric as one likes. As dear Jane would say, for what do we live but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”

  “For what indeed, Pa?” Purdie acknowledged. “I must say it sounds like an excellent plan, but alas, I am expected elsewhere this morning. This fiasco with Gussie has gone quite far enough – I’m going to have to take more Drastic Action.”

  “Don’t kill the poor boy, for heaven’s sake,” Lord Alverstock cried. “We’re far too busy with Sir Reginald to contemplate disposing of bodies.”

  “Of course I’m not going to kill him,” Purdie snorted. “I’m simply going to make him fall in love with someone else.”

  “Ah. Well. That sounds more like it. No easier, mind you, but less call for weaponry.”

  “You’d hope so,” Purdie added doubtfully, “although one never can be sure. Will you be able to manage stashing the tripod solo, Pater? Shall I postpone?”

  “I shall be fine, my love,” Lord Alverstock reassured her. “What could be easier than secreting a tripod in a public broom-cupboard? I’ll be in and out and on the course in no time.”

  “Only if you’re sure,” Purdie replied doubtfully “I hate to leave you in the lurch, but this business with Gussie is the absolute pits, Pa.”

  “My darling, say no more,” her father reassured her. “It is in the literal and figurative bag.”

  “Well, alright,” she conceded. “Hold on a mo, and I’ll get you that key. I must say, I don’t know where Nurse finds these people, but the locksmith had it ready in under three hours.”

  Purdie had, you see, entrusted the minty imprint to Nurse Annie, the woman who had faithfully shepherded Purdie and Algie through their tender years until the time had come for them to be sent away to school. She was, as Algie often said, an absolute brick – un-shockable, loyal to a T, and always ready to enter into the spirit of a good-natured caper, as long as it kept her charges safely entertained. Nurse Annie may have been approaching her eighties, but she was still as sharp as a tack and, frankly, one of the best-connected women in London after decades of raising the city’s children.

  “I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if dear Annie was running some kind of underground crime syndicate, utilising the skills she will doubtless have accumulated tending to you and your vile brother for all those years,” Lord Alverstock observed, only half in jest. “Remarkable woman.”

  Purdie left her father in the hall concealing the tripod under a case full of pristine golf-balls, and made her way to the McVities at a brisk pace. If Gussie’s first encounter with Laetitia hadn’t been enough to turn his head, then she would simply have to accelerate matters. “After all,” she said aloud to herself, as she marched towards Nightingale Road, “it did the trick for Beatrice and Benedick.”

  She pulled the bell cord, straightened her navy-blue cloche hat, and waited.

  “Darling one,” Pongo’s exquisite mother cried, bursting past the servant to envelope Purdie in a perfumed embrace, “what a lovely surprise! We didn’t have a moment to speak last night, so I’m jolly glad you’ve come.”

  Mrs McVitie – an eternally youthful, pixie-like woman - fixed Purdie with a look full of meaning, and shepherded her into the house. “What time is it? Too early for a bracer? Surely not – come into the drawing room and I’ll explain the whole to you.”

  This unexpected turn of events rather took the wind out of Purdie’s sails, and before she had time to gather her thoughts, she found herself sitting on a chaise-long and looking on in astonishment as Mrs McVitie whipped up one of her notoriously potent drinks, all the while talking ten to the dozen.

  “It’s Laetitia you see, darling – she’s absolutely in pieces this morning. Apparently, she bumped into Gussie Featherington-Blyth last night, and what was once a youthful tendresse has developed into a raging Passion. She has been in floods of tears all morning, and wasn’t able to eat even a morsel of kedgeree at the breakfast table – really, it’s absolutely desperate. Try this.”

  Mrs McVitie thrust a goblet into Purdie’s ready hand. Her mixing was nothing if not experimental, but somehow, she always managed to pull it off - and this was no exception.

  “It’s actually jolly good,” Purdie said, looking down at the green concoction in surprise. “Dare I ask what’s in it?”

  “No idea,” Mrs McVitie replied cheerfully, settling down into a chair with satisfaction, and taking a sip from her own vessel. “Anyway, my angel,” she continued, returning to the theme of unrequited love, “I simply don’t know what to do with poor Lettuce. One feels one ought to intervene, but I can’t force Gussie to be as potty about her as she is about him.” In truth, Mrs McVitie was in her element – years of crafting the amorous escapades of her fictional highwayman, Rupert Sinclaire, had given her a taste for match-making, and whilst her heart bled for dear Lettuce, emotional drama was decidedly Her Thing.

  “You might well be able to, with a few of these,” Purdie retorted, glancing down at her drink. “Anyway, if Laetitia is in such a state about him, then that’s half the battle won. Gussie has already acknowledged that she is jolly pretty, and frankly I think they’d deal very well together. They are both as batty as one another, as far as I can tell.”

  “She’s not batty, precisely,” Mrs McVitie said
thoughtfully. “Perhaps a little jumpy, but she’s charming company when one gets talking to her. She knows an awful lot about Norse mythology.”

  “And flower arranging, so I hear,” Purdie continued. “Which I believe could be extremely useful. If we could only get Mrs Featherington-Blyth’s blessing, Laetitia would be in with a very good chance indeed. You know how Gussie dotes on his mother.”

  “I know,” Mrs McVitie declared, leaping up from her seat, “I shall ring up Mrs Featherington-Blyth and ask her to join us at Kew Gardens for tea today. Then she and Laetitia can get chatting…”

  “And I can go to the Featherington-Blyths’ to work on Gussie,” Purdie added, finishing the thought.

  “I shall get on the blower at once,” Mrs McVitie cried. “Such fun. Do help yourself to a top-up.”

  Pongo and her mother almost collided in the doorway, and, as Mrs McVitie dashed to the hall telephone, her daughter drifted into the drawing room.

  “Hallo, old fruit,” Pongo said to Purdie as she settled into an arm-chair and lit a cigarette. “You slipped off very quickly last night.”

  “Yes, sorry about that,” Purdie replied, with a rueful smile. “It was Gussie, you see – he planted a kiss on me just as that Dashwood man was leaving the party. Too shame-making.”

  Purdie tried her best to speak with insouciance, but Pongo knew her friend well enough to understand that she was genuinely rather upset about the whole affair.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, old girl,” Pongo replied, heartily. “Peter works for Scotland Yard, you know – he’ll have seen it all before.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about,” Purdie retorted. “I don’t much care to be man-handled in any circumstances, and certainly not with an audience. Anyway,” she continued, warming to her theme, “it was terribly ungallant of Gussie.”

  “I suppose Ma’s told you about Laetitia,” Pongo said through gritted teeth. “She’s been moping about all morning, pale as a sheet. Not a morsel of kedgeree for breakfast – most peculiar.”

  “Yes, your Ma mentioned the kedgeree. You know, I really don’t think I could ever feel too wretched for haddock,” Purdie added thoughtfully. “In any case, your mother is going to invite Mrs Featherington-Blyth to go to Kew Gardens for tea. Will you come with me to see Gussie, Pongo? Help me demonstrate that Lettuce is the One For Him, so to speak?”

  “I suppose I ought to,” Pongo replied. “Sounds as though you two need a chaperone - we’ll never get him to focus on poor old Laetitia if he’s busy trying to pounce on you.”

  Purdie shuddered. “That must never happen again,” she said, decisively.

  Mrs McVitie came bouncing into the room, wafting her cigarette-holder about in expressive delight.

  “Mrs Featherington-Blyth has accepted the invitation. She said that Laetitia is a charming girl, and that she would very much enjoy having an opportunity to talk to her at greater length about her hydrangeas. This bodes very well indeed.”

  “One of us had better warn Lettuce,” Pongo said, clearly hoping it wouldn’t have to be her. “If she’s seeing Gussie’s mother in a couple of hours then she had better stop crying and drag a comb through her hair.”

  “Would you mind, darling?” Mrs McVitie said, looking sweetly up at her only daughter. “I’ve already spent an hour with her today, and I’m desperate to do a spot of writing before we go out. I’ve left Rupert in an extremely precarious position, you see, and if I don’t lend him a hand he’ll be going to the gallows by sundown.”

  “Oh, all right,” Pongo said with a sigh, “but Purdie has to come with me.”

  The two girls made their way rather anxiously up the stairs. Neither was one to get herself in a pickle over a young man, so the idea of comforting a hysterical romantic was not an appealing one. Pongo was typically of the “Have a Whisky and Pull Yourself Together” school of thought - which she feared may not do the trick in this instance - and Purdie couldn’t even begin to understand why people experienced such crushing despair over members of the opposite sex. As far as she was concerned, the only thing worthy of that kind of emotional investment was a good book. Weeping over “Tess of the D’Urbevilles” she could understand – weeping over the vagaries of young men like Gussie, however, was anathema to her.

  “What ho, Lettuce!” Pongo said with bracing bonhomie, as she and Purdie crossed the threshold into Laetitia’s boudoir. “How are you faring?”

  “Oh, hallo, Pongo,” Laetitia replied, glumly, looking up from her cross-stich through damp eye-lashes, “I was just trying to keep myself occupied – you know.”

  “Jolly good idea,” Pongo said, edging into the room slowly whilst remaining extremely close to the door – she was certainly not prepared to relinquish her escape route. “I always find that a quick hand of poker does the trick…but I’m sure needlework has very similar qualities in that regard. Cheaper, too.”

  Purdie, who could see that her friend was already struggling with the duties of agony aunt, stepped bravely in to the breach. “I’m not sure if you’ll remember me, Lettuce,” she asked, as she eased herself into the rocking chair by the window. “I believe we were both at Marmaduke’s summer party last year – the name’s Purdie.”

  “Yes, I remember you,” Laetitia replied, her spirits evidently refusing to be buoyed by this reunion. “You bowled Jimmy Ramsbottom during that cricket match.”

  “Quite right!” Purdie confirmed, delighted by the memory of this scalping. “Jimmy’s a very useful left-hander too, so it was really quite exciting… Anyway,” she pressed on, keenly aware that she mustn’t be distracted by the memory of past glories, “we’ve come to talk to you about Gussie.”

  A look of anguish passed across that pale face, and Pongo was most alarmed to see a shimmering tear trickle from one green eye. “I say,” she yelped, anxiously looking around for a handkerchief, “no need to blub, old girl. We bring Good News.”

  Laetitia sniffed, and looked disbelieving. “I don’t know what you could possibly offer by way of consolation,” she said, trying to sound tragic but in fact just appearing rather petulant. “I distinctly overheard Fruity Beauchamp tell Rolo that she’d heard that Gussie was secretly engaged – and if that’s true, then my life is over.”

  “Engaged! Gussie!” Purdie cried, aware that her voice was verging on the hysterical. Gussie would really be for the high-jump if he’d breathed a word to Fruity, renowned as she was as one of the worst gossips in West London. “What rot! In fact, he made a point of telling me that he thought you looked absolutely ravishing last night, framed by those armfuls of gyp. Which hardly sounds like the language of a betrothed gentleman, does it?”

  “What?” Laetitia breathed, clutching at her chest in frantic disbelief. “No – he can’t possibly have meant me. He is so magnificent, and I am so….so….”

  “Neat,” Pongo said encouragingly, panicking once again in the face of such raw emotion.

  “Perfect for Gussie,” Purdie intervened, trying to rescue the situation once again. “I really think that you’re made for one another – and I’ve never heard Gussie describe anyone as being “ravishing” before. Really, it’s quite something.” It was also a complete bouncer. Gussie had described plenty of women in the most fulsome of terms, and as for Lettuce – he had half acknowledged that she was an extremely pretty girl, but one would hardly go so far as to say he had been bowled over. Purdie, however, was not above a little white lie, given the circumstances. Two women’s futures hung in the balance, after all.

  “Look,” Purdie said, trying to recall Laetitia from her blissful reverie. “Pongo’s Ma has invited Mrs Featherington-Blyth to join the pair of you for tea in Kew Gardens this afternoon. If you can win her over, then Gussie’s heart is yours.”

  “Is he terribly close to his mother, then?” Laetitia asked, hopefully.

  “More paralysed with fear, I’d say,” Pongo snorted, again not quite managing to say the right thing. “She’s a complete battle-axe.”

 
; “Yes,” Purdie interjected, giving Pongo a stern look, “they are very close. So, first things first. Wash your face, change your dress, comb your hair, and prepare for battle.”

  As Laetitia nervously touched the scar on her forehead, Purdie realised that warfare may not have been the most appropriate analogy. Still, it seemed to have galvanised the girl, as Lettuce peeled herself from her chair, took one look in the mirror and hurtled off to the bathroom to try to repair the effects of a morning’s weeping.

  “Neat?” Purdie laughed once Lettuce was out of ear-shot, rocking in the chair and finishing the hair-raising drink Mrs McVitie had handed her downstairs. “You are one of life’s great motivators, Pongo.”

  “I’m afraid I panicked, rather,” Pongo said with a rueful smile. “You know I’m not terribly good at emotional conversations – they always make me feel distinctly unwell.”

  “Well, it seems to have done the trick here, at any rate,” Purdie replied. “I’ll just finish this bracer, and then I think we should pay young Augustus a visit.”

  “Purdie! Oh, and Pongo – hallo.” Gussie abandoned the newspaper article on the nation’s economy which he had been wrestling with in vain, and rose to his feet as the two women were shown into the library. He couldn’t quite conceal the disappointment at finding he was to have his beloved’s rather intimidating best friend playing chaperone – yet given the distinctly cool way in which he and Purdie had parted the previous evening, it was an enormous relief to see her at all. “Won’t you sit down?”

  The girls each settled onto a sofa in front of Gussie, and smiled up at him in unison.

  “Super party last night, Pongo,” Gussie offered as a way to break the ice. “Do thank your Ma for me – thrilled to have been invited, of course.”

  “Don’t mention it, dear boy,” Pongo replied. “In fact, I believe that our mothers are spending the afternoon together in Kew, so I’m quite sure Mrs Featherington-Blyth will pass on your thanks.”