by Simon Raven
‘I see. “Detterlings do not serve”.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘You did. You told it to another, years ago, who told it to me.’
‘Second hand.’
‘You told me first hand, just now…albeit in different words. So I’ll be off, Canteloupe,’ said Fielding. He steered his way past an old and tipsy waiter, who was bringing Canteloupe port in what looked like a goldfish bowl on a stem, and left Canteloupe’s club, more depressed than he had been for a very long time.
That Canteloupe, as foreseen by Leonard Percival at Christmas, was evidently thinking of using lethal or at best underhand means to remove Tullius, did not much surprise or shock Fielding, even though Tullius was his own natural son; for Fielding now knew Tullius to be grossly deficient and although he had attempted a token defence of the boy, he cared little what fate might be spun for him. What did upset Fielding was Canteloupe’s threat to challenge Tully’s paternity in order to disinherit him, as this would amount to breaking an absolute oath of secrecy which had been binding on all three people concerned: Canteloupe, Baby Canteloupe, and himself. But he’ll not do that, Fielding thought: he’d have to admit to sterility, and then any son whom Theodosia might bear would also be disqualified from the inheritance. No, thought Fielding: he’ll keep quiet, wait for Theodosia to be safely delivered of another man’s son (whose?), and then dispose of poor Tully: perhaps fake his death and arrange for him to be somehow and somewhere maintained in secret from the funds left by Max de Freville (which would probably come under Canteloupe’s control after Tully’s ‘demise’); perhaps send him to Doctor La Soeur to ‘catch pneumonia’ and die in good earnest; possibly a combination – an apparent ‘death’ in La Soeur’s nursing home, followed by a shadowy afterlife either there or in some sister establishment on the continent or in the United States.
But whatever Canteloupe might or might not be going to do about Tullius, he had already committed one crime which wounded Fielding so deeply that he could never, he thought, forgive him: he had refused the Regimental appeal, when Fielding had made it to him, for a comrade’s assistance in need; he had repudiated, he had scorned (‘That cock don’t fight’) the plea of Res Unius, Res Omnium, and had thus shamed every man that had ever carried the motto on his cap-badge, the old skull and crossbones, of the 49th Earl Hamilton’s Light Dragoons.
‘Myles Glastonbury, Provost,’ said Len to Tom Llewyllyn: ‘here is his death certificate for your signature.’
‘What did he die of?’
‘No one really knows,’ said Len. ‘Some virus, I suppose. Whatever it was was so fascinating that Balbo Blakeney begged for him to be kept in College and not sent out to a hospital.’
‘I didn’t know Balbo still bothered with science.’
‘From time to time. If he finds something really succulent in what used to be his line. Unusual conditions of mammalian blood were very much in his line, and there was a really macabre condition for him to investigate in poor, young Glastonbury. Quite beyond analysis, Balbo says.’
‘Beyond Balbo’s analysis, I dare say. Did Glastonbury have no other care?’
‘Matron and Doctor Grampion.’
‘The whole thing sounds quite Dickensian.’
‘Precisely, Provost. Which is why you must exercise your powers as Coroner within the College, sign this certificate, and have him put away under the chapel crypt pretty damn quick. His father is happy for him to be buried here,’ said Len, ‘so all should be well; but despite the undoubted validity of your jurisdiction inside these walls, some prying do-gooder or life maniac may get up a fuss at any second, unless we whisk that interesting cadaver to the other side of the Styx.’
‘Where is it now? The cadaver?’
‘In the reserve meat safe. But that will be wanted very soon for the baby lambs for the Feast of the Resurrection, so please, darling Provost, will you sign that damned certificate and authorise instant burial?’
‘All right. You don’t suppose the wood nymphs, the dryads, had a hand in all this?’
‘No, I do not.’
‘Well, what do we say he died of?’
‘Doctor Grampion, who has, after all, been in practice for seventy years and so ought to know a thing or two, has already filled in the cause of death as Corruptio Carnis, i.e. Decay of the Flesh or Body.’
‘Rather…rather a general diagnosis?’
‘Yes, but accurate enough in its way, as you’d see if you looked in on the reserve meat safe. So please, lovely Provost, will you sign that fucking certificate?’
Theodosia had met Palairet, by arrangement, in The Castle Hotel at Taunton. She knew him at once – the solemn, clean-cut boy sitting stiffly on a chair in the hall.
‘Galahad Palairet?’ she said.
He shook hands firmly but shyly, releasing her hand after a split second, as if afraid lest he should crush her bones or offend her by physical contact.
‘My car is outside,’ she told him. ‘I could have driven straight to Burnham-on-Sea and spared you the trouble of a train journey. But there are some things we have to discuss before I meet your aunt. She can put me up?’
‘She is very excited about it.’
‘Then I’ll just make one telephone call, and we’ll be off.’
‘Écoute bien, Galahad,’ said Theodosia, fifteen minutes later, as she drove him by the long way round over the Quantocks. ‘I have found out much that you know nothing of.’ She then told him the full substance and detail of Myles Glastonbury’s story as told by Myles to Fielding, then repeated by Fielding to Carmilla and by Carmilla to herself. ‘So you see,’ she said, ‘you were right to suspect that Marius was in trouble–’
‘–I didn’t suspect, I knew–’
‘–And right to flog your aunt’s telephone account in order to get in touch with someone. I am glad,’ she said, looking straight ahead over the wheel, ‘that in the end it turned out to be me.’
‘So am I, my lady.’
‘Thea…my friends call me “Thea”. And now you see how we are placed. Something is planned, almost certainly, for the day of the Hamilton ’Chase at Bellhampton. We have no idea what, except that it involves Marius, as an ostensible stable lad, and the two horses, Lover Pie and Boadicea. On Myles’ showing, this plan is of comparatively little interest to Prideau Glastonbury; but as far as we know, Prideau has not withdrawn his horse from the race, despite the death of his son, so he must be under some kind of pressure to run it. And that is about all we have to go on. I think that what you saw at Regis Priory was almost certainly some kind of rehearsal or dry run of the first part, or at any rate a part, of the plan for Bellhampton. So can you remember anything particular about that scene in the paddock which you might have forgotten to tell me on the telephone?’
‘I told you that Giles Glastonbury took his hat off to Marius? And Prideau did the same. My aunt was very impressed.’
‘Giles Glastonbury is not involved. He knows nothing about any of it, Myles said. So anything he did would be entirely by the way.’
‘I see. There is one thing. The blanket.’
‘Blanket?’
‘The hindquarters of Lover Pie were covered by what looked like a very heavy blanket. It was a warm day, my lady, even hot. But they left the blanket on until Lover Pie was out on the course. Jimmy Pitts, the jockey, then spoke to Marius – rather sharply, by the look of it – and Marius at once took the blanket off.’
‘And then Lover Pie went off to the start?’
‘Right.’
‘Did you notice anything in particular about the running of the race?’
‘No. I’d had some money on Lover Pie, but he never looked like winning. Auntie said he needed the race.’
‘What about Boadicea?’
‘Very moderate.’
‘No dramas on the course or after the race?’
‘None. Marius went out to meet Lover Pie, put on his blanket, and led him back. Jimmy Pitts took his feet out of the irons and hung his
legs down. He looked a little thoughtful but fairly contented. The race was won by Pearl Barley at six to one, and I’m happy to say that Auntie had a tenner on it. But she shouldn’t really be betting,’ said Palairet in a worried way, ‘in tenners. I hope it doesn’t become a habit.’
‘Neither Pearl Barley nor any of the other runners at Regis Priory are going in the Hamilton ’Chase. Only Lover Pie and Boadicea. But there are,’ said Theodosia, ‘seven other runners declared at four days – luckily my husband takes The Sporting Life, so I was able to check back. That means that there will be nine runners in all, as at Regis Priory. All except Lover Pie and Boadicea are geldings – again, the same pattern as at Regis Priory.’
‘I have to tell you something rude,’ said Pally Palairet, going vermilion.
‘You want to stop for a pee?’
‘No, thank you. It’s something I’ve just remembered. Something Auntie said at Regis Priory. About Boadicea. “That mare,” she said, “is going to be in season at any minute.”
‘My darling boy. Nothing rude in telling me that.’
‘I’m so glad you think so, my lady. I think I’d die rather than upset you after you’ve been so kind, listening to me like you did and coming all this way to help me.’
‘Sweetheart…no, don’t cry. I’m enjoying every minute of it. I know I shouldn’t be, I know I should be thinking of poor Marius and what they might be planning against him, but I’m not made like that, I just like to enjoy things as they come – except for one thing, which I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy, although one day very soon it’ll have to come – but never mind about all that. So… Boadicea, by now, is in season. What do we think about that? Can a horse run when it’s in season?’
‘Oh yes. I said to Auntie at Regis Priory, “What happens if it comes on now?” “If it comes on now,” she said, “it comes on now. She can still run – and go on running.” I’m afraid I’ve got to tell you something else rude, my lady.’
‘Thea… I am not easily shocked.’
‘“Sometimes,” Auntie said, “when a mare in season is running, the boys get all horny…which would be a pity in this case, as Lover Pie would have trouble with the fences – would probably have to be withdrawn. Whacking great peegoes, these stallions have.”’
‘Was that last bit you or Auntie?’
‘Auntie.’
‘I thought so. Funny old-fashioned word, peego. You find it in Victorian pornography.’
‘Ullacote is near here,’ said Palairet: ‘I looked it up on Auntie’s Ordnance Survey. Shall we drive past?’
‘No. They might see us and recognise us – or you at least – and wonder why we were taking so much interest… It’s not Ullacote that matters, Galahad, but Bellhampton Races. This trip is for discussion and general planning, not for reconnaissance.’
‘We don’t seem to have planned very much.’
‘Do you wonder? What have we to go on? A heavy blanket on a warm day, and Boadicea in season. So where does Marius come in? As a stable boy. He’s fond of horses and he’s being trained, during his holiday, to look after them. What could be more suitable and natural? So what can they possibly be up to, and why indeed should they be up to anything? Yet up to something they must be, or else that dismal Myles Glastonbury, who hadn’t an iota of imagination and was as honest as the day is long, would never have said they were.’
‘Ought you to call him “dismal” when he’s only just dead?’
‘Dismal he was. But we had some marvellous games of tennis together. He was a brilliant player and a real sportsman with it. He could have won the Aberdare Cup, you know – he had won it, but then he said his last stroke hadn’t been up, he’d taken it on the half volley of the second bounce, he said. Nobody could believe their ears. But he insisted that the marker declare “deuce” instead of “Game, Set and Match” in his favour, and his opponent won the next two points and the next two games.’
‘I like that story.’
‘I thought you would. Anyway, sweetheart, if Myles said there was something up, there was something up, and since Prideau is keeping his mare in the race despite his bereavement, then there still is. The best we can do is go home to your Auntie, sit tight, ask her everything she knows about the race game in general and mares in season in particular, and then go to Bellhampton ready to jump if the bell rings. I think,’ she said, ‘that others may be there too.’
‘He has a friend called Jeremy Morrison. If he knew–’
‘–He does. My sister Carmilla will have told him by now. It was her I telephoned from Taunton, and she said Jeremy was going to arrive at Lancaster this very afternoon.’
‘And then she will tell him about Marius? Then he must come.’
‘There are no “musts” with Jeremy Morrison. What is this place?’
‘It’s called Roadwater. It has a pretty cricket ground with a stream running past. There it is now.’
Thea stopped the car. Palairet pointed over a gate in a hedge. On the far side of the narrow cricket ground, a ridge rose almost sheer.
‘It must be marvellous in the summer,’ said Theodosia, ‘when the leaves are out all the way up that ridge, hiding it, making a huge, green shield… Where is the stream?’
‘Hidden under a bank, with the bottom of the ridge on the other side of it. The ridge rises vertically from the very edge of the water.’
‘Let’s look.’
Theodosia ambled over the ground, her long, twill-trousered legs making such enormous strides that Palairet had to trot to keep up with her.
‘You’re like the giant with the seven league boots,’ he said, and for the first time since he had met her, a smile came into his thin, prim, serious face.
He ran ahead of her, turned and capered backwards, still smiling. Theodosia smiled back, her wide mouth angled like a boomerang under her kind, brown curving nose.
‘Thea,’ called Palairet softly, ‘Thea,’ as she smiled yet wider.
Very near to them now, the stream rattled down its deep and stony channel. Palairet ran up a bank at the edge of the ground. Thea slipped on her way up the bank and extended her arm with fist clenched, so that Palairet might grasp her wrist and help her. They stood side by side, looking down into the stream, Palairet’s fingers still round Thea’s wrist.
‘According to Auntie’s Ordnance Survey,’ said Palairet, ‘this stream has its source in the hills and runs through the Ullacote estate in its descent. It is called the Ull.’
‘Ah,’ said Theodosia: ‘what message to us from Ullacote, little Ull?’
A hedgehog floated past, belly swollen and burst, entrails spread and writhing in the wake of it like the snakes of the Medusa’s hair.
‘I think you should not have asked,’ said Palairet, taking his fingers from Theodosia’s wrist.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Milo to Tessa.
They were in Tessa’s bedroom in Ullacote. Milo was carrying a large parcel which he dumped on the bed.
‘This is what you must do,’ he said.
He ripped open the parcel.
‘Take off that skirt you’re wearing,’ he said, ‘and put on these.’
He threw her a pair of corduroy trousers from the parcel. Tessa turned her back on Milo and took off her tartan skirt.
‘Don’t turn your back on me. I want to see you.’
Tessa turned to face him and picked up the trousers.
‘I once said that to Marius,’ said Milo. ‘He let me see him. Will you?’
‘If you like.’
‘Ah. Ginger is it, or auburn? Soft, not bushy, like mine. I wish you were a boy, Tessa. I am going to dress you as a boy. Put on these trousers.’
‘I will do whatever you ask; but please ask kindly. When shall you kiss me behind my knee…as you promised?’
‘Tomorrow, when everything is over and our time has come. Now, put on those trousers and you will get all the kindness that is coming to you…tomorrow. Then take off that shirt of yours, and your bra, and bind your breasts as flat a
s you can with this’ – he threw her a sash of grubby towelling – ‘and then put on this’ – a ragged khaki shirt.
‘We shall both,’ he said, ‘be dressed like this tomorrow.’
He passed her a battered pair of blue ‘trainers’ and a foul cloth cap.
‘Can you get all your hair inside?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Now my turn.’ He produced from the parcel a shirt and trousers similar to those in which Tessa was now dressed. ‘You can see me, if you wish. There. Absolutely soft. It’s not that you don’t excite me Tessa – I’ve often got excited when looking at you, though I’ve been careful not to show it – but until tomorrow, you understand, there can be nothing between us. But if all goes well tomorrow…then “Cras amet qui nunquam amavit, Quique amavit cras amet – He that has loved let him love tomorrow, let him love tomorrow that never has yet.” Let her love tomorrow that never has yet. You.’
He began changing into the second pair of corduroy trousers.
‘Brother and sister,’ he said: ‘Sebastian and Viola…or rather Cesario. With Jack Lamprey as Antonio and our dear little friend, Marius, as Olivia…and Orsino.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to. Just obey. You go to bed dressed like you are now. So do I. To make the clothes even more awful than they are already. There will be an early start in the morning. No breakfast, so bring biscuits or chocolate. I shall come for you at six. You must be ready to jump out of bed, dressed in that lot, boots and all, and come with me there and then. No washing or gargling or brushing or combing. The cap will cover your hair anyway.’
‘Milo. These clothes stink.’
‘They’re meant to. Sebastian and Viola…and Cesario…gone gypsy.’
‘Where are we going in the morning?’
‘You’ll see. No questions. No comments or complaints, whatever your distaste or discomfort. Just obedience. All right?’
‘All right.’
‘And then, tomorrow night, when it’s all over, we shall have the transformation scene. I, that was a gypsy, shall be your prince, and you shall be my princess.’
