by Ngaio Marsh
Troy and Alleyn had no trappings to shed and passed directly into the channel of approach.
And there, at the far end on the flight of steps leading to the great saloon, was the Boomer himself in state, backed by his spear-carrier and wearing a uniform that might have been inspired by the Napoleonic Old Guard upon whom had been lightly laid the restraining hand of Sandhurst.
Troy muttered: “He’s wonderful. Gosh, he’s glorious!”
“She’d like to paint him,” thought Alleyn.
The patently anxious Ambassador, similarly if less gorgeously uniformed, was stationed on the Boomer’s right. Their personal staff stood about in magnificent attitudes behind them.
“Mis-tar and Mrs. Roderick Alleyn.”
That huge and beguiling smile opened and illuminated the Boomer’s face. He said loudly, “No need for an introduction here,” and took Alleyn’s hands in both his gloved ones.
“And this is the famous wife!” he resonantly proclaimed. “I am so glad. We meet later. I have a favour to ask. Yes?”
The Alleyns moved on, conscious of being the object of a certain amount of covert attention.
“Rory?”
“Yes, I know. Extra special, isn’t he?”
“Whew!”
“What?”
“ ‘Whew.’ Incredulous whistle.”
“Difficult, in competition with Gilbert and Sullivan.”
They had passed into the great saloon. In the minstrels’ gallery instrumentalists, inconspicuously augmented by a clutch of Gibson’s silent henchmen, were discussing The Gondoliers. “When everyone is somebodee, then no-one’s anybody!” they brightly and almost inaudibly chirped.
Trays with champagne were circulated. Jokes about constabular boots and ill-fitting liveries were not appropriate. Among the white servants it was impossible to single out Fred Gibson’s men.
How to diagnose the smell of a grand assembly? Beyond the luxurious complexity of cosmetics, scent, flowers, hairdressers’ lotions, remote foods and alcohol, was there something else, something peculiar to this particular occasion? Somewhere in these rooms were they burning that stuff — what was it? — sandarac? That was it. Alleyn had last smelt it in the Presidential Palace in Ng’ombwana. That and the indefinably alien scent of persons of a different colour. The curtains were drawn across the French windows, but the great room was not overheated as yet. People moved about it like well-directed extras in the central scene of some feature film.
They encountered acquaintances: the subject of a portrait Troy had painted some years ago for the Royal Commonwealth Society, Alleyn’s great white chief and his wife. Someone he knew in the Foreign Office and, unexpectedly, his brother, Sir George Alleyn: tall, handsome, ambassadorial and entirely predictable. Troy didn’t really mind her brother-in-law but Alleyn always found him a bit of an ass.
“Good Lord!” said Sir George. “Rory!”
“George.”
“And Troy, my dear. Looking too lovely. Charming! Charming! And what, may one ask, are you doing, Rory, in this galère?”
“They got me in to watch the tea-spoons, George.”
“Jolly good, ha-ha. Matter of fact,” said Sir George, bending archly down to Troy, “between you and me and the gatepost I’ve no idea why I’m here myself. Except that we’ve all been asked.”
“Do you mean your entire family, George?” enquired his brother. “Twins and all?”
“So amusing. I mean,” he told Troy, “the corps diplomatique or at least those of us who’ve had the honour to represent Her Majesty’s Government in ‘furrin parts,’ ” said Sir George, again becoming playful. “Here we all are! Why, we don’t quite know!” he gaily concluded.
“To raise the general tone, I expect,” said Alleyn gravely. “Look, Troy, there’s Sam Whipplestone. Shall we have a word with him?”
“Do let’s.”
“See you later, perhaps, George.”
“I understand there’s to be some sort of fête champêtre.”
“That’s right. Mind you don’t fall in the pond.”
Troy said when they were at a safe remove, “If I were George I’d thump you.”
Mr. Whipplestone was standing near the dais in front of the Ng’ombwanan display of arms. His faded hair was beautifully groomed and his rather withdrawn face wore a gently attentive air. His eyeglass was at the alert. When he caught sight of the Alleyns he smiled delightedly, made a little bow, and edged towards them.
“What a very grand party,” he said.
“Disproportionate, would you say?” Alleyn hinted.
“Well, coming it rather strong, perhaps. I keep thinking of Martin Chuzzlewit.”
“ ‘Todgers were going it’?”
“Yes.” Mr. Whipplestone looked very directly at Alleyn. “All going well in your part of the picture?” he asked.
“Not mine, you know.”
“But you’ve been consulted.”
“Oh,” said Alleyn, “that! Vaguely. Quite unofficial. I was invited to view. Brother Gibson’s laid on a maximum job.”
“Good.”
“By the way, did you know your man was on the strength tonight? Chubb?”
“Oh, yes. He and Mrs. Chubb have been on the caterer’s supplementary list for many years, he tells me. They’re often called upon.”
“Yes.”
“Another of our coincidences, did you think?”
“Well — hardly that, perhaps.”
“How’s Lucy Lockett?” Troy asked.
Mr. Whipplestone made the little grimace that allowed his glass to dangle. “Behaving herself with decorum,” he said, primly.
“No more thieving sorties?”
“Thank God, no,” he said with some fervour. “You must meet her, both of you,” he added, “and try Mrs. Chubb’s cooking. Do say you will.”
“We’d like that very much,” said Troy warmly.
“I’ll telephone tomorrow and we’ll arrange a time.”
“By the way,” Alleyn said, “talking of Lucy Lockett reminds me of your Mr. Sheridan. Have you any idea what he does?”
“Something in the City, I think. Why?”
“It’s just that the link with the Sanskrit couple gives him a certain interest. There’s no connection with Ng’ombwana?”
“Not that I know.”
“He’s not here tonight,” Alleyn said.
One of the A.D.C.s was making his way through the thickening crowd. Alleyn recognized him as his escort in Ng’ombwana. He saw Alleyn and came straight to him, all eyes and teeth.
“Mr. Alleyn, His Excellency the Ambassador wishes me to say that the President will be very pleased if you and Mrs. Alleyn will join the official party for the entertainment in the garden. I will escort you when the time comes. Perhaps we could meet here.”
“That’s very kind,” Alleyn said. “We shall be honoured.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Whipplestone when the A.D.C. had gone, “Todgers are going it and no mistake.”
“It’s the Boomer at it again. I wish he wouldn’t.”
Troy said: “What do you suppose he meant when he said he had a favour to ask.”
“He said it to you, darling. Not me.”
“I’ve got one I’d like to ask him, all right.”
“No prize offered for guessing the answer. She wants,” Alleyn explained to Mr. Whipplestone, “to paint him.”
“Surely,” he rejoined with his little bow, “that wish has only to be made known — Good God!”
He had broken off to stare at the entrance into the saloon where the last arrivals were coming in. Among them, larger, taller, immeasurably more conspicuous than anyone else in their neighbourhood, were Mr. Whipplestone’s bugbears: the Sanskrits, brother and sister.
They were, by and large, appropriately attired. That is to say, they wore full evening dress. The man’s shirt, to Mr. Whipplestone’s utterly conventional taste, was unspeakable, being heavily frilled and lacy with a sequin or two winking in its depths. He wo
re many rings on his dimpled fingers. His fair hair was cut in a fringe and concealed his ears. He was skilfully but unmistakably en maquillage, as Mr. Whipplestone shudderingly put it to himself. The sister, vast in green fringed satin, also wore her hair, which was purple, in a fringe and side-pieces. These in effect squared her enormous face. They moved slowly, like two huge vessels shoved from behind by tugs.
“I thought you’d be surprised,” Alleyn said. He bent his head and shoulders, being so tall, in order that he and Mr. Whipplestone could converse without shouting. The conglomerate roar of voices now almost drowned the orchestra, which pursuing its course through the century had now reached the heyday of Cochran’s Revues.
“You knew they were invited?” Mr. Whipplestone said, referring to the Sanskrits. “Well, really!”
“Not very delicious, I agree. By the way, somewhere here there’s another brace of birds from your Capricorn preserves.”
“Not—”
“The Montforts.”
“That is less upsetting.”
“The Colonel had a big hand, it appears, in setting up their army.”
Mr. Whipplestone looked steadily at him. “Are you talking about Cockburn-Monfort?” he said at last.
“That’s right.”
“Then why the devil couldn’t his wife say so,” he crossly exclaimed. “Silly creature! Why leave out the Cockburn? Too tiresome. Yes, well, naturally he’d be asked. I never met him. He hadn’t appeared on the scene in my early days and he’d gone when I returned.” He thought for a moment. “Sadly run to seed,” he said. “And his wife, too, I’m afraid.”
“The bottle?”
“I should imagine the bottle. I did tell you, didn’t I, that they were there in Sheridan’s basement that evening when I called. And that she dodged down?”
“You did, indeed.”
“And that she had — um—?”
“Accosted you in the pet-shop? Yes.”
“Quite so.”
“Well, I daresay she’ll have another fling if she spots you tonight. You might introduce us, if she does.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
And after about ten minutes Mr. Whipplestone said that there the Cockburn-Montforts, in fact, were, some thirty feet away and drifting in their direction. Alleyn suggested that they move casually towards them.
“Well, my dear fellow, if you insist.”
So it was done. Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort spotted Mr. Whipplestone and bowed. They saw her speak to her husband, obviously suggesting they should effect an encounter.
“Good evening!” she cried as they approached. “What odd places we meet in, don’t we? Animal shops and embassies.” And when they were actually face-to-face: “I’ve told my husband about you and your piteous little pusscat. Darling, this is Mr. Whipplestone, our new boy at No. 1, the Walk. Remember?”
“Hiyar,” said Colonel Cockburn-Montfort.
Mr. Whipplestone, following what he conceived to be Alleyn’s wishes, modestly deployed his social expertise. “How do you do,” he said, and to the lady: “Do you know, I feel quite ashamed of myself. I didn’t realize, when we encountered, that your husband was the Cockburn-Montfort. Of Ng’ombwana,” he added, seeing that she looked nonplussed.
“Oh. Didn’t you? We rather tend to let people forget the Cockburn half. So often and so shy-makingly mispronounced,” said Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort, gazing up first at Alleyn and then at Mr. Whipplestone, who thought, “At least they both seem to be sober,” and he reflected that very likely they were never entirely drunk. He introduced Alleyn, and at once she switched all her attention to him, occasionally throwing a haggard, comradely glance at Troy, upon whom, after a long, glazed look, the Colonel settled his attention.
In comparison with the Sanskrits they were, Mr. Whipplestone thought, really not so awful, or perhaps more accurately, they were awful in a more acceptable way. The Colonel, whose voice was hoarse, told Troy that he and his wife had been hard on the Alleyn’s heels when they were greeted by the President. He was evidently curious about the cordiality of their reception and began, without much subtlety, to fish. Had she been to Ng’ombwana? If so, why had they never met? He would certainly have not forgotten if they had, he added, and performed the gesture of brushing up his moustache at the corners while allowing his eyes to goggle slightly. He became quite persistent in his gallantries, and Troy thought the best way to cut them short was to say that her husband had been at school with the President.
“Ah!” said the Colonel. “Really? That explains it.” It would have been hard to say why she found the remark offensive.
A hush fell on the assembly and the band in the gallery became audible. It had approached the contemporary period and was discussing My Fair Lady when the President and his entourage entered the salon. They made a scarcely less then royal progress to the dais under the trophies. At the same time, Alleyn noticed, Fred Gibson turned up in the darkest part of the gallery and stood looking down at the crowd. “With a Little Bit of Luck,” played the band, and really, Alleyn thought, it might have been Fred’s signature-tune. The players faded out obsequiously as the Boomer reached the dais.
The ceremonial spear-carrier had arrived and stood, motionless and magnificent, in a panoply of feathers, armlets, anklets, necklets and lion-skins against the central barbaric trophy. The Boomer seated himself. The Ambassador advanced to the edge of the dais. The conductor drew an admonitory flourish from his players.
“Your Excellency, Mr. President, sir. My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the Ambassador, and went on to welcome his President, his guests and, in general terms, the excellent rapprochement that obtained between his government and that of the United Kingdom, a rapprochement that encouraged the promotion of an ever-developing — his theme became a little foggy round the edges, but he brought it to a sonorous conclusion and evoked a round of discreet applause.
The Boomer then rose. Troy thought to herself: “I’m going to remember this. Sharply. Accurately. Everything. That great hussar’s busby of grey hair. Those reflected lights in the hollows of temple and cheek. The swelling blue tunic, white paws and glittering hardware. And the background, for Heaven’s sake! No, but I’ve got to. I’ve got to.”
She looked at her husband, who raised one eyebrow and muttered: “I’ll ask.”
She squeezed his hand violently.
The Boomer spoke briefly. Such was the magnificence of his voice that the effect was less of a human instrument than of some enormous double-bass. He spoke predictably of enduring bonds of fellowship in the Commonwealth and less formally of, the joys of revisiting the haunts of his youth. Pursuing this theme, to Alleyn’s deep misgiving, he dwelt on his school-days and of strongly cemented, never to be broken friendships. At which point, having obviously searched the audience and spotted his quarry, he flashed one of his startling grins straight at the Alleyns. A general murmur was induced and Mr. Whipplestone, highly diverted, muttered something about “the cynosure of all eyes.” A few sonorous generalities rounded off the little speech. When the applause had subsided the Ambassador announced a removal to the gardens, and simultaneously the curtains were drawn back and the six pairs of French windows flung open. An enchanting prospect was revealed. Golden lights, star-shaped and diminishing in size, receded into the distance and were reflected in the small lake, itself subscribing to the false perspective that culminated, at the far end, in the brilliantly lit scarlet and white pavilion. Vistas of Baronsgate had done themselves proud.
“The stage-management, as one feels inclined to call it,” said Mr. Whipplestone, “is superb. I look forward excitedly to seeing you both in the pavilion.”
“You’ve had too much champagne,” Alleyn said, and Mr. Whipplestone made a little crowing noise.
The official party passed into the garden and the guests followed in their wake. Alleyn and Troy were duly collected by the A.D.C. and led to the pavilion. Here they were enthusiastically greeted by the Boomer and introduced
to ten distinguished guests, among whom Alleyn was amused to find his brother George, whose progress as a career-diplomat had hoisted him into more than one ambassadorial post. The other guests consisted of the last of the British governors in Ng’ombwana and representatives of associated African independencies.
It would be incorrect to say that the Boomer was enthroned in his pavilion. His chair was not raised above the others, but it was isolated and behind it stood the ceremonial spear-bearer. The guests, in arrow formation, flanked the President. From the house and to the guests seated on either side of the lake they must present, Alleyn thought, a remarkable picture.
The musicians had descended from their gallery into the garden and were grouped, modestly, near the house, among trees that partly concealed the lavatorial louvre windows Gibson had pointed out to Alleyn.
When the company was settled, a large screen was wheeled in front of the French windows facing down the lake towards the pavilion. A scene in the Ng’ombwanan wild-lands was now projected on this screen. A group of live Ng’ombwanan drummers then appeared before it, the garden lights were dimmed, and the drummers performed. The drums throbbed and swelled, pulsed and thudded, disturbing in their monotony, unseemly in their context: a most unsettling noise. It grew to a climax. A company of warriors, painted and armed, erupted from the dark and danced. Their feet thumped down on the mown turf. From the shadows, people, Ng’ombwanans presumably, began to clap the rhythm. More and more of the guests, encouraged perhaps by champagne and the anonymity of the shadows, joined in this somewhat inelegant response. The performance crashed to a formidable conclusion.
The Boomer threw out a few explanatory observations. Champagne was again in circulation.
Apart from the President himself, Ng’ombwana had produced one other celebrity: a singer, by definition a bass but with the astonishing vocal range of just over four octaves, an attribute that he exploited without the least suggestion of break or transition. His native name, unpronounceable by Europeans, had been simplified as Karbo and he was world-famous.
He was now to appear.
