by Ruth Edwards
‘Well, wasn’t he unmasked?’
‘No, it doesn’t seem to have been reported in the national papers, just the local Kent newspaper. Gooseneck found out about it through a retired old retainer who lived in the area. After that Fagg was divorced. He sold the shop, of which he was the owner by then, and moved into ffeatherstonehaugh’s as a resident. The rest we know.’
‘So his private means?’
‘Can’t be much. Old-age pension and whatever remains of his modest capital.’
‘Unless he’s played the stock market with great brilliance.’
‘Unlikely, since…Come in. Yes. I’ll be up at once. Got to go, Robert. Bye.’
Amiss wandered disconsolately out of the phone-booth, full of unanswered questions and a desire to be part of the action. The blunt instrument obstinately refused to reveal itself and he doubted if there were any more revelations to be got out of anybody. He was aching to tell his friends about the Gooseneck episode, but since it was of human rather than police significance he didn’t feel entitled to waste their time during a busy day. He had enjoyed being able to tell Sunil all about it at lunch, though he had been a little worried by the way Sunil had then gazed at Gooseneck throughout the meal with evident hero-worship. They couldn’t really be, could they?
He walked slowly back to his gallery-duties, by this time in the afternoon virtually non-existent—and had just got to the top of the stairs when he saw Gooseneck advancing towards him carrying a large package.
‘I was looking for you, Robert. Come into the library for a minute. There’s something I want to show you.’ They retired behind the erotic-drawings cabinet and Gooseneck tore open the cardboard to reveal a lap-top computer. ‘Look, I couldn’t resist getting this for Sunil. Won’t he be thrilled?’
‘Of course he will.’ Amiss’s unease persisted. He couldn’t warm to the notion of a Gooseneck-Sunil love affair: the potential for pain seemed too great.
Gooseneck had put the machine back in its box. He leaned against the wall and surveyed Amiss appraisingly. ‘You don’t seem very enthusiastic, Robert.’
‘Oh, I am. I am. It’ll be marvellous for Sunil. It’s terrifically generous of you.’
‘I know what’s wrong with you. You think I’m screwing him, don’t you?’
Amiss realised he respected Gooseneck too much to lie. He looked at him squarely and said, ‘Yes.’
‘I thought you did. Of course, you’re quite right. But as I think people always say at such a time as this, it isn’t the way you think it is.’
‘And how do I think it is?’
‘I suspect you believe me to be a corruptor of minors. And in that, of course, you are technically right, as the age of consent is twenty-one.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Amiss, who took it, accepted a light, drew deeply and then said, ‘Oh Christ, I’d forgotten. I’ve stopped.’ He stubbed it out and threw it in the fire.
‘Goodness! I must have unnerved you, dear boy. Well, in sum, I do not lay hands on my staff, however much they attract me. Much of my paltry income goes on rent boys—one of my few weekend leisure activities. They’re already corrupted. Sunil, however, fell in love with me and I with him through our discovery of a common taste in literature and a strong need for affection. Sunil is an unregenerate homosexual—you note I do not say “gay,” a word which has been infamously ghettoised—and he appears to find me, at this stage of his life, to his taste.’ He inhaled deeply, expelled the smoke and threw the cigarette in the fire. ‘Might I draw your attention to a poem by Rochester? Perhaps you know it? “A song of a young lady to her ancient lover.”’
‘I’ve read it.’
‘Ancient person,’ [began Gooseneck], ‘for whom I
All the flattering youth defy,
Long be it ere thou grow old,
Aching, shaking, crazy, cold;
But still continue as thou art,
Ancient person of my heart.
And so on: the sentiments, if not the sex, of young Sunil.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr…Damn! What the hell am I supposed to call you now?’
‘A fair question, Robert. With my new-found self-respect I may decide to refuse any longer to be called by that ridiculous name. Although I really don’t notice it any more. My real name is Harry Cameron. Sounds a bit like the hero of a boys’ school story, doesn’t it? Please call me Harry, except when on duty. It might confuse the natives.’
‘Very well. I was about to say, Harry, that I was accused by some friends last night of being sanctimonious. It seems to be the effect this place has had on me. Sunil is lonely and I’m sure you’re good for each other.’
‘A pretty and affecting speech. I shall see you at supper, shall I? Simple but excellent sausages and mash for the pork eaters.’
‘Have you had any reactions to this morning’s turn of events?’
‘You will have observed that at lunch they were all well behaved. I haven’t heard a peep.’
‘I thought they were having a council of war this afternoon,’ said Amiss. ‘Four of them got together over a couple of decanters of port and I listened to what I could. Fishbane and Fagg seemed simply embarrassed. Chatterton pulled their legs slightly and said they had better be careful not to get on the wrong side of you again and Glastonbury didn’t know what the hell anyone was talking about. I think they’re cowed.’
At that moment Mauleverer tottered in and made for the armchair beside the fire. ‘Ah! Gooseneck,’ he said, showing no surprise at seeing the head waiter standing in the library wearing a slightly battered but decent sports jacket and corduroy trousers and lighting a cigarette. He sat down and addressed Amiss. ‘Can you get me some tea, young man? And a slice of fruit cake, please. Make sure it’s Dundee, and moist.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said Amiss.
‘Oh yes, and would you be so kind as to fetch me The Economist from the table over there?’
‘Certainly.’
There was no Economist on the table. All the other serious journals to which the club subscribed but which no one read lay there, virgin. Amiss looked around the rest of the room and returned to Mauleverer.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s not here. Somebody must have taken it.’
‘Taken it? The Economist There isn’t anyone left in this club who reads anything more demanding than the Racing Times or tits and bums magazines. Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure, sir. But I’ll look in the Smoking Room. Perhaps somebody took it in there.’
‘Oh, it may be. It may be,’ said Mauleverer. ‘Perhaps our friend Fagg is looking for enlightenment about the role of the Vietnamese in the Second World War, or by chance Glastonbury is investigating recent discoveries of esoteric viruses.’
‘I’ll check it out, sir.’ Amiss and Gooseneck withdrew.
‘Mauleverer’s all right,’ said Gooseneck. ‘He was only ever annoying—not actually bad.’
‘What about his fraudulent activities?’
‘He ripped off a firm of disreputable City stockbrokers to the tune of about a million pounds and spent it on high living—yachts, mistresses, that sort of thing. I think actually he’s in the true spirit of the old ffeatherstonehaugh’s. Perhaps if he’d been around more, he might have held the club together. I shall see you shortly.’ He moved towards the lift and then turned back and said, ‘Oh, by the way. From now on, you use the lift whenever you like. If anyone protests, refer them to me.’
‘My hero,’ said Amiss.
***
‘I have a hypothetical blunt instrument for you, Ellis.’
‘Yes?’
‘This week’s Economist. It’s gone missing from the library.’
‘That’s it,’ said Pooley. ‘The forensic people told us that they had found a trace of paper in his nostrils. I’ll find out whether The Economist is the right size and weight. Keep looking for it.’
‘Presumably it was thrown out by the murderer,’ said Amiss. ‘Anyway, you’re the scavengers.�
��
‘I’ll have to get the facts first,’ said Pooley. ‘If they think you’re right I suppose we’ll have to send in another team to scour through the garbage again. Goodbye.’
‘Ellis!’ shouted Amiss. ‘Stop!’
‘What, what? I can’t stop and talk, Robert. I’m in a hurry.’
‘Will I be seeing you tonight? I’m going mad here. I have to know what’s going on.’
‘Oh, yes, yes. The usual, I suppose. Turn up when you can and we will when we can. Bye.’
Amiss returned to the gallery and gave Mauleverer his tea and cake along with apologies for the delay.
‘No, no, don’t apologise,’ said Mauleverer. ‘It’s quite all right. Just one thing. Tell me, is the tea Sri Lankan? And strong?’
‘Of course, sir. That’s what you always have in the afternoon.’
Mauleverer smiled affably. ‘Don’t be too hard on me,’ he said. ‘You and Gooseneck must allow us our little eccentricities and then we will allow you yours. Perhaps you would now be so kind as to fetch me a copy of the Financial Times? I trust Cully Chatterton has not appropriated it in order to check out casino share prices.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Amiss was fretful and impatient as the evening wore on. Supper was spent in silence, for Sunil was absent and Gooseneck was at the far end of the table doing his managerial duties by a couple of nervous new waiters. Caught between Ng and Wu, who together had about seventeen words of English, all to do with food, Amiss retired into feverish speculation and self-questioning, oblivious to the excellent meal and the multilingual cries of appreciation around him.
‘I don’t need you tonight, Robert,’ said Gooseneck at the end of supper. ‘We’ve only got a handful of customers. I think Blenkinsop’s death has scared off most of the outsiders.’
‘Oh, but I don’t mind staying on none the less.’
‘I don’t need you,’ said Gooseneck firmly. ‘You’ve been working ridiculously long hours and you should take time off when it’s available. Go and read a book or go to the motion pictures or do whatever it is you like to do in your spare time, preferably outside this benighted building. You’re in the place far too much.’
Amiss trailed off miserably, wondering how to fill in the hours until meeting Milton and Pooley. He went upstairs to look for Sammy Pike, who’d been directing operations in the club all day, but he and his men had left. He was unable to resist ringing the Yard for an update of news. Milton’s direct line didn’t answer: Pooley’s did.
‘Oh, I’m so glad you rang, Robert. I tried to leave a message for you, but that old cretin wouldn’t take it.’
‘Ramsbum?’
‘Yes. My fault. I forgot the rules and said I was a friend and he said he didn’t hold with servants having friends.’
Amiss was too inured to Ramsbum’s awfulness even to get cross. ‘Well, what was the message? What gives?’
‘I’m sorry. You’re not going to like this, but we can’t make tonight.’
‘Oh shit!’
‘We’ve got endless meetings and there’s an absolute mass of material coming through that’s got to be sifted and sorted and we’re not going to get out of here before midnight. Due back eight hours later. We just won’t be fit to talk, Robert. I’m sorry.’
‘Any news so far?’
‘Yes. Looks like you’re right on The Economist—right size, shape and paper. But Sammy holds out no hope of finding it. They’ve had an absolutely fruitless day at the club. Look, I’ve got to go. We’ll be along tomorrow. Probably mid-morning. Try to be on duty.’
As Amiss emerged from the phone booth, Ramsbum was standing with his hands on his hips, looking wicked. ‘Look here, young Robert, this isn’t good enough. Someone tried to leave a message for you earlier. I ’ad to tell him that servants have no right to have messages left for them unless they’ve got a dead granny. You know that perfectly well. If I were to do my job properly I’d report this to the Colonel.’
‘Oh, piss off, you old fart,’ said Amiss. He stomped up the stairs into the Great Saloon. He felt utterly bleak. The cavorting nymphs and shepherds, the Regency bucks, the courtesans, even Rochester, struck a sordid note in a vast building out of which life had long gone. He trudged up the stairs to the deserted gallery and thence into the empty library where Blenkinsop had died. He wandered around looking for distraction or solace, but he was too restless for the serious journals and too sated with the literature of sex. If I really were a poet, he thought, this would be the time to write my elegy. To depress himself further he took out Johnson’s Lives of the English Poets and re-read his denunciation of Rochester:
Thus in a course of drunken gaiety, and gross sensuality, with intervals of study perhaps yet more criminal, with an avowed contempt of all decency and order, a total disregard to every moral and a resolute denial of every religious obligation, he lived worthless and useless, and blazed out his youth and his health in lavish voluptuousness; till, at the age of one and thirty, he had exhausted the fund of life, and reduced himself to a state of weakness and decay.
‘Oh, fuck,’ said Amiss. ‘I need a drink.’
***
Twenty minutes later, out of uniform, Amiss walked past Ramsbum in silence and headed for the bright lights of Piccadilly. He was in a state of complete indecisiveness, seeking distraction but with no inclination for it. He wandered aimlessly until he reached a cinema offering three films, two about sex and one about death. He found the themes too reminiscent of ffeatherstonehaugh’s to be bearable. He drifted on to Piccadilly Circus. Eros, recently refurbished, perched brightly in the centre, surrounded by hordes of the kind of people who got youth a bad name. He went into Regent Street to get away from them and on an impulse decided to have a cocktail at the Café Royal. He leaned on the bar and ordered their ‘Original Champagne Cocktail,’ a concoction of brandy, Grand Marnier, angostura bitters, champagne and other odds and ends, and appraised his surroundings.
The place was essentially rococo, full of half-naked plaster ladies decorated in blue paint and gilt, while the furniture was red plush and cane. Very Fishbane, thought Amiss. The walls were festooned mainly with photographs of the famous dead who in their heyday had frequented that bar: Noel Coward and Fred Astaire and minor royals and bright young things. They gazed out at their audience toothily or greeted each other frothily and insincerely. Wandering around, Amiss chose as his favourite record of bygone days the affectionate picture of Lady Throckmorton and the Maharajah of Jaipur.
He looked around for a comfortable seat and chose one beside two extremely attractive young women. It might have been an association of ideas that led him this time to order ‘Between the Sheets,’ whose mixture of brandy, white rum, cointreau and lemon juice gave him little pleasure. The two girls, however, were great compensation. He became riveted by their lively dissection of an acquaintance. In Charles’s favour was his family (loaded), his family dogs (‘utterly divine beagles’), his sister Sarah (‘an absolute sweetie’), his horsemanship (‘won the point-to-point last Saturday’), his job (wine shipper—took him away to ‘heavenly places’), and his car (‘absolutely fabulous little MGB’). Against him were his looks (poor old Charles inherited Granny St John’s nose), his stupidity (‘honestly, Peter said he was always the dimmest boy in the class’) and his passion for practical jokes (‘I mean, darling—apple-pie beds at our age!’).
Amiss was meditating ordering a third drink and trying to muscle in on them, when they both jumped to their feet crying, ‘Charles, you absolute poppet. How wonderful to see you,’ and flung themselves upon a tall, braying person with an absolutely hideous nose.
Plunged back into gloom by this new evidence of the innate hypocrisy of the upper classes, he marched over to the bar, demanded and paid his large bill and walked out. He stood irresolute on the pavement, half tempted to get the tube to his friend O’Hara’s pub, where distraction was absolutely guaranteed and the carousing would go on till 4 a.m. However, he was reluctant to render
himself completely useless the following day. He idled back to Piccadilly Circus and strolled up Shaftesbury Avenue, reading the notices of plays he would never get round to seeing and looking at pictures of actors whom he didn’t recognise. He strayed into Soho. After long exposure to the ffeatherstonehaugh library he was unmoved by even the most comely of the hookers. After five attempts, he found a pub without deafening music or fruit machines, but its peace was soon shattered by the arrival of the drunken dregs of somebody’s leaving party. Screams of laughter about what Sharon had said to Mr. Boyd and what he had said to Sharon seemed promising, but despite assiduous eavesdropping, Amiss could make no further sense of their conversation. In the end he was driven out by their noisy incomprehensibility.
By the time he reached Piccadilly Circus again it was ten-thirty. The young—both foreign and domestic—were sitting in their dozens around Eros, gaping—most of them in silence—at each other. As he passed into Lower Regent Street, Amiss wondered if any age group was exempt from the misanthropy which appeared to have overwhelmed him. He recognised that he was suffering from a surfeit of institutional living, sexual frustration and a severe lack of the company of those he loved, but this awareness brought little comfort.
He turned into Pall Mall and looked appraisingly at the clubs as he passed them: it seemed months since he had first ventured into clubland with Pooley. He looked at the stately Athenaeum, from which seemed to emanate the certainty that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world, and he tried to imagine how its members had coped with ffeatherstonehaugh’s wicked travesty of their noble building. He ambled past the Travellers’ and the Repeal, and saw a cheerful group descending the stairs of the Reform. Presumably a go-ahead club like that, the only gentlemen’s club in London to have admitted women as equal members—and that after only a hundred and forty years—would have coped better than most with the ridicule that ffeatherstonehaugh’s architectural pastiche must have brought. He began to smile as he contemplated the outrage that must have prevailed when the joke was first made public and so reminded himself what a very good joke it had been. As he sauntered into his dwelling, he even favoured Ramsbum with a smile: he received in exchange a glower which combined venom with wariness.
