The Troubadour

by Simon Raven

  ‘Luffham of Whereham is white, Giles, and a Peer of the Realm. He cannot be…rubbed out…like some babu.’

  ‘Just after the war, we settled the hash of several princes and maharajahs who were being difficult.6 Surely a brown maharajah counts as high as a white life baron?’

  ‘All that is necessary, Giles,’ sighed Raisley Conyngham, ‘is to dishonour Luffham of Whereham. He has been gowned, and incidentally enthroned, by the school as Honorabilis. Now it must be firmly demonstrated that he is not.’

  ‘I s’pose that’ll do the trick. How shall you arrange it?’

  ‘His son, Jeremy. Not a respectable person.’

  ‘Everyone knows that already. Jeremy was in quod in Australia.’

  ‘That,’ said Raisley, ‘was not, nor will be, enough to dishonour his father. Lots of peers’ sons go to prison every day for dope.’

  ‘Jeremy went to prison for buggery.’

  ‘No. For making an immoral proposition; and anyway that was in another country which is known to consist of yobs and philistines, and where even the judges have comic accents. No one will give Jeremy’s conviction in Australia a second thought, Giles. But they will give it a first thought, and this will tell them that he is not quite the thing. I have that on which to build an engine of infamy powerful enough to bring even Luffham of Whereham into the dust.’

  ‘Tell.’

  ‘In the course of his career, Jeremy has been the lover of Carmilla Salinger and could have been the lover of Piero Caspar. Both of them are dead – not of food poisoning, as was originally thought, but of some unknown cause. I am going to have it put about, in a few weeks’ time, that they committed suicide by overdose because they found that they were infected with this new and incurable sexual disease…the one that comes from America, or from Africa, nobody seems certain of its genesis, though they do know its immediate cause, which is sodomy active or passive. So. I am going to have it put about, I say, that Salinger and Caspar did their own quietus make because they were infected with this disease by Jeremy Morrison, who is now generally recognised, though never convicted, as a sodomite – and who still lives to spread the infection. And at the same time it will also be put about, Giles, that Luffham of Whereham has been using his power and influence to have the whole thing – the infection and the suicides and the loathsome part of his son Jeremy in all this – to have the whole thing, Giles, hushed up and buried, deep down and for ever.’

  ‘I see,’ said Glastonbury, with admiration. ‘But you will require at least a modicum of evidence to support your story.’

  ‘Marius Stern. Another lover of Carmilla, a close friend of Piero, and from childhood an idoliser of Jeremy. He is in a position to report on things he has seen and heard, things, he will say, that sent him post, post haste to Doctor La Soeur, who was mercifully able to report that in his case there is no sign of infection. (As it happens, he has recently been to La Soeur for a general check-up, so that part of the story is as true as it needs to be.)

  ‘Now, the fact’ (continued Raisley Conyngham) ‘that Marius himself is so far safe does not, of course, prejudice the credibility of what he claims to have seen and heard. Nor need his utterance be specific. My purpose is to stir up a poisonous miasma of RUMOUR, Glastonbury, not to present chapter and verse.’

  ‘Marius, I am told,’ said Glastonbury, ‘very much loved Carmilla and Piero, and, as you yourself say, idolises Jeremy Morrison, never mind his prison sentence. Marius will never consent to spread such a story, in however vague a version, and however hard you try to persuade him.’

  ‘No,’ said Raisley, ‘he will not.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘That will do for today, Mr Kark,’ from the junior tennis pro. ‘Your game’s coming along nicely, sir.’

  ‘Teresa, often known as Tessa, Malcolm,’ Raisley Conyngham said, ‘is now my ward.’

  ‘The more fool poor old Maisie.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Teresa is my ward. Teresa has known Marius from a child. She is, although she doesn’t yet know it, Marius’ half sister. There are two ways at least in which she could persuade Marius to do my bidding.’

  ‘Proceed. Two ways at least, you said.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about the two I have in mind when I decide which one of them to use. Nothing like a little suspense to hold one’s audience, Giles. I’ll tell you how I shall require Teresa to proceed at the same time as I tell you whom to talk to when recommending me for the headmastership and what to say to them.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Glastonbury, looking into the black tennis court, which appeared to him (just for a moment) like a huge tomb waiting for a monstrous cadaver. ‘Just one more question. Whatever it is you want Tessa to do, in order to make Marius sing his dirge of death by Eros, how can you be sure – can you be sure? – that she will do it? She don’t like you, Conyngham, not one bit.’

  ‘If Teresa does not do as I ask her in respect of Marius, I, as her guardian, shall prevent her from ever again seeing Theodosia Canteloupe, whom she worships with her whole soul and her whole body.’

  Giles Glastonbury shuddered.

  ‘Ever again? She will be free of you in two years.’

  ‘By the time she is of age, she will not wish to see Theodosia Canteloupe…or to be seen by her. Verb. sap. sat., as the grammar books have it.’

  Giles Glastonbury shuddered again.

  ‘What makes you think,’ he said, ‘that I shall keep this to myself?’

  ‘Because of two or three dainty tales I wormed out of Doctor La Soeur…about your private habits and their consequences…the most untidy of which he used, on occasion, to clear away for you.’

  ‘La Soeur has always hated you. He would tell you nothing.’

  ‘Now Doctor La Soeur has retired,’ Raisley said, ‘he finds, as others do, that he has sadly miscalculated the amount of money required for otium cum dignitate. In the circumstances, he is prepared to put aside his former distaste for me providing I come bearing precious gifts. But you need have no fear at all, Giles, of your being dishonoured, so long as you keep my confidences and speak as I shall ask to your friends and relations in the matter of this headmastership.’

  ‘Which is so important to you that if necessary you will make these heartless and horrible demands of Marius and Tessa?’

  ‘I have not yet told you precisely what I shall demand of Teresa.’

  ‘You have told me the penalty you will impose if she refuses. That is enough to be going on with. By the Prophet, Raisley, though we did some atrocious things in Special Intelligence in India, we were lily-white boys, “clothed all in green-ho-ho”, compared with you.’

  As Fielding and Jeremy climbed winding steps and then walked along a track towards the eastern gate of the Castle of Buffavento, Fielding, who had envisaged the visit as a feast of memory, began perversely to think of money instead.

  He had done little serious work of late. He had long ago spent every single penny that he had had from Canteloupe in return for ‘exercising his discretion’ about Paolo Filavoni, the orphan hobbledehoy from the marshes near Oriago, who could, if properly informed and supported, have claimed Canteloupe’s coronet; and now Fielding’s quaint honour prevented him from demanding more. Or again, some time since he had raised a considerable sum from Ptolymaeos Tunne for the sale of some ‘curious’ documents that had to do with the scabrous Venetian antecedents of the Filavoni business; but almost all of that was gone, and Ptolymaeos, from whom he might have wheedled a further fee ex gratia, was now dead of a surfeit of laughter for more than twelve months.7 There was no question of it, he told himself, as Jeremy and he walked across a stone court and under an arch and then into the refectory of the castle, no question at all: once back in England he must either set himself to work again, or raise a large loan, preferably interest free, from Jeremy, on the strength of his holding in Buttock’s Hotel.

  This despondent sequence of thought was interrupted by a cumbrous nudge in his left lung from Jeremy’s p
udgy elbow and a low but querulous rebuke from Jeremy’s huge, round face.

  ‘Since it was you that wanted to come here,’ Jeremy complained, ‘and since we have delayed our journey home by three days in order that you should, you might at least pay some attention to this castle and to me.’

  So Fielding raised his head and paid some attention to both. Out of the windows to the left and south of the refectory he saw a vertical drop to the car park, and below that a long sweep, first almost sheer, then merely steep, then gradually gentler and gentler, of wooded mountainside, which at last subsided on to a coloured plain. From the windows to the right, he saw trees and stones descend in a cascade to a narrow belt of shore, against which lay a blue, still sea.

  ‘That was what excited me last time,’ he said to Jeremy. ‘We are on the spine of the ridge. Where we are standing, the Crusaders stood, far from England and far from Jerusalem, and longed for home. But there is something else; I know there is something else.’

  They went through the refectory, along a gallery which ended with a sharp right turn into a brief, dark corridor and then down a narrow, plunging staircase. At the bottom of this they emerged into a grove of pines, in the middle of which was a tiny garden of dingy flowers and surly shrubs. Through these a path led crookedly to the end of the garden, where, in a plot of yellow grass just under the encircling pines, were two upright slabs and a box tomb.

  Fielding backed away. ‘We should not have come,’ he said; ‘I should not have persuaded you to come. I remember this place now.’

  ‘Rather pretty,’ said Jeremy: ‘shabby, yet pretty.’

  ‘That tomb. Bad joss.’

  ‘What sort of language is that?’ Jeremy said.

  ‘I once had a friend – I still have, I suppose – called Leonard Percival. He was a soldier and a spy and a lot of other things, all over the world. That was his phrase:“bad joss”. Chinese, I think.’

  ‘Meaning bad luck?’

  ‘Meaning much more. Meaning an evil influence that clings. Once you are infected with it, as I was by that tomb, the bad joss clings, defiles, corrupts…consumes.’

  ‘Then let us turn round and go away from it.’

  ‘It may be too late. Now that I have seen it again.’

  ‘There is some writing on it. The characters are Hebrew, I think. Shall I –’

  ‘NO. Turn, as you say. Turn and walk.’

  ‘How long did the bad joss cling last time?’

  ‘For many weeks.’

  ‘But on that occasion you went closer, I think… Evidently it is not lethal.’

  ‘No. It just creeps over you like a film of pus, making you so slimy and filthy and miserable that you can think of nothing else.’

  ‘What finally gets rid of it?’ Jeremy said.

  ‘In my case, last time, an act of human charity performed by another towards me.’

  ‘Then I shall have to see what I can do for you in my way,’ said Jeremy lightly as they went back through the refectory, ‘if needed. Incidentally, old thing,’ he continued as they descended the steps to their taxi in the car park, ‘do you know who or what was in that tomb?’

  ‘A Graeco-Cypriot-Jewish schoolboy, who had been ripped in half by EOKA terrorists. ’8

  Tessa Malcolm came down to Green to watch the 1st XI at practice in the nets. When they were done, she raised her arm to Marius, who joined her presently.

  ‘Sad news,’ Teresa said: ‘Thea writes that Canteloupe is ill. Anno Domini, she says.’

  ‘Anno Domini? But Canteloupe is not an old man as these things are reckoned nowadays.’

  ‘I know. She means wear and tear, I think.’

  ‘Wear and tear?’ said Marius. ‘He saw hardly any action during the war – or so his friends have hinted. He was under no great strain in the House of Commons. My father did almost all the work in their publishing firm, Stern and Detterling. What is all this…wear and tear?’

  ‘Guilt for a wasted life – and a selfish one. Canteloupe has not done an action which he can be proud of since he made his double century on this ground in the Thirties. Even his cricket came to very little.’

  ‘He is said to have cut the ball finer than any man in England.’

  ‘As often as not straight into the hands of first slip. Theodosia says,’ said Tessa, ‘that he played some county matches when he was in the Army before the war, but only a very few after it…and in either period made no real impression. He was too flashy – so Thea’s father used to say – too inconsistent, even at his best artistic rather than effective… And once he was in Parliament, though he was not, as you say, under much of a strain, he could only get away for club matches at weekends. Anyhow, by then he wasn’t asked to play in anything better.’

  ‘And so now he is a sick and disappointed man?’

  ‘The collapse of Cant-Fun hasn’t helped.’

  ‘Theodosia will give him money.’

  ‘He would sooner have his own. That…celebration…he received during the Butterfly Match – it was like a last gift of the gods before the shades began to gather.’

  ‘It is too soon to say that, Tessa. He may very well recover.’

  Marius started to walk across Green towards the wicket at its centre (his privilege as a Major Blood) and invited Tessa to walk with him.

  ‘There is another problem,’ Tessa said: ‘Rosie has become infatuated with Canteloupe. Who is to tell her?’

  ‘Tell her what?’

  ‘That Canteloupe is sinking. “Sinking” was one of the words which Thea used in her letter.’

  ‘You, as her friend, must tell her.’

  ‘Not you as her brother?’

  ‘Brothers should have nothing to do with sisters’ infatuations. You tell her, Tessa. Please.’

  ‘Very well, Marius.’

  ‘Shall you go down there at half quarter, you and Rosie?’

  ‘I do not know. Theodosia has said nothing about that. The house is very sad, she said. The old man, Leonard Percival, is visibly decaying. In the Campanile, the crack in Old Mortality widens daily and makes the chime more and more harsh… malignant. Canteloupe lies in bed, and the men about the grounds neglect their work, shaming and wasting the gifts of summer.’

  ‘Could not Theodosia see to that?’

  ‘Theodosia is grieving for her sister.’

  ‘She seemed all right,’ said Marius, ‘when she was here for the cricket.’

  ‘Often people do not take in the finality of death until days or weeks have passed. Only then, perhaps, do they recall how they ignored or hurt the dead person, and feel the hideous remorse that must come when one can no longer beg or earn that person’s forgiveness. I know, Marius: my mother died in January: I am now tortured that I cannot soothe, explain, make up. Prayer is no use; one yearns to speak to the dead, not to God. The only cure is love.’

  ‘Then surely…you and Theodosia might cure each other.’

  ‘I doubt it. I must tell you, Marius: Theodosia has begun to fall in love.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘There is a girl from an island in the Adriatic – she came to take care of Nausikaa. When we were there, she was Rosie’s friend rather than mine. Rosie and Dobrila – that is her name – went on walks with Nausikaa. Canteloupe, who loves Nausikaa, usually went with them, but he would tire with walking, and would rest at some convenient point while they went the long way round. Thus Rosie was often alone with Dobrila – not counting the infant Nausikaa – and they became close. Now Dobrila has written, with what little skill in English she has, to ask Rosie’s advice. It seems that Theodosia is now…making up…to Dobrila, who does not understand what is happening. She is a very simple girl, you see. So what is Rosie to tell Dobrila? And what am I to tell Rosie about Canteloupe?’

  ‘If it is any comfort to you,’ Marius said, ‘Theodosia is probably seeking distraction from grief…and from the cruel remorse you have just described to me.’

  ‘It is of no comfort, Marius.’

  ‘
I suppose not. I do not know what anyone is to tell anyone, Tessa. “Thou woulds’t not think how ill’s all here about my heart. ”’

  ‘“Nay, good my lord,”’ said Tessa softly, taking Horatio’s part in the exchange and touching Marius’ arm.

  ‘Raisley Conyngham is up to something,’ Marius said. ‘I do not know what. He is glittering with excitement. I know that whatever is to happen will involve me. He spoke me fair and spoiled me during the holidays: now I shall have to pay.’

  When Jeremy Morrison arrived home at his house near Luffham in Norfolk, the front door was opened by the ‘Chamberlain’, an ancient and interfering family servant, who, for the first time since Jeremy could remember, uttered nothing save a bare and formal greeting. When Jeremy attempted (for he was fond of the old man) to engage him in talk, the Chamberlain grunted and led Jeremy straight to his father.

  ‘Ah, Jeremy, dear boy,’ Luffham of Whereham said; ‘two things have cropped up in your absence. First, your little spree abroad has cost you four fifths of the money which I handed over to you, some time back, when making over the house and the estate. It seems that you left the brokers without instructions in the event of emergency. They will acquaint you with the sad details.’

  There was a long silence, while Jeremy shuffled about.

  ‘The land is still ours?’ said Jeremy at last.

  ‘Just. Secondly, I have seen fit to procure a place for our Chamberlain in an alms house in Norwich which grants easy admittance to old soldiers.’

  ‘But why, Father? This will break his heart.’

  ‘It is, as you will soon discover, a necessary economy. His keep was substantial; his depredations from household supplies – or what should have been household supplies – positively criminal. He is lucky to get off with an alms house in Norwich.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have sent him back to Canteloupe? He was Canteloupe’s soldier servant, you remember, and it was Canteloupe who recommended him to us.’

  ‘Having been away, you will not know that Canteloupe is in no position to start taking on extra staff. Canteloupe himself is ill, Theodosia is stricken by the death of her sister –’