Birdcage

by Victor Canning

  “Yes. He told me. If that’s the way they want it, what does it matter?”

  “She wants to take me to Cheltenham tomorrow to do some shopping.” She paused, took his hand and caressed his hard brown fingers. “She’s thinking about wedding clothes—hers, and perhaps mine. They haven’t said so directly, but I think they would like us to be married while we’re over here—and from this house. What do you think?”

  “That it’s a first-class idea. But we’ll have to sort it out. You’re a Catholic and I’m not. So it’s either a Catholic church or a Registrar’s office.”

  “I don’t care what it is. Well, yes, perhaps I do. I don’t think a church . . . not after everything . . . Well, you know.”

  “Of course I do. Well, we’ll sort it out. I could go and see your solicitor and he could give me the form.”

  “Then you could drive us to Cheltenham tomorrow and go and see him.”

  “Not tomorrow. Your father’s driving me over to the Wye for a day’s fishing.”

  “Bother. Anyway, in that case, we could have your car and she could drive me into Cheltenham. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” She sat up in bed impulsively and put her arms around him, her face buried against his neck, and said, “Oh, Richard—every now and again it hits me hard. All that’s happened. That I should be so happy.”

  He smoothed her cheek. “You’ve got a lot of happiness due to you. And I’m going to see that you get it.”

  The next morning Farley went into the study to see Colonel Branton, who was dealing with his post before they went off to the Wye. Under his arm Farley carried Lady Jean’s diary, which was wrapped around with newspaper and held by rubber bands.

  Branton tapped the letters on his desk and said, “Dealing with the daily torment. Bills . . . bills.” He nodded out of the window. “We’re going to have a good day—if the fish cooperate. Not too much sun. I phoned just now for the river condition. Just about right. What’s that you’re hugging to your manly bosom?”

  “A present for Sarah. Her birthday is coming up fairly soon.”

  “My God, so it is! Early June. Thank you for reminding me.”

  “I wasn’t doing that, sir. I’ve had it hidden in the car, but they’re both going off in it shopping and I didn’t want Sarah to find it by accident. I wondered if you could put it in your safe for me?”

  “Of course, my boy. The key’s in that old tobacco tin on the bookshelf over there. Don’t bother with security very much. Nothing in it worth a damn. It’s one of Chubb’s museum pieces. Used to belong to my grandfather where—scandal had it—he kept a very fine collection of early pornographic books. If he did then I think my father must have burnt ’em. He was a splendid man but very much mens sana in corpore sano. I must tell Dolly about the birthday. We must do something about it. Have a few people in:”

  “That would be nice. Sarah hasn’t had a lot of company lately.” Farley broke off momentarily, and then said, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “Then you should have. I blame myself to some extent. One of these times—since you’re going to be family—we’ll have a chat about it over a bottle of Croft’s 1955. One of a very few survivors from my father’s cellar.”

  “I’ll look forward to it, sir.”

  Farley got the key of the safe and locked his parcel away.

  As it happened, they discussed the bottle of Croft’s and other things that evening. They drove to the Wye and had a day’s fishing in perfect conditions. Before lunch they had taken a salmon each, both fish hens—Branton’s a ten-pounder and Farley’s a twelve-pounder. Branton recognised at once—with a great deal of pleasure—that Farley was a very good fisherman. He threw a good line, knew how to mend and work it and all the while the fly was in the water there was no let up in his concentration. He played his fish without fuss and with authority and he tailed it by hand, confidently and without hurry. After lunch the Colonel lost a big fish and Farley took another twelve-pounder. Farley drove the Colonel home since he had celebrated with the picnic gin at lunch, so great was his pleasure in his future son-in-law.

  Half an hour after their return Dolly telephoned Branton from Cheltenham to say that, after a successful afternoon’s shopping, they had decided to have an early dinner in Cheltenham and then they were going to the theatre as a treat for Sarah. She was sure that the two of them were perfectly capable of looking after their own evening meal. Which they were. They made a fry-up of eggs and bacon and sausages which they ate with a bottle of an anonymous Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and then retired to the study to deal with the already decanted Croft’s 1955—Colonel Branton in the best of humours and Farley mellow, but in far better command of himself than his father- in-law to be.

  After his first glass of port, Colonel Branton leaned back in his armchair and was silent for a while. Outside the light was going, a blackbird sang joyfully matching the joy which he carried in his own heart. Farley was a good, sound chap and he thoroughly approved of him. He had not missed the fact that he had gone very easy on the gin bottle at lunch, guessing that someone should stay sober to drive home. Damn considerate of him.

  The port in him making any preamble unnecessary, he asked, “You think you can make a do of this Dordogne hotel thing, Richard?”

  “We’ll try. If not in the Dordogne, somewhere else. Sarah’s keen on it. She’ll make a good shot at it. We’ll both do our utmost. Must do. I’ve kicked around for too many years. It’s time I settled myself to a steady job.”

  “You will, you will. Both of you. Wish I were your age and could have another crack of the whip. By God, I’d do things differently. You never know, do you? Just one bad decision and you’re stuck for life on the wrong side of the fence. Few things I got to tell you though. Now’s the time when we’re alone here with the whole place to ourselves.” He pushed the port decanter across the small table between them for Farley to help himself, and laughed. “Not a father-in-law lecture or anything like that. Fact just the opposite as you’ll hear. There I was, you know, good soldier, everything ahead of me. Nothing to stop me. Or so I thought. All the lights showing green. Know what I did?” He raised his glass and drank, watching Farley’s face. Nice chap, pity to make him uncomfortable but damned if he was going to have any hidden nonsense between them. There had been enough of that in the past. Very deliberately he repeated, “Know what I did?”

  “No sir, I couldn’t possibly imagine.”

  “By God, that’s true. Nor could I at the time. Well, I’ll tell you. I tried to do the decent thing. Whether you tell Sarah about this is your business. I certainly shan’t. But you ought to know. You must have heard a lot from her about her mother, Lady Jean?” ‘

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Marvellous woman—but tricky Irish with it. I’d known and loved her for years. She was a wild one, mind you. But I worshipped her. For me she could do no wrong—though she did do wrong, one way and another, most of her life. Not talking out of line, you know, Richard. De mortuis nil nisi bonum. But that doesn’t apply now because you’re going to marry her daughter. . . H He paused, cleared his throat and then went on slowly, “You’re going to marry her daughter—but not mine, Richard. No, not mine and you ought to know it, and what you do about telling Sarah will be your affair absolutely.” He laughed drily. “Bit of a facer, eh? But there it is—you’re entitled to the truth. Only decent that you should know.”

  Farley was silent for a while, and then said quietly, “I think, sir, it would be better if I just sat and listened—except I have to say one thing. I don’t care a damn whose daughter Sarah is. I love her and I’m going to marry her.”

  “Bully for you. Just what I knew you’d say. Well, I’ll give it to you penny plain. Lady Jean tells me one day that she is four months gone with child and the father wouldn’t marry her, though she would have liked him to——for considerations I may say other than love. So I married her and (I’m ashamed to say it now) I agr
eed to accept certain—well, what shall we call them?” he questioned suddenly savagely. “Considerations, sweeteners, promises of sure and pretty fast promotion from the other man. And don’t think he wasn’t in a position to make all his promises good. He was—but once we were married he conveniently forgot or made excuses for not fulfilling the one promise which really meant anything to me. Promotion in due course. In fact, I’ve learnt since that he threw his weight in the other direction. Nice chap, eh? And bloody stupid fool me. Except that I loved her and wanted her. But even that went. It had to.” He refilled his glass to the brim and raised it with a very careful hand to his lips. A trickle of purple wine ran down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Farley looked away from him out of the window. The stars were showing. Two moths were beating at the uncurtained window. He knew, because he had known it before in his life with other men, that there was nothing to be done when the moment came for an outpouring of self-pity. You just sat and listened. Nothing was asked from you but that. The man talking was finding his own comfort.

  “Yes, that went. She never stopped being his mistress.” Branton laughed suddenly. “Skeletons rattling in the old family cupboard tonight, aren’t there? But I was damned if you should start your marriage without the truth. Oh, we kept up appearances, and all that. Right up to the time she died.”

  “Who persuaded Sarah that the life of a nun was for her?” He did not have to ask who Lady Jean’s lover had been. He already knew. That Sarah was also Lord Bellmaster’s daughter made no difference to him, nor would he ever tell her. Of Bellmaster himself he rigidly allowed himself no thoughts. The time would come for that.

  “I don’t know. It was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. One of Jean’s sisters had been a nun. You know the Irish, one to the Army, one to the Church, and one to stay at home and plough the bogs. Sarah seemed taken with it, so I didn’t object. Jean was for it. In her way she was religious. Don’t ask me how a woman sorts that out with her conscience. Don’t ask me now why I ever loved her . . . and, damn it, still do.” He laughed, his manner changing to a surprising mildness and almost apathy. “You’ll think me pretty maudlin. But I just had to get it off my chest. Damned embarrassing for you. I apologise. But—and you must bear with me over this—there’s more to come. When Lord Bellmaster—did I say that was the chap’s bloody name?”

  “No, sir. But I’d already guessed it must be. Sarah’s talked about his always being around her mother.”

  “He’s a right royal bastard. Full of money and power and ambition and God knows what else besides. Thing is, the settlement she thinks’ she’s getting from me comes from him. I could never have afforded it, and why he wanted to make it is his business. Perhaps he had a touch of the guilts. If he did it must have been for the first time in his life. He’ll probably keep it going. I don’t know.”

  Farley lit a cigarette and as he dropped the matchstick into the table ash-tray, he said quietly, “You may not know, sir. But I do. We don’t take a penny of his money. You can just write to us and say things have gone tight financially and you’d had to stop it.”

  “Sounds good, yes. But Bellmaster might have other ideas. Just being done in the eye makes him pretty determined to get his own way.”

  “I don’t care what he wants. I can handle your Lord Bellmaster. And I’m going to.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’d rather not say, sir. Sarah may be his daughter. But she’s going to be my wife.”

  “You’ve got something in mind?”

  “Only Sarah’s happiness. And I can handle Lord Bellmaster.”

  “Well, don’t do anything stupid. I’m sorry I had to saddle you with all this. But you had to know and there was no point in not getting it off my chest as soon as possible.”

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  Lying in bed that night, sleep far from him, Farley slowly came to a decision about what he should do. It was not a decision which pleased him. He would have preferred a face-to-face approach to Lord Bellmaster but he very soon saw this was out of the question. It would achieve little and still leave him with his main decision to make. The man had wrecked Lady Jean’s life, Sarah’s almost, and certainly Colonel Branton’s. He had heard him come stumbling up the stairs long after everyone else was abed. It was curious, he found, that he could . . . what? . . . dislike, despise or condemn Lord Bellmaster so much. A man he had never even seen. He made himself so far as question what his action would have been if he had never met Sarah and had come across the diary purely by chance. Would he have decided then that something must be done to bring the man to justice? Probably not. The situation was too hypothetical to allow a ready answer. The simple fact was that he was involved personally and emotionally because of Sarah, and it was only on that basis that he could make any decision. But he was not going to be damned fool enough to risk wrecking Sarah’s and his life by doing anything without proper advice. Lord Bellmaster had twice committed murder and twice involved Lady Jean. Years ago, maybe, but that did not absolve Bellmaster. Time did not automatically create an amnesty. He was uncomfortable about it. He freely admitted that to himself. He was not going to feel good about it. He could call it his duty . . . any high-sounding, righteous word to support his action. But underneath he knew that there lurked his own primitive personal feeling towards a man he had never seen. One thing he knew for certain, however, was that he would not move a step without legal advice. And for that he had only one acceptable source. Kerslake, or his employer Geddy. They were the Brantons’ family solicitors. They had to be his choice and he would be quite happy to abide by their decision because it would be completely impartial, a matter of law and justice, not sentiment.

  * * * *

  The following afternoon Sarah and Dolly were going out to tea locally with friends, and Colonel Branton, feeling a little off colour from the previous evening’s port, retired to his study for a quiet sleep. Before he settled down into his armchair he unlocked his safe and took from it a faded leather jewel case in which was a small diamond necklace that had belonged to his mother. With the case open in his hand he stood by the safe. Worth quite a bit, he thought. What should it be? Sarah’s birthday or wedding gift? Whichever it was it needed cleaning. Well, Richard was going to Cheltenham and he could take it in to their jeweller’s place and ask them to do it. He had thought of it over lunch, but with Sarah there had not been able to ask Richard to take it for him. Leaving the safe door open he walked out of the house and round to the stable block to find Richard. He gave him the necklace and asked him to take it to the jeweller’s, saying, “You can look at it. Used to belong to my mother. Can’t make up my mind whether to give it to Sarah for a birthday or wedding gift. No hurry anyway.”

  Going back to his study he saw the open safe door and went over to close it. His eyes were caught by the rubber-banded newspaper-wrapped parcel—Sarah’s birthday present—which Richard had put there. Damned odd sort of wrapping for a birthday present. Well, perhaps he was going to make a better job of it before the day. From outside he heard the sound of Richard’s car going down the drive. Not feeling too bright, for on top of his hangover he had taken two stiff gins before lunch and some white wine with it, he felt the heavy prick of sleep in his eyes. Getting old, he thought. Can’t take it the way he had years ago. Drink and dance all night and be on parade sparking with life at six in the morning. To be twenty-one again. Annus mirabilis. All life before you. Damned good job he had not known then how it was going to turn out. He laughed to himself, and then picked up the newspaper parcel. Odd sort of wrapping for a present. Wonder what he was giving her? Damned bad form to take a peep. Part of the wrapping had been worn and partly torn along one of the sides of the parcel. Without tearing the paper further, he eased it back to show what looked like the spine of a book. Old one of some kind . . . worn blue suede. Would not have thought old books were Sarah’s cup of tea. Two words of the title in tarnished goldleaf caught his
eyes— Catharine of Genoa. Religious stuff. Ah well, maybe Sarah was still a little way that inclined. Odd, though . . .? He put the parcel back in the safe and locked the door. Sleep. Two hours sleep and he would be as right as rain. Thank God the women were going out and wouldn’t be chattering about the house. Nice though the way they got on. Dolly was quite perked up and looked years younger. God—he slumped into the armchair —the wedding-talk that was going on! And that reminded him. Have to do something about Bellmaster’s letter. Well, that was one disappointment in store for him. From the way they had been talking it was pretty obvious that Sarah and Richard wanted a quiet affair. Bad luck, Bellmaster . . .

  He put his feet up on a stool and stretched himself out comfortably. Nice the way Richard had handled his fish. Learnt from his father he had said. Bloody awful way he and his wife had gone. Damned wogs . . . He’d tried to teach Jean to fish once. Hopeless . . . everything in a tangle and she’d sworn like a trooper. Old memories and pictures of her floated through his mind. Coming into her room when she was dressing to go out for the evening, bending over and kissing the side of her neck, her hands coming back to touch his face . . . affectionate as you liked when she wanted to be. Long, slender fingers beginning to unfasten the little gold chain with its medallion which she wore always unless she was going to go out decolletee. He dropped into quick sleep and then woke himself almost at once by snoring. From the past, sliding through the labyrinth of memories, he heard her voice . . . Oh, this stupid catch. Darling, undo my Catharine for me. . . . Odd that . . . Catharine. Yes, of course—Catharine of Genoa. Her favourite saint. Funny, where had he seen that name recently? He sighed . . . Pity he had lost that fish. Must have been lightly hooked.

  * * * *

  Geddy, emerging from the depths of a legal document he had been reading, was betrayed into a moment or two of stupidity as he automatically answered his telephone which had rung.

  He said, “Will you please repeat that?”