by Richard Hull
I have been looking through them carefully. I might take away nominally two or three with me – for of course I shall be away when the fire occurs – and actually I suppose I could manage a dozen without making my shelves unduly bare, supposing my aunt were to notice their bareness; and the trouble is that she might so well notice that sort of thing, for, apart from the natural inquisitiveness I have commented on before, she has brought the art of poking her nose in where she is not wanted to a high pitch of perfection. Besides, I have a strong suspicion that she reads them in secret, for I am sure that she is really as much of a hypocrite as all these people who are given to good works and the Galahad pose, and directly I am away she might start in to contemplate her favourite piece of debauchery and find it missing. I must admit that one or two of them are extremely realistic. If my aunt does read them, it is perhaps just as well that her knowledge of French will prevent her from appreciating the more subtle nuances of the more interesting double ententes.
But be that as it may, it is highly undesirable that her suspicions should be awakened, for unlike the arrangement with her car, it would be very awkward if a search were made in my bedroom and my preparations discovered. Especially as I shall have to use the battery. I tried an experiment with the electric light just once the other night and unfortunately it blew all the fuses in the house. I can’t think what I did wrong, but it was very alarming. Fortunately it was in the middle of the night, so I had plenty of time to put everything away, since no one knew at the time, of course, that anything had happened. I was terrified, though, that I might have started a fire before I intended to! However, after rather an anxious time, I came to the conclusion that all was well, but it was very late before I went to sleep.
Then the next day there was a difficulty. Evans is the only one of the Brynmawr household who is allowed to repair the lighting, and if the discovery that the fuse had gone was left until the ordinary time for turning on the lights, he would have gone home. His cottage is about half a mile away, but that half-mile involves going down the dingle behind the house and up most of the other side. Evans, of course, could come back easily, but I had an uneasy feeling that I should be the person sent to fetch him, in the dark too. Accordingly, I thought I had better make the discovery myself earlier in the day. I thought I might as well kill two birds with one stone, so seeing my aunt doing up a parcel in the hall, I adopted my most winning manner.
‘Surely you can’t see to do that up, can you, Aunt? Let me turn on the light. You mustn’t strain your eyes, you know. It’s so easy to do when one’s not so young.’
And of course the light didn’t go on. Simple. I had to stand a snubbing from my aunt who seemed to resent the implication that she was not still in her teens, but my point was achieved. It was so easy to carry on. ‘Hullo, what’s wrong with the light?’ and to stroll in a nonchalant manner into the dining-room and find that the switch wouldn’t work there either, and then with a gradual crescendo of surprise discover that none of the lights would work, and so send Mary for Evans.
All the while my aunt continued to do up the parcels. ‘Why can’t you go yourself?’ was her only comment. As she had the end of the string in her mouth I made her repeat it before I would admit I heard, and that sort of remark never sounds so biting when you say it a second time.
The parcels, however, suggested rather a bright idea. I took the bull by the horns and, sitting on the oak chest in the hall, swinging the neatly pointed toe of a brown shoe, I dropped a few casual remarks to my aunt which, had she but known, were pregnant with her fate.
‘I’m spending a few days with Innes next week, Aunt Mildred.’
‘Innes? Oh, yes, that rather unpleasant friend of yours with a Bentley he can’t drive. Well, as long as he doesn’t come here, I don’t mind. We should probably have to repaint the whole house next time – unless he knocked it down completely.’
‘How absurd you are! A little mathematical demonstration would prove to you that the room you have left, or rather built up at enormous cost’ (that’s what sticks in my aunt’s throat, the excessive cost of that useless way past the house, entirely due to her desire to use local labour – indeed I believe the whole thing was my aunt’s local relief works for Llwll – as if she was the government!) ‘is far too narrow for Guy’s car.’
‘Guy? Oh, Mr Innes. Well, anyhow, he scraped the paint off the house. There isn’t any paint on that chest, Edward, and it is oak; all the same, if you go on kicking it you’ll take the polish off it and perhaps do more harm than that. If you can’t stand for a moment, sit on a chair for heaven’s sake, or perhaps you won’t do any damage on the stairs if you keep the whole of you on the carpet.’ And here she began to make a coarse comparison between the breadth of the carpet and the room I occupy when I sit down, which I will not repeat.
‘Well, anyhow, I shall go next Tuesday. I thought it would be a good opportunity to take some suits I want pressed and cleaned into Shrewsbury. Drop them on the way and pick them up on the way back. And then the binding of some of my books needs attention, so I’ll take them in at the same time.’
My aunt stared at me. ‘And since when have you decided to go to the expense of having your clothes pressed outside?’
‘Since I came to the conclusion, if you must know, Aunt Mildred, that neither you nor Mary press them very well. Besides, you can’t clean them – now, can you?’
‘No, that’s true, but that’s quite settled all question of pressing them at home for ever until you take that remark back and apologize, Edward.’
‘“The elementary laws never apologize,”’ I quoted flippantly.
‘No apology, baggy knees then. And you know, Edward, a fat person always bulges his clothes more than a thin one. However, just as you please. Your gratitude for the trouble we have spent in ironing your wretched suits is touching, but as for those dirty books of yours – I should have thought a little filth outside would have matched the inside. Still, please yourself. You seem to be getting very rich all of a sudden.’ My aunt slapped down on the table the last parcel. ‘Ah, Evans, here you are. Master Edward’s fused all the lights.’
‘My dear Aunt, I only tried out of the kindness of my heart, which does not seem to be appreciated, to turn on the light to save your eyes and found it wouldn’t go on. Then, having a little common sense, I tried the others and found they wouldn’t, either. Why that should be called “fusing the lights” I can’t think. You don’t even know’ (I picked my pronouns rather neatly) ‘that the lights are fused at all. It may be something else. And why say I fused them? It’s typical, but hardly fair.’
My aunt did have the grace to blush, so far as she can.
‘Sorry, Edward, I’m afraid I was rather jumping to conclusions.’
She really seemed quite confused. No doubt it was very unpleasant for her to have to apologize. Indeed an apology was a joy I seldom extracted from her, and one that was all the sweeter because, had the old fool known, I had fused them. However, I would show her I could be dignified.
‘That’s quite all right. Let’s forget about it, and meanwhile, perhaps Evans will put the lights right.’
Quite a successful morning. It will be extraordinary how many books need rebinding, and how many suits need cleaning! All the same, I wish I had stuck to the point about cleaning and not mentioned the way my clothes are pressed for me here, because, in fact, Mary or my aunt does them quite adequately, and if does save quite a lot of trouble and expense. But there I go again. I keep on forgetting that I am not going to live here much longer, and so it doesn’t matter.
5
After all, I ran quietly into Shrewsbury on the Monday evening. La Joyeuse does not – bless her – hold a great quantity of luggage, and had I taken all the luggage that I intended to take in addition to the suits and books, I should have been hard put to it to find room for it all. Besides, the overloading of the car would have been rather obvious and I did not, as I said before, want to cause any comment.
I have had as it is to do one thing which is a trifle unusual, but very likely it will escape comment. I have locked the wardrobe and taken the key away. I thought of using a drawer in my dressing-table, but I couldn’t get the pile built up nicely in it. Besides, Mary would have been certain to have noticed it when she tidied up my room, whereas I have taken good care that there shall be no reason for her going to the wardrobe. I never do lock the drawers of the dressing-table. I have, you see, a little stoutly built safe which my aunt provided for me many years ago when I first began to possess things which were better locked up, but which I did not wish to keep in the bank. It has been very useful as the hiding-place for these precious pages. (Of course I have taken them with me and am writing this at Guy’s.) Ah, how I wonder what is happening now at Brynmawr! If I was not so many miles away I think I should be climbing up to the roof and straining my eyes for the sight of that bright blaze which I so confidently hope is now raging.
I can imagine the scene this evening. Everything will have gone on quite naturally until after dinner. I suppose my aunt does have dinner when I am away? So many women left to themselves have dreadful scratch meals – on the whole, I expect she does. She has a very proper respect for the conventions, and incidentally a perfectly good appetite. Besides, one of the old curses should this time stand me in good stead. There always has been dinner at Brynmawr on Tuesday evenings, so there always will be. Therefore my aunt will have dinner in solemn state, and after dinner, coffee. That’s when things will begin to happen. Many people find that coffee keeps them awake. My aunt will find that she is incredibly sleepy about twenty minutes after taking hers. I hope she won’t be so sleepy that she goes to sleep in the drawing-room. That’s a disturbing thought, but I don’t think she will, and even if she does, Mary will put her to bed. I hope, though, that the silly girl will not leap to the conclusion that her mistress is ill, and ring up that wretched fellow Spencer!
No, on the whole I think I have worked it out all right. I tried these Somnoquubes first of all in my soup. That was a most unfortunate experiment! They began to work before I had finished dinner! Really, I had the utmost difficulty in keeping awake until the meal was over, and as for staying and drinking coffee, I just couldn’t do it. I should have gone to sleep at once, and I was so afraid I might talk in my sleep. Indeed, I have a very imperfect recollection of what I did say towards the end of the meal. All I really know is that I just managed to plead tiredness and a headache and escape to bed. The next day I discovered that my aunt had thought I was drunk. Indeed, she even routed round in my room and discovered a little absinthe which I had smuggled back with great difficulty and proceeded to destroy it. If she thought I drank that stuff regularly, she was quite wrong, for though I tried hard, having heard such intriguing stories of its effects, I found it, in fact, very nasty. But I don’t want her routing round in my room.
The next time I experimented with the Somnoquubes I took a smaller quantity in my coffee. This time the experiment worked very well. It was rather unpleasant for me, as I had to fight off sleep desperately in order to stay the conventional time with my aunt, but I had the satisfaction of knowing that the effect was to bring on a sleep which seemed natural, and which was certainly overpowering. One does sleep soundly after them.
Soon after taking her coffee then tonight, my aunt will have dragged sleep-laden footsteps out of her ugly drawing-room to her austerely bare, but still ugly, bedroom. And then she will go to sleep, and she will not wake up easily. I have seen to that. At Brynmawr there is no modern coffee-pot. My aunt will not allow such new-fangled things in the house. The coffee is always made in some ghastly archaic way by pouring boiling water on to beans – and I really don’t know if they’re ground or not – and then strained. It is rather a long process, and the established custom from time immemorial is that it is done in the morning for lunch and dinner. For dinner it is heated up again – a statement which surely proves the method a bad one. In the interval the coffee stands in a particular jug on a particular shelf. It would, at Brynmawr. It was therefore easy for me to go into the pantry when Mary was clearing away lunch and slip a delicious Somnoquube into the jug.
I only hope by the way, that the reheating did not affect its properties! I wonder if it is boiled? I think not actually. In which case I expect it will be all right. I should have liked to have asked that medical paper, but one could hardly do that.
But after all, the action of the Somnoquube is only secondary; it is only to make assurance doubly sure. For the fire will start in my bedroom wardrobe. It will soon get a good hold there – I have seen to that – and it will spread to the rest of my room quickly, and to the wainscoting of the wall, and so to the passage and, when once the passage is alight, the way to and from my aunt’s bedroom next door will be cut off. The hall at Brynmawr, you see, is a large open one going up to the roof – with the result that the house is always cold in the winter. The stairs go up from it with the not very broad carpet that my aunt was so facetious about, and at the top a passage-way, divided from the hall only by a balustrade, leads along past my bedroom to my aunt’s room over the drawing-room. The rooms nearer the top of the stairs are spare rooms, and there is also a passage leading to the servants’ quarters and the attic – another unpleasant memory.
When, therefore, the passage outside my bedroom is burning well – and nobody will notice the fire till then – the servants will not be able to get to my aunt’s room, and my aunt will be sleeping soundly. It will be a painless end. These old wooden houses burn so easily. It is dangerous to install electric light. Were not – oh, brilliant thought! – the lights fused only a week or so before? And I shall be miles away. In fact I am miles away finishing these notes. In another forty-seven minutes the fire will start. I wonder how the news will be conveyed to me?
6
The next morning was dull and grey. As I had sat up a good while writing this diary, I was rather tired and sleepy. I should have very much liked to have had breakfast in bed and spent the morning resting, for apart from the shortage of sleep, I expected to have a very busy day in front of me.
But this was impossible. To begin with, though Guy is sympathetic and is able to see what true hospitality is, his family are a little disapproving. Though less Spartan than my aunt, I know that nevertheless he has his difficulties with them which I have no desire to increase – and breakfast in bed is always unpopular. Besides, I must appear completely natural, not a very easy thing to do when you are overtired and expecting peculiar news at any moment. Accordingly, I was just about the normal amount late for breakfast.
All the while I was dressing I expected a telegram; during breakfast I thought it must come – and nothing happened. We started to spend the morning examining some fitting Guy has added to his Bentley and chatting about the latest ideas in gears. I must admit I found it very hard to concentrate. All the time I had one eye on the drive up which, sooner or later, the telegraph boy, I felt, must come. And still he didn’t.
And then an awful thought occurred to me. Supposing after all, nothing happened? Supposing that by some incredible piece of bad luck something went wrong with my machinery, what would happen then? Well, in all probability, nothing would happen. I reassured myself. If nothing happened, nothing would happen. There was no real reason why anyone should go to my wardrobe, and if they did they would find it locked. It was a very stout lock in a well-made, substantial, mid-Victorian piece of furniture. It was unlikely that my aunt would have it broken open. There would be nothing to excite her curiosity sufficiently to overcome her dislike of damaging things. Her sense of economy would prevent her finding me out. Still, perhaps, it would be as well if nothing was heard by this evening, to drop her a line saying that I found I had accidentally taken the key of the wardrobe with me. I didn’t usually worry to tell her that I had arrived safely and she would think it a bit odd, but it would save discovery and I could make my plans anew.
Yet, somehow, there kept creeping into my mind a picture of
my aunt forcing open that wardrobe, of her discovering my arrangements, and then how could I explain them away? However, it’s all right. I am writing these notes just before I return from Guy’s simply because I should like to keep a record, though I have put it badly and shortly, of the suspense I lived through this morning. Now that I know that there is no reason to worry, I cannot recapture the mood of alternating terror and confidence; besides, I do not wish to waste much time. I am anxious – for the first time in my life – to get back to Brynmawr. I am going to go directly after lunch, which will be ready now at any moment. They have put it forward as much as they can so that I may get off.
But I have let my pen run away with me (an absurd phrase, by the way; pens do not run, but let that be), and have not recorded the contents of the telegram. It was very short and not very informative. It simply said: ‘Return at once. Spencer.’
I am sorry Spencer signed it. I have no desire that he should poke his ugly face into the matter, but I suppose Cook or Mary would call him in to see what ought to be done. I hope, by the way, that they are unhurt; although I have some scores to settle with Cook. I do not bear malice against her to that extent. I wonder how they got hold of Spencer, for of course the telephone would be destroyed, but perhaps they managed to make a call to the Fire Brigade just before. Not that that would do any good. It takes many hours to collect the Llwll brigade, I believe, since in the daytime the horses are out ploughing, and at night they have to send round a man on a bicycle to wake them up. But still, it would start a rumour, and probably old Spencer would think it necessary to go and see what had happened.
Ah, lunch is ready. I wonder where, and in what circumstances, I shall continue this!
I shall not forget that journey back in a hurry. As I left Guy’s the sun broke through the clouds, an omen of good significance, I felt. I could almost have cheered, but fortunately I remembered that I must adopt a rather solemn, worried demeanour. A telegram such as that usually means ‘bad news’; at the same time I must remember that I could have, in theory, no knowledge of what the bad news was about. Oh, it was difficult to keep up that pose! I was glad when I was clear of Guy’s; another hour there and I believe that I should have committed the indiscretion of letting him into my confidence, and in view of the facts, loyal though Guy is, that would have been a very definite mistake.
