by Ngaio Marsh
“It’s nothing. Rather a bore, really. Just that the — ah — the publishers are going to do something quite handsome in the way of illustrations and they — don’t laugh — they want my old mug for their frontispiece. A portrait rather than a photograph is thought to be appropriate and, I can’t imagine why, they took it for granted one had been done, do you know? And one hasn’t.”
“What a pity,” Nicola sympathized. “So it will have to be a photograph.”
“Ah! Yes. That was my first thought. But then, you see — They made such a point of it — and I did just wonder — My friends, silly creatures, urge me to it. Just a line drawing. One doesn’t know what to think.”
It was clear to Nicola that Mr. Period was dying to have his portrait done and was prepared to pay highly for it. He mentioned several extremely fashionable artists and then said suddenly: “It’s naughty of dear Agatha Troy to be so diffy about who she does. She said something about not wanting to abandon bone for bacon, I think, when she refused — she actually refused to paint…”
Here Mr. Period whispered an extremely potent name and stared with a sort of dismal triumph at Nicola. “So she wouldn’t dream of poor old me,” he cried. “ ’Nuff said!”
Nicola began to say, “I wonder, though. She often—” and hurriedly checked herself. She had been about to commit an indiscretion. Fortunately, Mr. Period’s attention was diverted by the return of Andrew Bantling. He had reappeared in the drive, still walking fast and swinging his bowler, and with a fixed expression on his pleasantly bony face.
“He has come back,” Nicola said.
“Andrew? Oh, good. I wonder what for.”
In a moment they found out. The door opened and Andrew looked in.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said loudly, “but if it’s not too troublesome, I wonder if I could have a word with you, P.P.?”
“My dear boy! But, of course.”
“It’s not private from Nicola,” Andrew said. “On the contrary. At the same time, I don’t want to bore anybody.”
Mr. Period said playfully: “I myself have done nothing but bore poor Nicola. Shall we ‘withdraw to the withdrawing-room’ and leave her in peace?”
“Oh. All right. Thank you. Sorry.” Andrew threw a distracted look at Nicola and opened the door.
Mr. Period made her a little bow. “You will excuse us, my dear?” he said, and they went out.
Nicola worked on steadily and was only once interrupted. The door opened to admit a small, thin, querulous-looking gentleman who ejaculated: “I beg your pardon. Damn!” and went out again. Mr. Cartell, no doubt.
At eleven o’clock Alfred came in with sherry and biscuits and Mr. Period’s compliments. If she was in any difficulty would she be good enough to ring and Alfred would convey the message. Nicola was not in any difficulty, but while she enjoyed her sherry she found herself scribbling absent-mindedly.
Good Lord! she thought. Why did I do that? A bit longer on this job and I’ll be turning into a Pyke Period myself.
Two hours went by. The house was very quiet. She was half-aware of small local activities: distant voices and movement, the rattle and throb of machinery in the lane. She thought from time to time of her employer. To which brand of snobbery, that overworked but always enthralling subject, did Mr. Pyke Period belong? Was he simply a snob of the traditional school who dearly loves a lord? Was he himself a scion of incredibly ancient lineage — one of those old, uncelebrated families whose sole claim to distinction rests in their refusal to accept a title? No. That didn’t quite fit Mr. Period. It wasn’t easy to imagine him refusing a title, and yet…
Her attention was again diverted to the drive. Three persons approached the house, barked at and harassed by Pixie. A large, tweedy middle-aged woman, with a red face, a squashed hat and a walking stick, was followed by a pale girl with a fashionable coiffure and a young man who looked, Nicola thought, quite awful. These two lagged behind their elder, who shouted and pointed with her stick in the direction of the excavations. Nicola could hear her voice, which sounded arrogant, and her gusts of boisterous laughter. While her back was turned, the girl quickly planted an extremely uninhibited kiss on the young man’s mouth.
That, thought Nicola, is a full-treatment job.
Pixie floundered against the young man and he kicked her rapidly in the ribs. She emitted a howl and retired. The large woman looked round in concern, but the young man was smiling damply. They moved round the corner of the house. Through the side window Nicola could see them inspecting the excavations. They returned to the drive.
Footsteps crossed the hall. Doors were opened. Mr. Cartell appeared in the drive and was greeted by the lady — who, Nicola saw, resembled him in a robust fashion. The sister, Nicola thought. Connie. And the adopted niece, Moppett, and the niece’s frightful friend. I don’t wonder Mr. Period was put out.
They moved out of sight. There was a burst of conversation in the hall, in which Mr. Period’s voice could be heard, and a withdrawal (into the “with-drawing-room,” no doubt). Presently Andrew Bantling came into the library.
“Hullo,” he said. “I’m to bid you to drinks. I don’t mind telling you it’s a bum party. My bloody-minded stepfather, to whom I’m not speaking, his bully of a sister, her ghastly adopted what-not, and an unspeakable chum. Come on.”
“Do you think I might be excused and just creep in to lunch?”
“Not a hope. P.P. would be as cross as two sticks. He’s telling them all about you and how lucky he is to have you.”
“I don’t want a drink. I’ve been built up with sherry.”
“There’s tomato juice. Do come. You’d better.”
“In that case…” Nicola said, and put the cover on her typewriter.
“That’s right,” he said, and took her arm. “I’ve had such a stinker of a morning — you can’t think. How have you got on?”
“I hope, all right.”
“Is he writing a book?”
“I’m a confidential typist.”
“My face can’t get any redder than it’s been already,” Andrew said and ushered her into the hall. “Are you at all interested in painting?”
“Yes. You paint, don’t you?”
“How the hell did you know?”
“Your first fingernail. And anyway Mr. Period told me.”
“Talk, talk, talk!” Andrew said, but he smiled at her. “And what a sharp girl you are, to be sure. Oh, calamity, look who’s here!”
Alfred was at the front door, showing in a startling lady with tangerine hair, enormous eyes, pale orange lips and a general air of good-humoured raffishness. She was followed by an unremarkable, cagey-looking man, very much her junior.
“Hullo, Mum!” Andrew said. “Hullo, Bimbo.”
“Darling!” said Désirée Dodds or Lady Bantling. “How lovely!”
“Hi,” said her husband, Bimbo.
Nicola was introduced and they all went into the drawing-room.
Here Nicola encountered the group of persons with whom, on one hand disastrously and on the other to her greatest joy, she was about to become inextricably involved.
CHAPTER TWO
Luncheon
Mr. Pyke Period made much of Nicola. He took her round, introducing her to Mr. Cartell and all over again to “Lady Bantling” and Mr. Dodds; to Miss Connie Cartell; and, with a certain lack of enthusiasm, to the adopted niece, Mary or Moppett, and her friend, Mr. Leonard Leiss.
Miss Cartell shouted: “Been hearing all about you, ha, ha!”
Mr. Cartell said: “Afraid I disturbed you just now. Looking for P.P. So sorry.”
Moppett said: “Hullo. I suppose you do shorthand? I tried but my squiggles looked like rude drawings. So I gave up.” Young Mr. Leiss stared damply at Nicola and then shook hands — also damply. He was pallid and had large eyes, a full mouth and small chin. The sleeves of his violently checked jacket displayed an exotic amount of shirt-cuff and link. He smelt very strongly of hair oil. Apart from these fea
tures it would have been hard to say why he seemed untrustworthy.
Mr. Cartell was probably by nature a dry and pedantic man. At the moment he was evidently much put out. Not surprising, Nicola thought, when one looked at the company: his stepson with whom, presumably, he had just had a flaring row; his divorced wife and her husband; his noisy sister; her “niece,” whom he obviously disliked; and Mr. Leiss. He dodged about, fussily attending to drinks.
“May Leonard fix mine, Uncle Hal?” Moppett asked. “He knows my kind of wallop.”
Mr. Period, overhearing her, momentarily closed his eyes, and Mr. Cartell saw him do it.
Miss Cartell shouted uneasily: “The things these girls say, nowadays! Honestly!” and burst into her braying laugh. Nicola could see that she adored Moppett.
Leonard adroitly mixed two treble martinis.
Andrew had brought Nicola her tomato juice. He stayed beside her. They didn’t say very much but she found herself glad of his company.
Meanwhile, Mr. Period, who, it appeared, had recently had a birthday, was given a present by Lady Bantling. It was a large brass paperweight in the form of a fish rampant. He seemed to Nicola to be disproportionately enchanted with this trophy, and presently she discovered why.
“Dearest Désirée,” he exclaimed. “How wonderfully clever of you: my crest, you know! The form, the attitude, everything! Connie! Look! Hal, do look.”
The paperweight was passed from hand to hand and Andrew was finally sent to put it on Mr. Period’s desk.
When he returned Moppett bore down upon him. “Andrew!” she said. “You must tell Leonard about your painting. He knows quantities of potent dealers. Actually, he might be jolly useful to you. Come and talk to him.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what to say, Moppett.”
“I’ll tell you. Hi, Leonard! We want to talk to you.”
Leonard advanced with drinks. “All right, all right,” he said. “What about?”
“Which train are you going back by?” Andrew asked Nicola.
“I don’t know.”
“When do you stop typing?”
“Four o’clock, I think.”
“There’s a good train at twenty past. I’ll pick you up. May I?”
His mother had joined them. “We really ought to be going,” she said, smiling amiably at Nicola. “Lunch is early today, Andrew, on account we’re having a grand party tonight. You’re staying for it, by the way?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“I’m sure you can if you set your mind to it. We need you badly. I’d have warned you, but we only decided last night. It’s an April Fool party: that makes the excuse. Bimbo’s scarcely left the telephone since dawn.”
“We ought to go, darling,” said Bimbo over her shoulder.
“I know. Let’s. Good-bye.” She held out her hand to Nicola. “Are you coming lots of times to type for P.P.?”
“I think, fairly often.”
“Make him bring you to Baynesholme. We’re off, Harold. Thank you for our nice drinks. Good-bye, P.P. Don’t forget you’re dining, will you?”
“How could I?”
“Not possibly.”
“It was — I wondered, dearest Désirée, if you’d perhaps rather…? Still — I suppose…”
“My poorest sweet, what are you talking about?” said Lady Bantling and kissed him. She looked vaguely at Moppett and Leonard. “Good-bye. Come along, boys.”
Andrew muttered to Nicola: “I’ll ring you up about the train.” He said good-bye cordially to Mr. Period and very coldly to his stepfather.
Moppett said: “I had something fairly important to ask you, you gorgeous Guardee, you.”
“How awful never to know what it was,” Andrew replied and, with Bimbo, followed his mother out of the room.
Watching Désirée go, Nicola thought: “Moppett would probably like to acquire that manner, but she never will. She hasn’t got the style.”
Mr. Period, in a fluster, extended his hands. “Désirée can’t know!” he exclaimed. “Neither can he or Andrew! How extraordinary!”
“Know what?” asked Miss Cartell.
“About Ormsbury. Her brother. It was in the Telegraph.”
“If Désirée is giving one of her parties,” said Mr. Cartell, “she is not likely to put it off for her brother’s demise. She hasn’t heard of him since he went out to the Antipodes, where I understand he’d been drinking like a fish for the last twenty years.”
“Really, Hal!” Mr. Period exclaimed.
Moppett and Leonard Leiss giggled and retired into a corner with their drinks.
Miss Cartell was launched on an account of some local activity. “…So I said to the Rector: ‘We all know damn well what that means,’ and he said like lightning: ‘We may know but we don’t let on.’ He’s got quite a respectable sense of humour, that man.”
“Pause for laugh,” Moppett said very offensively.
Miss Cartell, who had in fact thrown back her head to laugh, blushed painfully and looked at her ward with such an air of baffled vulnerability that Nicola, who had been thinking how patronizing and arrogant she was, felt sorry for her and furious with Moppett.
So, evidently, did Mr. Period. “My dear Mary,” he said. “That was not the prettiest of remarks.”
“Quite so. Precisely,” Mr. Cartell agreed. “You should exercise more discipline, Connie.”
Leonard said: “The only way with Moppett is to beat her like a carpet.”
“Care to try?” she asked him.
Alfred announced luncheon.
It was the most uncomfortable meal Nicola had ever eaten. The entire party was at cross purposes. Everybody appeared to be up to something indefinable.
Miss Cartell had bought a new car. Leonard spoke of it with languid approval. Moppett said they had seen a Scorpion for sale in George Copper’s garage. Leonard spoke incomprehensibly of its merits.
“Matter of fact,” he said, “I’d quite like to buy it. Trade in my own heap with him, of course.” He leant back in his chair and whistled quietly through his teeth.
“Shall we look at it again?” Moppett suggested, grandly.
“No harm in looking, is there?”
Nicola suddenly thought: That was a pre-planned bit of dialogue. Alfred returned with an envelope which he placed before Mr. Period.
“What’s this?” Mr. Period asked pettishly. He peered through his eyeglass.
“From the Rectory, sir. The person suggested it was immediate.”
“I do so dislike interruptions at luncheon,” Mr. Period complained. “ ’Scuse, everybody?” he added playfully.
His guests made acquiescent noises. He read what appeared to be a very short letter and changed colour.
“No answer,” he said to Alfred. “Or rather-say I’ll call personally upon the Rector.”
Alfred withdrew. Mr. Period, after a fidgety interval and many glances at Mr. Cartell, said: “I’m very sorry, Hal, but I’m afraid your Pixie has created a parochial crise.”
Mr. Cartell said: “Oh, dear. What?”
“At the moment she, with some half-dozen other — ah — boon companions, is rioting in the Vicar’s seed beds. There is a Mothers’ Union luncheon in progress, but none of them has succeeded in catching her. It couldn’t be more awkward.”
Nicola had an uproarious vision of mothers thundering fruitlessly among rectorial flower beds. Miss Cartell broke into one of her formidable gusts of laughter.
“You always were hopeless with dogs, Boysie,” she shouted. “Why you keep that ghastly bitch!”
“She’s extremely well bred, Connie. I’ve been advised to enter her for the parish dog show.”
“My God, who by? The Rector?” Miss Cartell asked with a bellow of laughter.
“I have been advised,” Mr. Cartell repeated stuffily.
“We’ll have to have a freak class.”
“Are you entering your Pekingese?”
“They’re very keen I should, so I might as well
, I suppose. Hardly fair to the others, but she’d be a draw, of course.”
“For people that like lapdogs, no doubt.”
Mr. Period intervened: “I’m afraid you’ll have to do something about it, Hal,” he said. “Nobody else can control her.”
“Alfred can.”
“Alfred is otherwise engaged.”
“She’s on heat, of course.”
“Really, Connie!”
Mr. Cartell, pink in the face, rose disconsolately, but at that moment there appeared in the garden a disheveled clergyman dragging the overexcited Pixie by her collar. They were watched sardonically by a group of workmen.
Mr. Cartell hurried from the room and reappeared beyond the windows with Alfred.
“It’s too much,” Mr. Period said. “Forgive me!”
He, too, left the room and joined the group in the garden.
Leonard and Moppett, making extremely uninhibited conversation, went to the window and stood there, clinging to each other in an ecstasy of enjoyment. They were observed by Mr. Period and Mr. Cartell. There followed a brief scene in which the Rector, his Christian forbearance clearly exercised to its limit, received the apologies of both gentlemen, patted Mr. Period, but not Mr. Cartell, on the shoulder, and took his leave. Alfred lugged Pixie, who squatted back on her haunches in protest, out of sight, and the two gentlemen returned — very evidently in high dudgeon with each other. Leonard and Moppett made little or no attempt to control their amusement.
“Well!” Mr. Period said with desperate savoir faire. “What were we talking about?”
Moppett spluttered noisily. Connie Cartell said: “You’ll have to get rid of that mongrel, you know, Hal.” Her brother glared at her. “You can’t,” Connie added, “make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
“I entirely agree,” Mr. Cartell said, very nastily indeed, “and have often said so much, I believe, to you.”
There was a quite dreadful silence, broken at last by Mr. Period.
“Strange,” he observed, “how, even in the animal kingdom, breeding makes itself felt.” And he was off, in a very big way, on his favourite topic. Inspired, perhaps, by what he would have called Pixie’s lack of form, he went to immoderate lengths in praising this quality. He said, more than once, that he knew the barriers had been down for twenty years but nevertheless…On and on he went, all through the curry and well into the apple flan. He became, Nicola had regretfully to admit, more than a little ridiculous.
