He went down to breakfast and was served by Mrs Shipley, stout, formidable and loyal, her hair, which as a boy he had known as black as a raven’s wing, now iron-grey, wearing on her high-necked blouse the old cameo brooch which his mother had given her for a wedding present. As he ate his kidneys and bacon he went through the few letters which awaited him. Some of them were bills—addressed to him as executor—which had been outstanding at Punch’s death. One was from his wine merchant, another from a Ross-on-Wye saddler . . . all of them from tradespeople he had used and knew himself, except for an account rendered from a firm of photographic and high fidelity specialists for quite a large sum. He smiled to himself. From his early days Punch had been mad about radios, cassette-recorders and photography. Well, as executor he would have to get details of the purchase. Punch had probably lit his pipe with the original detailed bill. He leaned back, suddenly touched by the black shade of anguish at the thought that never again would he see Punch come stumping into this wainscoted room, calling to Mrs Shipley for food, but before the mood could fully claim him Mrs Shipley came in to say that Shipley was waiting in the Land Rover.
That morning they drove around the home estate and farm and quite a few of the tenanted farms. The estate itself had about two thousand acres in hand and was run from day to day by an estate manager. Shipley drove and behind them sat Punch’s labrador bitch, Honey. At the outset, after their greeting, Shipley, over sixty, lean and sparse as a winter hawthorn, his thin face deeply cleft, his pale blue eyes missing little that moved in the world of man and beast around him, said, “You want me to follow Mr Punch’s round, Mr Richard?”
“Yes, Shippy. Do that.”
Shipley hesitated a moment and then, before driving off, said, “Best to say it now, Mr Richard. If there’d been a thing I could have done, I’d have done it. But it came like lightning. One minute he was with me, and the next, dear soul, he was gone. I’d rather t’would have been me, dear God, since I’ve had most of my rightful span.”
“I know, Shippy. It was God’s will.”
“Aye, and that’s something no man can read.”
They drove off into the sun-warmed, sparkling March morning, and every twist and turn of road and track brought back memories sharply to Seyton. In time he knew that the memories would dim and lose their poignancy, but for now there was no escaping their bite. He had gone through this after Ruth’s death and found a new kind of peace for himself, and he knew it would happen now with time. But there was no hurrying the present. It had to be lived at God’s pace and endured at His will even though no man could ever read final understanding of His purpose. Punch was dead and all around him the morning was alive with a new awakening. The rooks were building in the thinly greened elms. The hedge bottoms were golden with new coltsfoot blooms. In the long pasture at the western end of the estate three hares were fighting, not in play but courtship earnest while above them the lapwings flew and tumbled through the air in mating display. High up on the wooded hillside the badgers would be clearing out their winter beds from their setts and biting bark from the trees to get at the rising sap. Strings of toad spawn dully pearled the ditches and in the river and sidestreams the gravel beds now abandoned by the trout were being taken over by pike and grayling for their spawning. Birth, mating and death—nothing that fully lived could escape that cycle.
Towards the end of the morning they stopped on their way back upriver to have a drink at the Red Lion at Bredwardine. As they drank their beer Shipley said, “Do you want to call at the Hall on the way back, Mr Richard?”
“I don’t think so, Shippy. I’ll go up there later.” Then on an impulse, he asked, “Did Mr Punch go up there much?”
“Not much.” Shipley shook his head. “Oh, no—not much . . . well, that is towards the end. He never said anything to me, of course, but I got the feeling that something must have gone wrong between him and that Mr Shanklin.”
“I always thought that they got on well together. I’ve always liked the look of him.”
“Maybe, Mr Richard. But good and bad can’t be judged by looks.” Shipley chuckled. “You remember old Slinger, the Baptist preacher? Face like an angel and always spouting the good book—but he’d tup anything in skirts that showed willing. Oh, yes, he looked after his flock all right.”
Seyton laughed, but decided not to follow the line any farther. Once Shipley knew you were in the mood for gossip he revelled in the dissection of local reputations. But he did find it a bit odd that Punch should have taken against Shanklin who, it had seemed to him, had always been most courteous and, without putting it in so many words, had indicated that he had a sympathetic understanding of their feelings at having to let the Hall go out of their hands. The man had always gone out of his way to make sure that the presence of the Foundation’s staff at the Hall gave no trouble to them and had often consulted them over the most trivial matters which he felt might affect their ancestral feelings.
For this reason it was no surprise to him that evening as he was having a drink before dinner that Shanklin called to see him. He was a man in his early fifties, tall and plump where once he must have been muscular and hard. His once fair hair had gone almost white and his round face was as red as a misty autumn moon. Although he had never taken Holy Orders he gave the impression of a jolly, sporting parson. He was a bachelor and precise and particular about his clothes which were always sober and expensive.
He accepted the offer of a drink and while Seyton fixed it for him, expressed his sympathies over Punch’s death briefly but sincerely and went on, “I came, too, in order to welcome you back and to ask if you would care to dine at the Hall some time soon?”
“I should like that. Thank you.”
“Oh, good. Then we’ll arrange it. We’ve got one or two new things I don’t think you’ve seen yet. A set of particularly fine sketches of the fifteenth-century murals in Eton College Chapel, and there’s a good old argument going on as to whether they were made by Baker and Gilbert or just copies of their set by an unknown hand. Probably an argument which will never be resolved but all good cut-throat fun amongst the experts. Then there’s a splendid choir banner embroidered with the last words of Mary Queen of Scots—In manus tuas, Domine, confido spiritum meum . . . Oh, dear, what am I doing?”
Seyton laughed. “It’s all right. I like people with enthusiasm.”
“Ah, yes. How good of you to say so.” Shanklin put his drink to his lips briefly. “But, to be honest, in this case you are wrong. Embarrassment, I think, is the word, not enthusiasm. On my part, of course, for I have only heard today that you are hoping to get the Hall back into your hands.”
“That’s true.”
“And given the circumstances—very natural. But where should we ever find another home for our work and our treasures to compare with the Hall?”
“The country is full of Seyton Halls going for a song.”
“Well, that’s undeniable. But, oh dear, the upset and all the arrangements for moving. Still, I have to say that I understand your feeling and sympathize with it.”
“You think the Board of Governors will decide in my favour?”
Shanklin gave a slow sigh and hunched the shoulders of his broadcloth jacket. “I’m in no position to answer that. I’ve worked with committees and boards of governors a great part of my life and I never cease to be amazed at their ways. But for your sake—though it would mean a great upset to me—I sincerely hope they will give you what you want. You look a little surprised, but you have no need to be. Part of our work is the preservation of traditions . . . in all justice we have no right to stand in the way of your family tradition. However, we shall soon know—the meeting is to be arranged for next week, down here. That’s another reason why I’m here—to ask you if you would like to come up and meet them all before they go into committee?”
“I certainly would.”
“Splendid. I’ll let you know the exact time and day. But before that I shall look forward to your coming up t
o dine with us.”
* * * *
Georgina Collet lived in a deep fold of the Cotswolds some miles south of Cirencester. A pot-holed track, leading off a side road, ran along the edge of a small lake surrounded by forestry plantations, to an old gamekeeper’s lodge at the far end. Surrounded by a small garden, honeysuckle-hedged, it sat on a little bluff overlooking the water. Picturesque, Kerslake thought . . .just the place for an artist, or whatever she called herself. He was in a bad mood and knew exactly the reasons. He did not like amateurs and—though he was used to it—he was always irritated by being left too long in the complete dark. Oh, her role was easy enough to understand without any explanation from Quint—but the purpose behind it . . . well, he might live to be an octogenarian and never know.
He climbed the stone steps to the front door and was further and irrationally irritated when, in answer to his ring, she came out of a door some way to his left where he had already noticed a row of outhouses converted into a studio. She wore a shabby old green studio long coat, the late morning sun burnished her rust-red hair, and she was a good-looker. All he had to do here could have normally—even in this service—been done by letter or a telephone call, except that Quint had insisted on his driving down and that meant that Quint—though he would never have put it into words—wanted him to make some assessment for himself, which, in turn, meant that since she was not true Birdcage she was not going to be trusted. Assessment as bait . . . to catch what? Long years with Quint and his methods told him that of that, not even Quint might be sure—and that was a situation which made Quint awkward, even petty at times.
He introduced himself and she took him into the studio which was freezing cold and made his toes curl. She boiled an electric kettle and made him instant coffee which he loathed, and then suddenly surprised him as she handed him the drink and said with a momentary wry twist of her mouth, “You look thoroughly fed up, Mr Kerslake.”
“I am.” He was surprised to hear himself say it.
“With me?”
He was surprised again with the frankness, and said quickly, “No.”
She laughed. “That’s not true. Oh, I know all about it from my father. Professionals don’t like amateurs on their patch. But don’t blame me—I had no choice. You must have guessed that, no?”
He gave a dry laugh, conceding her something though he had no words for it right then. “Your situation is your concern—and I don’t deal in guesses. And I don’t mean to be rude either.”
“That’s nice of you. Neither do I. Let’s say we’re both embarrassed—and then push it behind us since maybe we’ve got to work together. You because it’s your job and me because of my father about whom I imagine you know everything?”
“Yes, I do. I knew him, but only very briefly. He went . . . away soon after I joined.”
“Nicely put. His conscience got the better of him. That’s a crime at Birdcage. Foolish, isn’t it, to join an order and then break your vows?”
“In my book, yes.” As he reached down and began to open his brief-case he was aware that he had got it all wrong . . . making the elementary mistake of pre-judging. Birdcage had chosen well. She could match mood for mood without giving offence and with her face and figure she was pleasant on the eyes and there was something about her which, though not easy to put into words, made its impact. A saucy bitch, really, but not one to waste energy trying to be other than she was. Maybe that was another reason why she had been chosen for whatever it was . . . bait? That meant, too, that someone had read this Seyton bloke well. He handed her a thick manilla quarto envelope. “You’ll find in this a whole lot of agents’ stuff of country cottages and holiday bungalows and lets in the area. There’s no pressure on that kind of accommodation at this time of year—you should have no trouble. There’s a sheet too with three telephone numbers on it—you can get me on one or the other usually—but if not they’ve all got message recorders and I’ll ring you back.”
She took the envelope and without opening it said, “Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“You could have sent this through the post.”
“Oh, yes. But I was told to bring it.”
She smiled. “So that you could have a good look at me?”
He laughed. “Photographs would have done for that—but they don’t tell the whole story, do they?”
“Thank God, no. The human spirit is like running water, constantly changing as it follows its course. That’s why, for considerations well known to you, I’m happy to be given the chance to play the whore if necessary for my father’s sake. He’s a stupid man and a weak one—but I love him. Will you be coming up to Herefordshire?”
“Only if and when it’s necessary.”
She was silent for a moment or two as she broke open the envelope, glanced briefly at its contents and dropped them on to the table at her side. Then with a sudden smile she said, “I can see that you are hating that coffee. Would you rather have a glass of sherry?”
He smiled, wondering briefly how in a few minutes he could have changed so much in feeling towards her. “Yes, I would. Thank you.”
She nodded to a table by the window. “Perhaps you’d like to help yourself. There’s dry and medium.”
“Thank you.” He crossed to the table which held two decanters and some glasses, one of them still half full of dry sherry. He poured himself a medium sherry and then came back to her and handed her the half glass of dry sherry. “I must have interrupted your mid-morning tipple.”
She laughed. “Thank you.” Then raising the glass, sipped at it and said, “Here’s to Birdcage.”
“And here’s to you.”
“Personally or professionally?”
“Personally. You’d never last professionally.”
“Why not?”
He reached out to the long table where a portfolio of drawings lay open and picked up the top one. It was a red chalk drawing of two swans fighting . . . probably something she had seen on the lake outside.
“That’s your profession. You can hear the water foaming and the great thud of their wings.”
“Thank you, Mr Kerslake.”
“I used to see the mute cobs fight like that in the spring on the Taw in Devon.”
“They do it on the lake in St James’s Park, too.”
He laughed. “True—but it’s not the same. Or doesn’t seem to be.”
“Perhaps the change is in you?”
He was silent for a moment or two. Against his will she was reaching him, making a mark where he would have thought he was least vulnerable . . . disturbing him emotionally just by being herself. The emotion was one which he only allowed himself on his own terms. To his own surprise he heard himself say, “You do some things in life which change you and automatically put some things out of your reach.”
With a change of tone she said in a low voice, “Oh, yes, I know all about that. From my father. Though he never passed into your arcane circle. Or have I guessed wrong?”
Frowning, anger stirring in him, he said, “Somebody has to be capable. Few are. But the garden has to be weeded. Anyway——” he threw off his mood and smiled “——you feel and guess too much. You’d better watch that with Seyton. Also, too, you show too much.”
“Only to those with the right kind of eyes—like yours. If they told you tomorrow to go and kill him you would, wouldn’t you? Just as you have done before with others.”
“I draw my pay—but first I do my work.”
“So will I for the sake of my dear, stupid father. But I shall hate it without showing it. Just as you do your work. I don’t care how you contain or disguise your self-loathing—you hate yourself. What would you give now to be a man who had recently come through my door to choose a few drawings, a free man, and we discovered we liked one another? And then after a few drinks we both knew we wanted to go to bed with one another. Just ordinary, simple people, moving to their own uncomplicated and innocent emotional tides. You’d like to tu
rn the clock back to that, wouldn’t you?”
He laughed gently. He liked her even more now, though he was still sure that Quint had made a mistake; liked her because she felt certain that she had read him correctly and wanted to ease some of her self-disgust by probing bluntly at the heart of his. And he was sorry for her. She would do her job all right, but no one would ever be shown the spiritual bill she would have to pay. He said, “Yes, of course I’d like it, Miss Collet. The idea that is. On the other hand I would just as easily—if Quint had ordered it—pull a gun from my pocket and shoot you dead. That’s why your father is in prison and I’m not. I’d even go to bed first with you and then shoot you—if Birdcage wanted it that way.”
Pursing her lips and giving a quick, dismissive shrug of her shoulders, Georgina said easily, “What a perfect sod of a man you are. I wonder why I like you?”
“Because you envy me for having settled for what I am while you haven’t settled for what you have—a stupid father who has mucked up your life. I’m sorry, but——” he slid the drawing of the swans back on to the table “——since you wanted a chopping-block I was too much of a gentleman not to oblige.” He turned towards the door to leave and said, “Thank you for the sherry. Have a nice time in Herefordshire—and don’t treat Seyton like me. You’ll confuse him which won’t do at all. Idyllic is the word, I think, for the relationship we’re after.” She laughed then, shaking her head like a man and hugging her elbows, and said, “Bully for you! I just wanted to stamp on someone’s face—and you’ve been so nice about it. Thank you.” Kerslake paused by the door and said, “You’ll be all right. It’s quite pleasant at times to forget your true self and act a part. Sometimes, like me, you end up opting for acting all the time. Goodbye, and thank you for the sherry. We’ll be in touch.” When he was gone Georgina poured herself another sherry and sat at the table staring at the two swans and then after a little while said with quiet passion, “Oh, my dear, dear father—I do really damn, damn you . . .”
The Satan Sampler Page 5
