The piece of furniture over which Dickie had tumbled proved, once he had groped for the light switch and turned it on, to be the comfortable couch which Juliana had pulled across from its place by the window to stand as far from the king-size bed as possible. And on the couch, wrapped in blankets which were pulled pointedly over her head, Juliana lay, very much asleep.
“Sssh,” Dickie admonished himself, realising that he was not to be forgiven as easily as he’d hoped. “Mustn’t wake her up—things’ll look so much better after a good night’s sl—sl—ah, ahchoo! Ahchooh!”
This resonant aural onslaught failed to arouse his lady from her deep slumber, though the blankets twitched slightly and an acute listener might have heard the click of an angry tongue. But Dickie in his present state was far from being an acute listener.
“Hot bath, before I die of pneumonia,” he announced, his eye on the blanket-muffled form on the couch, which did not stir. He sniffed loudly, stifled another sneeze, and permitted his teeth to chatter: he was starting to feel very sorry for himself. Yet even this evoked no response.
He found himself swaying where he stood and thought it prudent to adapt the motion into a forward progress. He set one careful foot in front of the other and made his uneven way towards the window. He felt the radiator: it was cold.
He pointed out, in tones that were but slightly slurred, this sorry state of affairs to the adder-eared blanket on the couch, but there still came no hint of sympathy for his plight. He sighed and sneezed once more: which jogged his memory, so that he exclaimed again:
“Hot bath!” And he headed for the bathroom. This was on the far side of the suite, which meant that his back was towards Juliana, and thus he did not observe a baleful eye watching him over the top of a fractionally lowered blanket. He closed the door with something more than a thud, and Juliana held her breath.
And lay, listening and worrying, until his bath was done and he had reappeared without drowning himself in a drunken stupor. So relieved was his lady at seeing him that she allowed herself the luxury of a brief remark.
“Washing away your sins, Dickie dear?” she enquired, but before he could reply had pulled the blankets up over her head again. Mr. Nash, sobered by steam, found himself lost for words, and, with a muttered apology, collapsed into his shamefaced sheets and fell heavily asleep.
After two hours he awoke, shivering. The rain was still falling, and the radiator was still off: it was summer, he reminded himself, albeit an English summer. He felt too tired to take another bath . . .
But, as he mused on the pleasant warmth that had crept into his bones as he bathed, he was struck by a brain wave. He crept from his bed into the bathroom, put the plug into the bath, and turned on the hot tap as far as it would go. When the bath was full, and the steam was swirling mistily all around him, he propped open the door to allow every atom of warm moisture to reach the bedroom, where he had felt so cold. If only Juliana had not taken half the blankets—but she was right, he supposed, to feel a little annoyed with him—a promise was a promise, and he couldn’t really blame it on Sir George’s fine claret, although young Nigel might have been egging him on a bit—not that they’d been eating eggs, but—but eggs—birds . . . rooks, crows, vultures . . .
Dickie’s eyes closed, and he drifted cosily once more into sleep. From which, some time later, he awoke, shivering again. The bathwater was no longer hot; and he, poor Dickie Nash who had been soaked to the skin, was cold.
Twice more during the night he repeated his performance with the hot tap, wondering that Juliana did not wake up at the sound of the gurgles of an emptying bath. But Miss Popjoy was worn out by tiredness and emotion, and slept now in truth as deeply as she had pretended before. As deeply as, eventually, Dickie Nash slept . . .
To be awoken by shrieks and a clatter from the corridor, where the Standon boys were up to their usual tricks. They erupted from their bedroom shouting of bacon, baked beans, and fried bread with an enthusiasm that sent shivers down Dickie’s fragile spine into his even-more fragile stomach. They indulged in an all-in wrestling bout which sent various hard and energetic portions of their small selves bouncing off the door of the Blue Riband Suite and were only quelled by a roar from their father that if they didn’t get a move on, they’d find all the breakfast gone. With hungry yells they hurtled down the corridor towards the stairs, leaving Mr. Nash feeling worse than he had felt for years.
He had not thought himself able to move before, his eyes still tightly closed against the horrors of the day. With a groan, he now acknowledged the presence inside his head of a small pneumatic drill, wielded by a sadist with hobnailed boots. His eyelids felt like lead. He groaned again. The hobnailed boots did a little dance. He gulped and forced his eyes—behind which the pneumatic drill was working at full throttle—open.
To discover, to his horror, that he had overnight been struck blind.
chapter
~16~
DICKIE UTTERED A little cry and promptly closed his eyes again. He squeezed the lids tightly together, setting crimson golf balls bouncing before him; counted in a nervous silence to ten; gritted his teeth; and, slowly, holding his breath, once more opened his eyes.
He was still blind. And—he’d heard those Standon kids say so—it was breakfast time. It ought to have been daylight—the curtains hadn’t been anywhere near thick enough to make everywhere so black, everything so heavy . . .
“It’s a judgement on me,” he gasped, lying trapped and motionless in his bed. “Oh, my God, I’ll never make another bet in my life—Juliana, where are you? Juliana!”
There came the rustle of angry skirts, and then her icy voice sounded close by his ear. “Dickie, I wonder if I will ever speak to you again after today. How could you? Apart from breaking your solemn promise not to gamble any more—and in front of the Colvedens, of all people—to do a thing like this . . . Dickie, I—I don’t know what to say. And as for knowing what to do about it, well . . .”
“I need a doctor,” ventured Dickie at last, when she had blown her nose crossly and stamped—at least, to his stifled senses it sounded as if she had stamped. “Juliana, I don’t know what’s happened—but I need a doctor!”
“You need black coffee,” retorted Juliana promptly, “and you will just have to suffer the way everyone else with a hangover does. I can’t see any need for a doctor—”
Her words sounded ominous, and he interrupted her with a desperate shout. “Juliana, I can’t see—and I can’t move—I’ve had a stroke, or something! It’s awful!”
“It certainly is,” she agreed. “The mess you’ve made of this room—it’s not only awful, it’s embarrassing. What on earth are we going to say—are you going to say, that is—to Mr. Mountfitchet? We’ll never be able to come here again, and when everyone hears about it, which they’re sure to do, we shall be a laughing-stock.”
“Juliana—”
“I can just about excuse your broken promise by saying that the Colvedens’ cellar contains a very strong claret, and you might not have noticed it creeping up on you—but the fumes you were breathing all over me last night certainly blended more than claret and the odd glass of port. Whisky, perhaps? Mr. Mountfitchet offered me a hot toddy to keep out the cold, but I had sense enough to refuse it. You, I gather, did not—and this,” she concluded bitterly, “is the result!”
“Juliana—I’m ill,” he managed to quaver as she paused for further stamping. “I can’t see! I can’t move! I don’t know what’s happened to me . . .”
There came a sudden movement above his head, and a damp, furious, ripping sound. “Open your eyes, Dickie Nash,” came the stern command. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and open your eyes—and just look at what you’ve done!”
Miss Seeton had finished her breakfast long ago and (since it was not one of Maltha’s days for obliging her) had washed up every dish, plate, and utensil. Her coffee cup, rinsed and dried, sat waiting beside a kettle primed with freshly drawn water, ready for when th
eir owner returned from what she had planned as a little shopping expedition.
“A bus trip to Brettenden,” said Miss Seeton to herself, gazing through the window at the cloudless sky and thinking how clean and fresh everything seemed after last night’s storm. “The scheduled bus runs today—I can be there and back in only a few hours, instead of having to wait for Jack Crabbe, who is so kind, but with those crossword puzzles he compiles—so very clever—he is quite happy to wait all day for everyone to complete their shopping, and today, I do have rather a lot to do . . .”
For, after further abortive attempts to recall the face of the man who had perpetrated the tomato ketchup crime, Miss Seeton had decided that a change of scene, and the purchase of fresh drawing implements, might serve to shift her artist’s block and help her achieve that worthwhile likeness which her colleagues—she blushed guiltily—in the constabulary must surely have expected of her.
She sighed. “The retaining fee—so generous, and in this instance so undeserved—but I must try to do my best, and more than my best, if possible . . .”
She sighed again as she adjusted her cockscomb hat in the hall mirror and picked up her basket from the little table beside the umbrella rack. She selected one of her second-best brollies for the Brettenden excursion and could not help smiling as her eye lighted upon that gold-handled best umbrella given to her so many years ago by her now good friend, Chief Superintendent Delphick. And, greatly cheered by the sight and the memories it evoked, she resolved for dear Mr. Delphick’s sake to do her utmost, on her return from Brettenden, to draw the likeness of the tomato ketchup man.
Miss Seeton had allowed herself plenty of time to catch the bus. Having locked the door of her cottage, she closed the garden gate and was starting northwards up The Street, when outside the George and Dragon opposite she was rather surprised to observe the two young Standon boys waiting by what she took to be their parents’ car: waiting in perfect peace and quiet, not fidgeting, not fighting—which, to the experienced pedagogic eye of Miss Seeton, suggested only one thing.
“Mischief,” murmured Miss Seeton as she hesitated for an instant only, then crossed The Street and headed for the car, as if to greet the youngsters. Who, at her approach, shuffled their feet, dropping their gaze. Mischief, undoubtedly: she recognised the signs only too well; and, in the apparent absence of their parents, she felt it her clear duty to nip any mischief firmly in the bud.
It had taken half an hour or more for Dickie to collect his scattered wits, and for Juliana to chivvy him into shaving, dressing, and going downstairs to face the music. She, he observed glumly, had woken far earlier than he had and was looking her best even before he had stumbled out of bed—which gave her, he thought, an unfair advantage. And now she was insisting that as he had (without meaning to in the least, as he kept trying to tell her) caused all the bother, it was for him to confess his fault to Charley Mountfitchet: which Juliana was prepared to see that he did.
Clutching a still-throbbing head, poor Dickie groped his way to the bedroom door; fumbled with the handle, and half-opened it; saw the startled faces of the adult Standons whisk back into their own room; and shut the door again.
“I feel terrible,” he groaned. “And I must look pretty terrible, too—scaring people half to death—don’t you think it might be better to inflict myself on Mr. Mountfitchet when I’m a bit less—”
“No, Dickie, I don’t. It’s no use putting it off—this isn’t going to disappear all by itself, you know. Hurry up.” And Juliana’s tone was so grim that, though he still secretly groaned, Dickie once more made his way to the door: and, this time, forced himself through it.
Juliana was right behind him as he tottered down the stairs and reached the comparative safety of the reception hall. Charley Mountfitchet was there, kneeling beside the desk with a watering-can in his hand, tending a rather sad-looking cheeseplant.
“Never be the same again,” he muttered, pouring a libation from the can into the cheeseplant’s rich compost and with a surprisingly gentle hand stroking the plant’s drooping leaves. “Not that I mind a spot of fire-fighting, in a good cause, but . . .” He turned a deep red, which might have been caused by stooping, set down the can, and rose to his feet. “Good morning, Miss Popjoy, Mr. Nash—and how are you both today? A little late for breakfast, but I don’t doubt we can persuade Doris to rustle a little bite of something for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mountfitchet, but before we take you up on your kind offer,” replied Juliana, “my friend here has a confession to make. Go on, Dickie.” She clicked her tongue as he seemed suddenly dumbstruck. “Dickie, go on!”
“Come now, Mr. Nash,” Charley said in his most soothing tones. If he couldn’t tell a hangover when he saw one, then thirty years in the licensing trade had taught him nothing at all—but there wasn’t no need for Miss Popjoy to nag the poor bloke for having taken one over the eight last night. Anyone could see that Mr. Nash was the old-fashioned sort who knew how to hold his liquor, without causing any trouble . . . “So what seems to be the trouble, Mr. Nash?” enquired Charley kindly, as Dickie could do nothing but gulp and goggle at the landlord and fiddle with the knot of his tie.
Juliana let out an exasperated snort. Her magnificent eyes flashed. “Dickie, honestly—how like you, to leave it all to me—but, so long as Mr. Mountfitchet understands that it was nothing whatsoever to do with me, I suppose I’ll have to explain.”
“Understood, Miss Popjoy,” Charley assured her, starting to wonder if this confession was going to be for something a bit more serious than he’d supposed. He folded his arms and fixed her with an increasingly stern gaze, beneath the reflection of which poor Dickie wilted even more. Charley, however, had eyes for nobody but Juliana as she began:
“Last night, you see, Mr. Mountfitchet, Dickie got rather wet coming home from the Colvedens’—we all tried to stop him, but he insisted on walking,” she added meanly, feeling he deserved a little punishment for making her do his dirty work for him. “Anyway”—as an anguished cry of betrayal burst from Mr. Nash—“he got soaked to the skin, and he was absolutely frozen, poor thing”—involuntarily—“so he had a lovely hot bath to warm himself up . . .”
“Very sensible.” Charley nodded as Juliana choked and fell silent. “I’m bound to say I thought last night he’d be the better off for a hot tub—reckon I said as much to you, didn’t I, Mr. Nash, while you were drinking your toddy?”
Juliana wished that Charley had never thought of making Dickie the offer of whisky, because without it he might not have behaved quite so foolishly—but she could hardly blame the landlord for his generous attempt to prevent the death of one of his guests from double pneumonia.
“I—I believe you did,” acknowledged Dickie, in a near-whisper. Juliana prodded a forceful finger into his spine: now that he’d started to talk, he could carry on talking. “So—so, well, I did. Have a hot bath, you see.” Juliana prodded him again, as he gulped. He dragged his shoulders back and stood upright, facing the firing squad. “And then I went to bed—and I woke up in the night, and I was still cold—so I ran another hot bath, only I didn’t want to get in it, because I was so tired—and I thought, well, I could leave the bathroom door open, and the steam would warm the bedroom—I’m very fond of a Turkish bath,” he added, as if this might explain his unusual solution to the problem of a chilly summer’s night.
“Look, if you’re bothered that you emptied the hot-water tank,” Charley said quickly, “there’s no call for you to go upsetting yourself, Mr. Nash.” If this was the great confession, he could afford to relax and cheer the poor bloke up a bit. Above the increasing roar of a motorbike engine outside, he said proudly: “Got the very latest in gas boilers down in the basement, I have. Hottens any amount of water quick as winking. Just forget about it, and don’t you fret—I’ll not go putting extra on your bill.”
He scowled at the motorbike throb as it seemed to have found a comfortable spot right outside the hotel, then gave Dickie a
reassuring smile. Poor Mr. Nash, worriting that way—nice of him to bother, though; there were some who’d never think of letting a bloke know what they’d done, but—but why was he shaking his head, daft beggar, looking like a wet weekend, and Miss Popjoy no more cheerful, neither?
The throb increased to a sudden roar, then began to fade as the motorbike evidently roared off up The Street. Somebody pushed open the front door and slouched into the hotel, nodding casually to the little group. Charley frowned.
“You’re late, Maureen,” he greeted the young woman who had made this unceremonious arrival, tossing a crash helmet on the reception desk. “And you know I’m not so keen on your Wayne and that daft machine of his, spilling oil on my new tarmac—that car park’s not a racing track, my girl, and the pair of you’d do well to remember that. Anyway”—as she opened a heavily lipsticked mouth to protest—“no time for all that now. Get along to the kitchen and check with Doris what needs doing, will you?”
As Maureen flounced away, Charley turned back to Juliana and Dickie, exchanging the frown of irritation for one of polite mine-hostial enquiry. “Was there anything else seems to be the matter, Mr. Nash, Miss Popjoy? Only, I’m a bit on the busy side this morning . . .”
“I’m afraid you’re going to be, well, quite a lot busier before the morning’s out,” Dickie told him as he seemed set on leaving them at last. “You see . . . the bath—the steam—I really am most frightfully sorry, and of course we’ll—I mean I’ll”—as Juliana prodded him more sharply yet—“pay for whatever needs to be done, but . . . but all the wallpaper has soaked itself off the walls, and it’s lying in great wet tangles all over the floor, I’m afraid,” Dickie said and closed his eyes with the relief of having finally managed to explain. And also so that he would not have to look at Charley Mountfitchet’s face.
Hands Up, Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 11) Page 12
