Bodies from the Library

by Tony Medawar

  ‘Well, did it cut any ice?’

  ‘None at all, Ma’am. On the contrary, Mr Pollexfen was extremely difficult.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘He seemed to me to suggest that I was impertinent,’ said Ellis sadly. ‘I put it to him, Ma’am, that I was only there in the interests of the boy—such a nice boy!—and the real interests of the family. I’m afraid he has not the feelings of a gentleman. He kept on telling me it was all quite irregular. He won’t do anything.’

  ‘That seems quite like our Mr Pollexfen,’ Victoria admitted. ‘But what about it, Ellis? Where do I come in?’

  ‘I had hopes that you might be willing to undertake a little—er—a little commission,’ he hesitated over the word. ‘Something quite correct, Ma’am. I mean to say, if you could see your way to go down and take a look at things at Babraham Hoo and this Australian person it would be a great kindness to me and the boy—such a—’

  ‘Don’t say that again or I shall scream. My good Ellis, how on earth can I go to Oliver Madan’s house?’

  Ellis smiled. ‘You always had such tact, Ma’am. And you have met Mr Oliver Madan, to be sure.’

  ‘Centuries ago. When I was a schoolgirl. What of it? How can I tell if his Australian is genuine or spurious?’

  ‘Oh, Ma’am!’ Ellis smiled. ‘That’s just what you would know. A lady like you. If you could see your way, it would be the greatest service. And, of course, any fee—I should be only too happy—and the matter of expenses—I do assure you, Ma’am, it would be worth anything you please to me to get your opinion.’

  Thus, Miss Pumphrey is wont to say, was she launched on her present profitable career of crime. But she considers that she always had a bent for it.

  In the morning Mr Pollexfen received a telegram which said that Miss Pumphrey had influenza, while an express was carrying her to Peterborough. The well-fed Bradford merchant in the other corner of her carriage, faced by a large and comely woman who was continuously amused, became uncomfortable. He deceived himself. The smiles and little gurgles of Miss Pumphrey were not caused by any interest in him, but by concentration of thought, which often has this effect upon her. She was endeavouring to make up her mind whether she was playing the fool. Why she had accepted Ellis’s commission she knew very well. Six months of typing for Mr Pollexfen had made her ready to do anything that might become a woman for a change. Whether Ellis was the simple, sentimental philanthropist he seemed, or the speculator he pretended, she had no opinion, but his rise to awful opulence impressed her. Ellis seemed to be a man worth following by one who wanted a good bet, and Miss Pumphrey did. She was very tired of being poor. And, on consideration, the job did not seem so crazy as it looked at first.

  She made herself comfortable in a hotel at Peterborough. She lunched wisely and well (Miss Pumphrey likes to take her time). She ordered a car and drove out to Babraham Hoo. Miles of country lay flat as a floor, a melancholy country under the grey March sky, black earth without a hedge or a tree on it, marked geometrically by broad drain-cuts through which the fen water flowed, slow, slimy and turbid. ‘This is priceless,’ said Miss Pumphrey. ‘Like the works of the late Mr Euclid painted in mud colour.’ A windmill stood with unmoving sails, a giant scarecrow, and leered at her. A scrap of wild marsh broke the tilled land and, beyond it, stunted birches stood white amid yellow moss and pools of oily, dark water, an uncanny goblins’ wood. The car checked, turned, and swung into the moss-grown drive of Babraham Hoo.

  It stood among dense shrubs, a square house of yellow brick, like a box with windows cut in it. Miss Pumphrey rang and rang again a bell which had to be pulled hard and sounded far away. After minutes, a plump maid opened the door and stared vacantly. Miss Pumphrey said that she wanted to see Mr Oliver Madan, and gave her card. The rustic maid read it, and the name of the Hon. Victoria Pumphrey, or the regal presence, startled her. She gaped, she hesitated, she led Miss Pumphrey to a drawing-room, and left her without a word.

  It was a large room, but stuffy with the smell of yesterday’s cigars. It was not convenient: a smoky fire burnt ineffectually in a vast, absurd grate, ancient paraffin lamps of china were the only lighting, and Mr Oliver Madan had not been thorough with his furniture: much of it was dingy and uncomfortable in the austere taste of Queen Victoria; the rest of a modern and gaudy luxury.

  Victoria had leisure to study it before a man came in. He was rather red and rather bald; he was in respectable black. His name was Price; he was Mr Madan’s secretary, which seemed to Victoria a pretty word for valet, for such was his manner. He was afraid that the doctor had forbidden Mr Madan to receive visitors. Victoria hoped it was nothing serious.

  ‘Mr Madan has been an invalid for a long time,’ the secretary said reproachfully. There was a felt pause. ‘You didn’t know, Madam?’

  ‘I knew his health wasn’t good. Doesn’t he ever see anybody now?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Pumphrey.’ The secretary did not conceal that he thought her inconsiderate, but was anxious to oblige. ‘Can I do anything for you?’

  ‘I should like you to take him my card.’

  ‘Oh, you know Mr Madan?’

  ‘I think he will remember me.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The secretary’s eyes said that no man could possibly forget Miss Pumphrey. ‘Certainly, I’ll take him your card. I’m sure he would like to know you called. And if there’s anything else—I mean to say, if you would tell me the nature of your business—perhaps something could be arranged.’

  Victoria smiled on this obliging person. ‘You see, my business is rather vague.’ She smoothed down her dress.

  Amazement was written on secretary’s red face. ‘Vague?’ He repeated.

  ‘I’m writing a book,’ said Victoria modestly, ‘about Herefordshire—the old families, you know—and I wanted to ask Mr Madan some questions about the Madans.’ She clasped her hands. ‘Do you think you could arrange it, Mr Price?’

  Mr Price stroked his back hair, which was all the hair he had. He really did not know. He didn’t think it was at all possible. He would see Mr Madan, but he really didn’t think—and, still talking, he slid out.

  Victoria was left alone long enough to grow very tired of that drawing-room. She wandered about. She felt that she could make an inventory of its ugly contents, and another man came in. He was big enough every way to make two of Mr Price and less than half his age, a dark fellow with a swagger and an engaging grin.

  ‘’Morning. Put you in cold storage, what?’ The fire leapt asunder in clouds of smoke as he poked it. ‘Say, this house wouldn’t be warm if you set fire to it.’ He had a faint Cockney twang, yet not the true Cockney.

  ‘A real English house,’ said Victoria.

  ‘Oh, English! And then some.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Victoria.

  ‘I should say so.’ His keen dark eyes examined her with approval. ‘I’ll tell the world there’s nothing better when it’s good.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, if you’re not English.’

  ‘Australian. English pedigree stock. I’m a Madan, of sorts. Frank Madan. He grinned broadly. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Miss Pumphrey.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Madan.’

  ‘The thanks are on me. You don’t know what it’s like to see a human woman in this place.’

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ Victoria admitted.

  ‘Kind of puts in the central heating. I say, are you staying in these parts?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of it. But I really don’t know. You see, I want very much to have a talk with Mr Oliver Madan.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ said the Australian.

  ‘That’s not very encouraging,’ said Victoria.

  ‘Well, I mean to say, what’s the matter with Mr Frank Madan? I’ll talk all you want.’

  ‘How nice of you! But do you know much about the history of the family, Mr Madan?’

  ‘Sure, lady. Sit down and hear the story of my life.’

  ‘Pleas
e be serious,’ said Victoria with dignity. ‘I am writing a book.’ Mr Madan again appealed to his creator. ‘About your native county,’ Victoria went on severely. ‘I want Mr Oliver Madan to help me with some points about his family. Don’t you think he’ll be able to see me?’

  ‘He can see all right,’ the Australian admitted, ‘but he don’t talk. Not so you’d notice it. He only groans. He’s got his, you know, and got it bad. Gout, rheumatoid something. He don’t show.’

  ‘I wonder if I can come down again,’ Victoria said sadly.

  ‘Do you live in London? Say, I run up sometimes. I wonder if we could make a date?’

  The door opened to let in Mr Price. He looked respectfully surprised at the Australian, who was rather near Miss Pumphrey and earnest about it. ‘Mr Madan sends his compliments, Madam. He is much obliged to you, but he does not find himself equal to seeing anyone.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Victoria. ‘Perhaps I might call again.’

  ‘Sure,’ the Australian grinned.

  But Mr Price was less encouraging. ‘Really, I couldn’t say. I shouldn’t like to promise. You know, if you could write, Miss Pumphrey, I might be able to get the information you want. I’m sure that would be the best way.’

  Victoria thanked him prettily, and, with a hand tingling from the grip of the Australian, went back to Peterborough.

  Before the fire in her bedroom, placid in the comfort which comes from a bath and a dressing-gown, she considered things. She likes to put business out of her head before she goes to dinner. She has some manly instincts.

  She is never in a hurry. She did not write to Oliver Madan. She stayed in Peterborough and waited. On the second day, as she was going to lunch, she saw her Australian come into the hotel and ask questions at the office. Two minutes later he was swaggering across the dining-room to her table. ‘Miss Pumphrey! Well, that’s fine! May I have the honour?’ He sat down grinning. ‘I say, this is on me, you know. I’ve been in about a horse and I was just coming here for a spot of lunch. And here’s you! Some lunch. Well, what’s the best they’ve got? That’s all right. It’s honest to God stuff they give you here. And a bottle o’ bubbly’ll make it go. What say?’ He gave the order before she said. ‘So you reckon to stay and have another try for the old man?’

  ‘I do want to see Mr Oliver Madan.’

  ‘Sure you do. You aren’t here for your health.’ His small brown eyes gleamed.

  ‘Dear me, no,’ Victoria smiled. ‘I shouldn’t come here for my health. Would you, Mr Madan?’

  ‘Not. Many nots. If there’s anything slower than these parts I guess it’s hell.’ The champagne came and he grasped at the bottle. ‘Say, we’ve earned this.’ He filled her glass. ‘You put that where you need it, Miss Pumphrey. Here’s luck.’

  Victoria smiled at him over the wine. ‘What luck do you want, Mr Madan?’

  ‘You go on looking like that.’

  ‘You didn’t come to Babraham Hoo to see me.’

  ‘If I’d known where to find a peach like you I wouldn’t have come to the old ash-pit. Gee! To think you spend your time writing books!’

  ‘And how do you spend your time, Mr Madan?’

  ‘I’d hate to tell you, sister. I haven’t got going since the war petered out. Pa went west while I was with the Light Horse, in Palestine, and my little grey home was bust. I’ve been knocking about—Kenya, the Cape. Couldn’t strike it. So I kind of drifted back to Blighty to try my luck with old man Oliver. He’s got the stuff, you see, and I could do with a bit.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Victoria rather slowly.

  ‘Well, it’s got to come to me some day,’ the Australian protested. ‘What’s the matter with a bit on account?’

  ‘Dear me, Mr Madan, I am not one of the family.’

  ‘You know all about us, don’t you?’ the Australian grinned.

  ‘Only about the past, Mr Madan.’

  ‘I thought you knew old man Oliver.’

  ‘I used to. But he is only one. I wanted him to help me about the others, you know. The bygone Madans.’

  ‘What’s the matter with ’em?’

  ‘They had a way of vanishing, Mr Madan.’

  ‘Most folks do—underground.’ He pointed downwards and grinned.

  ‘Underground,’ Victoria repeated, ‘as you say.’

  ‘My grandpa went out to Sydney in ‘49. Died up country prospecting. Pa took up land—sheep. He went out in ’17. I’m the one they left. Not much to write a book about in that. What do you reckon to put into your book, sister?’

  ‘Just history, Mr Madan. Family history.’

  ‘Don’t sound like a best-seller to me. Any money in it?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Victoria, ‘I do very well.’

  ‘I should say so,’ the Australian agreed. ‘I wonder, can’t we do anything together?’

  Victoria laughed. ‘What does one do here, Mr Madan? Shall we go and look at the cathedral?’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said the Australian. ‘But say, sister, I’d love to make a date in London.’

  ‘Is there nothing doing at Babraham Hoo?’

  The Australian looked at her queerly. The Australian hesitated.

  ‘Perhaps we shall meet there again,’ Victoria smiled. ‘Goodbye, Mr Madan.’ She left him at the table. As she went out she saw him drinking up the champagne. He seemed to want it.

  Meditation in a long chair before her bedroom fire assured her that she was satisfied. The Australian had plainly come to Peterborough to look for her and to pump her. That meant he was frightened of her. And he would not be frightened unless he were a fraud. Yes, she had done very well. Their little conversation frightened him more. He would have something to think about at Babraham Hoo, if he went back. Yes, the business was clearing up … But she was rather sorry. Of course the fellow was an outsider. And yet—well, she was sorry … She did not quite see her way.

  She is never in a hurry. It was not until the next afternoon that she drove out again to Babraham Hoo. Her chauffeur, a large and chatty youth, took a friendly interest in this second expedition. It seemed that no one ever went to Babraham Hoo.

  The door of the yellow house was opened more quickly this time. The rustic maid had an embarrassed air. Mr Madan could not see anyone. Ma’am. He was too ill. Mr Price? Oh, she thought Mr Price was out.

  ‘I will wait for him,’ said Victoria, and swept in. She was left in the hall.

  But Mr Price was in. He was in that cavernous drawing-room with the Australian. Victoria heard their voices, which were not friendly, but the Australian, when the maid took in her name, began to laugh. The maid came out again looking scared, and held the door open for Victoria.

  The Australian was sprawling before the fire, Mr Price on his feet, fidgeting with his coat, with his back hair, with his collar. ‘Come again, sister!’ The Australian flung back his head to look at her with a grin.

  ‘Really, Miss Pumphrey, this is quite useless, you know, quite useless,’ said Mr Price.

  ‘No; I don’t think so,’ Victoria smiled.

  ‘You can’t see Mr Madan. He’s much too ill.’

  ‘But I’m afraid I shall have to,’ said Victoria sweetly. ‘You see, I have found out something he—’

  ‘What’s that?’ The Australian stood up.

  ‘I thought you wanted to ask him questions,’ said Mr Price.

  ‘Not now,’ Victoria smiled. ‘This is something he’ll have to be told. About the Madan family. I said I was making enquiries, you know.’

  The two men came towards her. She drew back to avoid them, but the was brought up by one of the big pedestal lamps.

  ‘Let’s have it, sister,’ said the Australian, close upon her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mr Price snarled.

  ‘It’s a matter for Mr Madan.’

  ‘I act for Mr Madan,’ said Price.

  ‘And this gentleman—for whom does he act?’

  Price licked his lips and looked at the Australian. �
��Ah, get to hell out of here!’ the latter cried, and jostled him aside. ‘This is my show.’ Price scowled at him and slunk out. The Australian grinned. ‘Yellow, ain’t he? Yellow all through. Now, my dear, what have you got?’ He came still nearer.

  Victoria started away. The big lamp went down into the grate and crashed into potsherds. The fire caught the oil and a flood of flame streamed over the floor. Victoria swept out into the hall to cry: ‘Fire! Fire!’

  Mr Price, who was half-way upstairs, came tumbling down again. ‘What is it? What’s happened, Miss’?’

  ‘The house is on fire!’ Victoria screamed.

  An oily smoke poured out of the drawing-room. The Australian was heard stamping and swearing and shouting for water. The rustic maid ran into the hall and fled again, screaming ‘Fire!’ and Price looked into the room and gasped and coughed and hurried after her. There were more screams from the kitchen, a clatter of pails and pouring of water. And the smoke grew thicker and Victoria cried ‘Fire! Fire!’

  A man came running downstairs. He was grey, he was small, but he was very agile. Victoria stood aside and watched him. He called for Price as he came. He hesitated, looked at the smoke pouring from the drawing-room, and made a dash for the hall door. He flung it open and stood panting, confronted by Victoria’s car and her bewildered chauffeur.

  She swept through the smoke and joined him. ‘Mr Oliver Madan?’ she smiled.

  The little man looked at her with unsteady eyes. ‘Another time, another time,’ he muttered, and turned away. ‘Price, damn you, where are you, Price?’

  Mr Price, shuffling along with two pails of water, heard him, saw him, flung the pails into the drawing-room, where the Australian received them with oaths, and hurried out. ‘What did you come down for?’ he gasped.

  ‘How was I to stay up there with the house afire?’

  ‘You didn’t ought to come. You know that. You get back quick.’

  ‘But you’re very harsh, Mr Price,’ Victoria smiled. ‘You’re very curt. Isn’t this Mr Oliver Madan?’

  Price did not answer. He stared into her wide eyes.