I could not help regarding him, after what Daphne had said, with even greater anxiety than before; but he appeared to me to be looking a little better than when I first saw him, though he had the first signs of a cold and was rather worried that he might not be in good voice for the midnight service tonight. (I hope this is not my fault — it’s nearly a week since the walk to the George and Dragon.) Still, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and to have an excellent appetite.
After we had eaten, and were sitting in the oak-panelled bar round a large open fire, drinking coffee and liqueurs, he told us further stories, all of unimpeachable veracity, about witches and ghosts and dragons and giants, now or formerly to be found in this part of the world. But even though it was St. Thomas’s Eve, and we lingered there until after darkness had fallen, we did not see any ghosts in Bramber.
On our return to my aunt’s house, our entry through the front door was slightly impeded by a heap of little parcels which had been pushed through the letter box, somewhat to the detriment of their fancy wrapping. With them was a note addressed to Reg:
Dear Reg — didn’t want to come round and interrupt while you were all enjoying yourselves, but I know Maurice needs to rest tomorrow to be ready for the midnight service, and I wasn’t sure if I would see any of you in time to give you your presents. So I thought the best thing was to put them through the door while you were out at lunch — hope this is all right.
Love and greetings,
Daphne
There was a bottle of expensive scent for Reg; a pair of leather gardening gloves for Griselda; a half bottle of whiskey for Ricky; a paperback guide to criminal procedure for me, given, according to the inscription on the flyleaf, in the hope of helping me to even greater success in my profession. Maurice’s present was a cardigan, hand-knitted in Aran wool, which in the process had lost something of its attractive creamy colour. It is not for me to speak disparagingly of Daphne’s skill at knitting, since it is undoubtedly greater than mine, but not much.
“Oh dear, poor Daphne,” said Griselda.
My aunt suggested that she should telephone Daphne and invite her to join us for a mince pie and a glass of wine, so that we could all thank her for our presents. The suggestion seemed to be made, and was received, without overwhelming enthusiasm. To my surprise, however, it was Maurice who actually said, “Oh no, please don’t do that, Reg — do let’s have an afternoon without her. I’ll call in at the Rectory on my way home and tell her how pleased we all were.”
“Well,” said Reg, evidently still suffering pangs of conscience, “she is coming to lunch here on Christmas Day, of course. I suppose—”
“If Daphne comes, we can’t play Scrabble,” said Maurice. “I haven’t played Scrabble for ages.”
The wistfulness of this last remark was allowed to prevail over my aunt’s scruples. We laid out the Scrabble board on a table in the drawing room, dealt out the letters and settled down to argue amiably about such questions as whether EM is a permissible word. It seemed to me, however, that our enjoyment was slightly clouded by a feeling of having been less kind than we should have been to Daphne.
I happened to be facing the window which looks out onto the street. Although by now it was quite dark outside, we had left the curtains undrawn so that passersby could enjoy our elegantly lit Christmas tree. After we had been playing for some time, I happened to look up from the board and saw a face, pale and large eyed, pressed against the glass. Under the influence of the stories that Maurice had been telling, I took it at first for a ghost or hobgoblin at the very least; but after a moment or so I saw that it was Daphne.
None of the others had noticed her. The natural and friendly thing to do, I suppose, would have been to draw her presence to the attention of my aunt, who would no doubt have gone to the door and invited her in. For some reason, however, I hesitated about doing this; I looked away, uncertain whether she knew I had seen her. When I looked again she was no longer there, and it seemed too late to say anything.
All of which is plainly the explanation for my uneasy dreams and superstitious imaginings. Well, I have devised a plan of action to deal with them: I shall light a Gauloise; I shall gather up my courage; and then I shall go to the window and make sure it is only the rowan tree tapping.
I have lit a Gauloise.
I have gathered up my courage.
And I have been to the window.
And it is, as I have told you all along, only the rowan tree tapping on it; but it’s bitterly cold outside and the wind is blowing something like a gale — one can’t blame the poor rowan tree for wanting to come in. Well, she can’t and that’s all there is to it.
It looks as if Maurice is also unable to sleep — the downstairs lights were still on at the Vicarage and I could see him moving about in the kitchen. I wonder whether he did call on Daphne, as he said he would, on his way home last night, or whether by that time he would have thought it too late — everyone stayed to supper, of course, but they all went home quite soon afterwards.
I shall now make a serious effort to go to sleep again, and resume this in the morning.
8:30 A.M.
Your letter has arrived, causing considerable alarm. How far above the ground is this balcony which you speak so lightly of stepping across to? If it is anything more than three feet, I hope that on reflection you did nothing so imprudent. Surrounded as you appear to be by homicidal bankers and seductive physiotherapists, you surely have no need for any additional excitement.
I shall go out and post this at once, hoping to elicit a reassuring sequel. After that I must go and buy a present for Daphne, since she has given me one. What on earth am I to get her? There is a brand of chocolates which she is said to be fond of; but so many people seem to be adopting that solution that she may perhaps have an excess.
When I have done that, I suppose it would be prudent to have a restful day. Tonight I am going with my aunt to the midnight service at St. Ethel’s and tomorrow some one hundred or so persons of gargantuan appetite intend to descend upon us and feast continuously until Epiphany. That, at any rate, is the inference to be drawn from the quantities of ham, turkey, chicken, brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, tarts, pies, brandy butter, bottled peaches and nuts of all varieties which have been or are on the point of being prepared. My aunt, on the other hand, says that we are expecting only a dozen guests for Christmas lunch, and I do not like to express disbelief.
I am very sorry to hear of poor Terry’s broken heart — please tell him that in my opinion anyone so fortunate as to be the object of his affections must be a monster of folly to disdain them.
I remain, my dear Ragwort,
your respectfully devoted
Julia
I should at this juncture point out to my readers that the letter which follows, though written after the preceding letter was written and posted, was nonetheless written before that letter was received or read and cannot, therefore, be regarded as a response to it. I trust that this makes the position entirely clear.
Résidence Belplaisir
Cannes
Christmas morning
My dear Julia,
Having committed an act of negligence which she is otherwise unlikely to forgive for some considerable time, I shall have to ask you to intercede on my behalf with Selena: Terry has escaped, insufficiently scolded and still uncommitted to any definite date for installing our bookcases. To say that his escape was unforeseeable and no fault of mine will do me, I suspect, no good at all.
As to the reasons for his sudden departure I can tell you, of my own knowledge, almost nothing. Quite early this morning, while I was making breakfast and Benjamin was in the bath, the telephone rang and was answered by Terry. The conversation lasted about two minutes, after which he came rushing into the kitchen, saying that he had to go back to England immediately and wanting to know about planes and taxis. An hour later he was gone, with not a moment to spare to be scolded about bookcases.
That, as I say, is all
that I actually know of the matter. If invited to speculate on the basis of my impressions, I would say that the call was from the object of the attachment — offering, perhaps, a forty-first camel or an extra box of marrons glacés.
His departure reduces the number of houseguests to seven, including myself. How many more there may be for Christmas lunch is a matter of pure guesswork: Benjamin, of course, has no precise idea of whom he has invited. Still, I have put a very fine goose in the oven and washed and peeled large quantities of vegetables and filled the refrigerator with an ample supply of charcuterie — I am hopeful that no one will starve.
I feel free, therefore, to escape from the kitchen for a little while and give you the latest news of Selena’s merchant bankers.
I mentioned, I think, at the end of my last letter, that I was becoming a little concerned about the noises from the next-door flat, where Natasha seemed to have abandoned one of her patients in a state of some distress. On my return from posting it I accordingly rang her doorbell. The door remained closed; but I quite distinctly heard a man’s voice calling out, in English, for help.
Reluctant as I was to offend Natasha, I did not feel that this was something I could simply ignore. I went out onto the balcony and considered what I should do. The distance between the balconies is not more than two feet or so — at ground level, one would not think twice about crossing from one to the other. What made me slightly hesitant was the fact that we are on the third floor.
Still, I did not seem to have much choice. I took a deep breath, climbed up onto the balustrade with the aid of a chair, laid firm hold on a convenient drainpipe and stepped across. I arrived quite safely on Natasha’s balcony, feeling rather foolish for having hesitated.
Opening onto the balcony was a most attractive drawing room, with a high ceiling, whitewashed walls and a polished wooden floor. The only ornaments were an interesting piece of abstract sculpture and a number of delightful watercolours — the work, I suppose, of Natasha herself. Since the room was empty, however, I did not pause to admire them but continued on into the hallway.
There were a number of doors leading from the hallway, all closed. I called out a little nervously “Hello — is there anyone at home?” and was answered by a sort of bellow — whether of pain or anger it was difficult to tell. Knocking on the door from behind which it came, I was answered by a further bellow. Construing this as an invitation to enter, I went in.
I found myself in a room not obviously set aside for the practice of medicine. It seemed quite simply to be a bedroom, opulently furnished in a style reminiscent of the 1920s. Instead of the narrow treatment couch which one might have expected, there was a double bed of luxurious proportions; nor could I see any form of medical equipment, apart possibly from something hanging from one of the bedposts, which looked, however, remarkably like a riding whip.
Lying on the bed was Edgar Albany.
“Lying” is perhaps not quite the mot juste, since it suggests some measure of comfortable repose: this was precluded in the present case by the fact that his wrists and ankles had been handcuffed together and secured to the bedhead. This arrangement looked to me to be a good deal more painful than anything I have ever known to be insisted on by even the most enthusiastic practitioners of osteopathy. I feel obliged to mention also that he was wearing nothing save a small frilly undergarment.
It occurred to me, I confess not quite for the first time, that the form of treatment offered by Natasha might not be exactly the sort of thing which one hopes to receive under our own dear National Health Service; and that when she spoke of specialising in pains of the lower back she had in mind their infliction rather than their alleviation.
Since he had presumably not merely agreed but paid to be put in this position, I thought it right to enquire whether he wished me to release him or to leave him undisturbed. His answer, however, left me in no doubt as to the sincerity of his desire for rescue. The key to the handcuffs was on the dressing table; I unlocked them as expeditiously as I could.
I would be, as you know, the last person to expect any effusive expressions of gratitude for so trifling an act of charity towards a fellow creature in distress. I was nonetheless a little surprised, having performed it, to be assailed with a torrent of abuse. Albany seemed to be under the impression that I was some sort of business associate of Natasha’s, who was the primary object of his invective. He expressed himself in terms which I should not dream of repeating; but the substance of his complaint was that he had made it quite clear to her how far he wished her to go and she, with deliberate malice, had gone a great deal further.
Having been instrumental in his release, I could hardly leave him to wander freely about Natasha’s flat. Deciding that the proper attitude was one of dignified indifference, I stood and admired the view from the bedroom window while he, rather painfully, resumed his clothing. By the time he was fully dressed, however, his remarks had begun to have a threatening quality which I felt could not simply be ignored.
“You can tell our precious girlfriend,” he said as he fastened his tie, “that she isn’t going to get away with this. She’s going to be sorrier for it than she’s ever been for anything in her life.”
Hitherto, thinking to spare him embarrassment, I had refrained from addressing him by name. I now felt it prudent, however, to indicate that I was aware of his identity and that if he did not wish the morning’s events to become known to his colleagues at Renfrews’ he would be unwise to attempt any form of reprisal.
His response was to turn purple and accuse me of blackmail, making vague but disagreeable threats about what would happen if I said a word to anyone about the incident. He had friends, he said, who carried a good deal of weight with the local police authority; if I knew what was good for me I would forget all about it.
“Mr. Albany,” I said, “let me assure you that there is nothing I should like better than to erase from my memory all recollection of our meeting. Provided that you do not attempt to cause any unpleasantness for Mlle. Natasha, you may rely on my discretion absolutely.”
Still with no word of thanks, he finally left the flat. I watched from Natasha’s balcony as he walked, rather slowly and stiffly, across the place in the direction of the villa. When I was sure I could do so without a further meeting with him, I also left the flat and went and sat in the café next door to wait, with some apprehension, for the return of Natasha.
Forgive me for describing this sordid episode in such distasteful detail. I have done so, of course, with the utmost reluctance and only because it seemed to me to have some possible bearing on the insider-dealing question. Selena once mentioned, I think, that Sir Robert Renfrew is thought to be something of a Puritan — if he is, then isn’t the sort of thing that Edgar Albany appears to have a taste for exactly the sort of thing Sir Robert would be likely to disapprove of? And isn’t it also exactly the sort of thing that someone like Isabella del Comino would have been likely to know about?
Natasha, I am relieved to say, took my intervention in good part, evidently regarding it as a matter for amusement rather than reproach. Indeed, though she made a good deal of fun of me for my soft-heartedness, she was perhaps quite pleased that I had saved her the possible unpleasantness of releasing Albany herself. He had spoken to her, I gathered, in a manner which she found lacking in respect; she had lost her temper and taken her revenge, without much thought for the consequences. When I enquired cautiously as to the nature of the insult offered her, it turned out that he had addressed her as tu rather than vous, not having, in her opinion, any right to do so. It just shows how careful one has to be — the French can be very touchy about these things.
My encounter with Albany was not quite the last I saw of the Renfrews’ directors. Later that day, when I was sitting with Terry and Natasha in one of the cafés in the place, Natasha insisted on relating, for Terry’s entertainment, a much-embellished account of the events of the morning: halfway through her narrative, I heard someone laugh. Looking ro
und, I realised that a man sitting a few tables away, whose face had been hidden behind the Financial Times, was none other than Geoffrey Bolton. For a moment I felt profoundly embarrassed — apart from anything else, I had more or less promised Albany that he could rely on my discretion; but since she was talking quite rapidly in French, of which Bolton is notoriously ignorant, he cannot in fact have understood a word she said. I can only conclude that there was an unusually amusing editorial in the Financial Times.
All the guests at the villa left on Wednesday morning, not only Albany and Bolton but also Miss Tavistock — even an indispensable personal assistant, I suppose, is entitled to a Christmas holiday. They all drove off together in the Bentley, with a man at the wheel whom I assume to be Sir Robert’s chauffeur, and have not been seen since. Since then I have several times seen Sir Robert sitting on the terrace, still looking in the pink of health — my misgivings on his behalf were obviously unfounded.
I must now return to my goose, which is beginning to smell delicious — almost as delicious, I hope, as the lunch you will shortly be enjoying with your aunt. With, again, my regards to her and warmest wishes to yourself,
Yours,
Desmond
14
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
West Sussex
Christmas Day
Dear Ragwort,
I write in some despondency, more for my own consolation than your entertainment. Maurice is quite ill, seriously enough to be in hospital, though not so close to death’s door, according to my aunt and the doctors, as Daphne seems determined to believe.
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