‘It isn’t funny. You’ve been bloody rude to people who’ve shown you nothing but kindness. You’ve shown them a marked lack of consideration from the first, treating this house like a hotel, but tonight you passed beyond the bounds of decency, making a fool of me in front of everyone, offending your hosts and — just incidentally — insulting the Queen in the person of her representative.’
‘Oh really! What cock!’
‘I’ll thank you not to use that filthy language to me, you bastard. You never had any intention of coming, admit it!’
‘If you want to know, I’d had this invitation first and I didn’t see why I should pass up a good thrash for a damned dull one.’
‘What you mean is, that girl was going to be there.’
‘Oh, that’s what it’s all about, is it? I might have known. You’re jealous, you stupid bitch.’
‘Keep your voice down, for Christ’s sake! Do you want Sylvia and Francis to hear?’
‘I don’t see how they could help it, unless they’re deaf or stoned out of their minds. Who are they anyway, Mr. and Mrs. God?’
‘They happen to be your hosts and as they happen to live here it matters to them what people think.’
‘You bloody hypocrite! You don’t give a piss in hell about them. You’re building up all this great tower of shit over nothing. You’re so obvious, so damned boring.’
‘Why don’t you go back to that bit of thrash where you belong,’ Aurora suggested sweetly.
‘Yes, why don’t I? Best idea you’ve come up with yet.’ He got off the bed, steadying himself with the bedpost. ‘That’s where I belong. With Nancy. A great girl, Nancy, you’ll love her. I’m going to marry her as soon as I can get a divorce from my wife.’
‘I couldn’t wish you anything better: I’m sure you deserve one another if two people ever did.’
Tense with rage Aurora watched him pad away uncertainly into the darkness. She thought with luck that he might fall down and break his neck.
*
‘Bibby’, the old island drink laced with vodka, is the authentic recipe for producing the grandfather-and-grandmother of a hangover — like an Irish barney inside one’s head. To Jeremy, who had been on it all night, it was as though someone had performed a trepanning operation on his skull while he was unconscious and inserted into it a marimba upon which a tiny musician was ferociously, irrhythmically, ceaselessly clashing. He was barely able to make it back to the Wingates. He did hope that everyone was going to be very gentle with him. Especially Rory.
She didn’t seem to be around. Jeremy made a tent with his cupped hands and peered through his sunglasses. A tall and wavering figure was standing in the doorway.
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Hullo, Sylvia. I was looking for Rory. Would you happen to know where she is?’
‘Gone.’
‘Oh … ’ The Flame Tree was cruelly bright against the raspberry-pink of the house, it made him feel quite sick. ‘Well, I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit, if you don’t mind … I’m feeling rather fragile … slightly rocky … ’
He made his way across the glaring limestone terrace as if he was on a plunging deck in a rough sea. ‘When she comes back, would you tell her — ’ he grabbed the vine-entwined pillar and hung on to it.
Sylvia said, in what struck him as an unpleasantly loud voice: ‘She won’t be coming back. She’s gone.’
‘Oh?’ He put a hand to his head, wincing. ‘Gone where?’
‘Where do you suppose? I give you two guesses.’
Jeremy attempted to shake his head, but desisted.
‘Home, Jeremy. Back to England.’
He let go of the pillar and made a move towards her.
‘Back to England. Why? What’s happened?’
‘Do you really need me to tell you?’
‘Something I’ve done?’
‘To put it mildly.’
‘I’m in the doghouse?’
‘Again, that’s putting it mildly.’
Jeremy sank into a garden chair and groaned. This was too much for him to cope with. The events of last night had passed into the blank fields of limbo. ‘Would it be abusing the laws of hospitality too much, Sylvia dear, to ask for a drink?’
‘Of course not. As if you could abuse the laws of hospitality, Jeremy. I shall make you a Bermuda Special.’
The drink was fiery and ice-cold at the same time and very potent. Sylvia from the corner of her eye saw him roll the frosted glass against his brow and thought how pleased Aurora would be to see his condition.
Aurora, recklessly flinging things into her cases, had said, ‘You can tell him I don’t want to see him again — ever. Tell him what you like. I don’t care. He wants a divorce; he shall have it. And we’ll see how he likes that.’
And Sylvia had said: ‘Don’t go. I’m sure it’ll blow over.’
‘I must.’
‘Aren’t you just running away from the situation?’
And Aurora had looked at her sadly:
‘What weapons have I against a girl half my age, if I stay? It’s the only tactic left to me. Staying here, with everyone watching what is going on, gives me no room to manoeuvre. Let him think I don’t care, and maybe — just maybe,’ she had sighed, and a tear had slid down her nose.
The influence of the Bermuda Special was easing somewhat the throbbing in Jeremy’s skull.
‘I’m afraid my memory of last night is not too clear. You couldn’t, I suppose, remind me what it is I am meant to have done.’ Expressionlessly, Sylvia reminded him.
It was very disagreeable. It was hard to know what to say. He made an effort to pull himself together. He got to his feet.
‘I’d better go and clear out my things.’
‘You can’t go after her today, you know.’
‘No, but I can’t stay here any longer. I’m sorry this delightful holiday should have broken up in this rotten way; you’ve been so very kind to me, you and Francis.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ she said politely.
He said with a sudden wild irrelevance:
‘Strange how things somehow work out for the best, don’t they?’
‘We like to think so. If we didn’t I suppose we couldn’t bear the things we do to one another,’ Sylvia said, turning away.
But he was not thinking of Aurora, he was thinking of Nancy, with whom he had fallen so absurdly in love. She was like Aurora must have been at the age of twenty-two, full of an irresistible ebullient vitality, always leading one on into fresh lunacies, teasing, laughing, and bossing one around with the fecund exuberance of youth. He had really lost his head about her. It was like being born again. He had forgotten how heavenly it was to be in love; all the languor and boredom of his life had no more substance for him than a dream. Aurora herself faded from his mind when he was not with her. And now because he had got drunk and made her angry, she had gone out of his life and left him free.
Jeremy caught sight of the fellow in the mirror smiling to himself as he began to empty out the contents of a drawer. There were some odds and ends of Rory’s, relics of what had already become the past. He glanced at them with a queer expression and dropped them into the wastepaper basket. Last of all at the back of the drawer was a crumpled blue Airmail. The letter from Tom. He smoothed it out and began unthinkingly to read it through again.
Funny to think it had arrived only a couple of days ago and since then everything had changed. Completely. It no longer mattered to him that Upperdown would be burned to the ground. One could think of it as his farewell gift to Rory — his parting present. Only she would never know it, of course. She would get back to find … No, it would happen — With a heavily beating heart, he counted off the days, over and over. But always the answer was the same: eight days from the 18th was the 26th.
He ran out of the room calling hoarsely for Sylvia.
‘It’s the 26th,’ she said, glancing up from her paper. ‘Why?’
His face had a curious greenish tinge. ‘I’ve
just remembered something. I’ve got to get back to England at once.’
‘You can’t. Not today anyhow. You know there isn’t another flight till tomorrow.’
‘I must,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of life and death,’ and stopped abruptly with a look of fright on his face.
The last few hours had left Aurora understandably shaken, her nerves a-jangle like Chinese windglasses in a lively breeze. As soon as the plane had taken off she began by asking the air hostess for an Irish coffee, explaining with a confidential smile that she’d had no time for breakfast.
‘We’ll be serving breakfasts directly, Mrs. Eskdale,’ the girl said, smiling back at her prettily.
‘Oh, I never touch breakfast. Nothing but black coffee, please, and just for today I’ll have whisky in it to settle my stomach. Never mind about the cream.’
She needed something to see her through the long day ahead, during which there would be nothing to do but mull over what had been said which would better have been left unsaid and what ought to have been said instead.
While she was in Bermuda she had kept a nice balance between being drunk as a lord and sober as a judge, had managed never to disgrace her cousin by falling flat on her face. It was different now, she was alone and feeling totally uncertain whether she had done the right thing or made the mistake of her life. Fury, resentment, self-pity rose and fell alternatively round and round inside her like the bright caparisoned horses on a merry-go-round. At such times only the soothing influence of the blessed spirits could calm the turmoil in one’s soul.
A crow could have made the distance from Heathrow to Nettlefold nicely in a couple of hours. But for Aurora it was a much more tedious and fatiguing journey: taking the coach from airport to terminal, then a lengthy wait in the station buffet for a train to Petersfield, which turned out to be a ‘slow’ one with two changes en route. From there a taxi took her out to Nettlefold, with a couple of stops on the way at pubs for a quick slurp, for as she explained more than once to the driver she’d had a long journey and was very tired. At the second pub she had the forethought to buy a bottle to take home with her in case there was nothing in the house.
It was half past seven by the time she arrived. Upperdown looked gloomy and deserted against the fading sunset. It was pitch dark inside. Aurora dropped her cases in the hall and went around unfastening the shutters and opening the windows.
Suddenly she became aware of her deep exhaustion and fell into a chair in the drawing room. As she sprawled there like a humped sack with legs outstretched, there presently passed from her eyes to her brain the intimation that something was amiss … something wrong … different. She was almost too tired to register what it was that was bothering her. A sort of emptiness that made the place look bleaker … Never mind … tomorrow she’d — Aurora jerked awake. What was missing were the two tall blue-grey porcelain jars decorated with the curving petals of oxblood-red chrysanthemums which stood either side of the fireplace.
It so happened they were not to Aurora’s taste. But what had become of them? And where were the two Chinese cabinets? And the George II candlesticks? And the Buhl clock? And … And …
She ran from room to room staring about her, opening cupboards and drawers, pushing things about, trying to discover what was missing. Where had all the things gone? Who could have taken them?
Seized with a sick burning rage at this last affront, she rang the police. The duty constable said they would send someone round as soon as possible, and advised her meanwhile not to touch anything.
But she already had, of course. From the prim bare order of the rooms when she arrived, she had created with unintentional deceptiveness the characteristic confusion and disarray of a house break-in. Preoccupied as she was with trying to keep in her head a list of the things that were missing, she was quite unaware of the mischief she had caused.
She opened the bottle and poured herself a stiff drink while she waited. She really needed that! After all the nerve-racking events of the last twenty-four hours.
What Aurora found especially disturbing was the fact that although she had examined door and window-fastenings throughout the ground floor and basement, she could find no sign of a forced entry, which seemed to indicate it must have been an inside job. Must have. And that meant it could only have been one or other of the two persons who had the keys: Rupert Ellis, the agent, or Tom Ransome, the caretaker.
‘I’ll bet my best button-boots,’ she muttered emptying her glass again, ‘it wasn’t Rupert, because that would be too damned silly for words. He may not be all that bright but he certainly isn’t as stupid as that.’
So it had to be Tom. Tom, who was perpetually skint and quite evidently, she saw now, must have invented the story of having found a job at last. It was too rotten for words, such heartless under-handedness from someone she had liked so much, taking him for such a decent little fellow, someone really to be trusted, a true friend. As it turned out he had been nothing but a mean little con-man and she the patsy. There was no one to be trusted, no not one in all this heartless world. Oh, the bitterness, the loneliness, of that.
The woman shivered and poured herself another drink. Holding the glass in one hand, she dialled with the other a friend’s number, someone to whom she could narrate the dramatic events that had befallen her. It made things better to talk about them, everyone knew that.
‘My dear, you’re back, how lovely!’ Gina Harmsworth cried. ‘You won’t believe this, but I was just thinking about you and wondering why I hadn’t heard — ’
‘I’ve been away — ’
‘I know, my dear, that’s what I meant. Did you enjoy it? I want to hear all about it just as soon — ’
‘Yes, I’ve only just this minute got back and — ’
‘My dear, such goings-on while you’ve been away. What you’ve missed!’
‘Oh? Anything to do with the Ransomes, by any chance?’
‘Who?’
‘You know, Tom Ransome and his wife. Didn’t you meet them?’
‘My dear, no, this was the HARPERS, of all people! — ’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Aurora said, laying down the handpiece and wandering away irritably. The egotism of some people was really beyond belief. She had forgotten what a chatterbox Gina was, always full of her own concerns, regardless of the fact that the other person might have something of importance to relate. The best way of dealing with the situation was to leave them in silence for a minute or two and then to determinedly seize hold of the conversation oneself when one picked up the phone again. She emptied her glass once more and was looking round for the bottle, when the doorbell pealed loudly through the house and she went to let in the police.
It was 8.27 when they arrived (P.C. Adcock logged the time in his notebook). Mrs. Eskdale, the complainant, was friendly and garrulous, repeatedly urging drinks on them which they had to refuse. The complainant appeared to be slightly the worse for drink herself. It was not easy to keep her to the point. She told long rambling stories which never reached a conclusion.
While P.C. Adcock was trying to get out of her a list of what was missing P.C. Jeavons investigated the premises. What with the repetitions and reminiscences, P.C. Adcock had no way of knowing whether her account was correct, but it finally amounted to 43 items.
Mrs. Eskdale considerably impeded the constables’ efforts by following them from room to room, interrupting and distracting them with her tales. They sighed but their job had taught them patience. It was never any use hurrying people or trying to push them around, one had to gentle them along. In one respect her statement agreed with their findings: there was no evidence of a break-in.
The complainant seemed to think she knew who the culprit was. Said she knew for a positive fact who had taken the things, a man who had been staying in the house and left without warning while she and her husband were away. Man called Tom Ransome. Thomas Ransome. No known address.
‘I always like that bit in the papers where it says th
e accused, so and so, described himself as a company director of no fixed abode,’ the complainant said, breaking into laughter.
‘You don’t know where he lives.’
‘No, he went away but never said where. Very sad. Such a nice man; good husband, loving father. Never thought he’d play a trick like that.’
‘Not to worry,’ said P.C. Jeavons reassuringly. ‘We’ll find him.’
‘Very sad.’
‘We’d better be going now. Nothing more we can do tonight.’
‘Must have a drink before you go. Jus’ one. I insist … Working very hard … worn out,’ she pressed, plucking at their sleeves, her glazing eyes trying from beneath drooping lids to focus on their faces.
The men exchanged glances, then yielded, taking up their generously slopping glasses but remaining on their feet. Before they left they closed the windows and fastened the shutters for her. Then they thanked her for the drinks, reminded her to bolt the front door behind them, and departed. It was then 10.45.
What nice lads, Aurora thought. So considerate. God, she was tired. She wished there was someone to carry her up to bed; she didn’t know how she was going to make it, the staircase seemed to go on for ever. She got up it somehow, negotiating the last part of it on all fours.
She opened the bedroom door and turned on the light. The great red Chinese bed swam towards her like a boat …
NINE
The whole village was talking about it. It is a major event when a house like Upperdown is burnt down. Right on their doorsteps, so to speak. Particularly as — it had already leaked out — the owner had died in the fire. Frightful! It didn’t bear thinking about, people were saying.
‘My dear, what makes it so dreadful is that I was talking to her only a few hours earlier,’ Gina Harmsworth was saying in the saloon bar of The George. ‘It came as a most terrible shock when I heard about it. You can imagine when one’s just been speaking to someone and the next thing one hears is that they’re dead!’ She shuddered and emptied her glass. ‘I’ll have another, Betty, I’m so upset.’
A Game of Consequences Page 13
