by Tom Holt
‘Lucia darling, are you sure? You wouldn’t like to reconsider that last move?’ she said nervously as Lucia gobbled up Trafalgar Square. ‘I’m sure that, since it’s your first game, we might let you take it back.’
But Lucia was made of sterner stuff. ‘So kind of you, Elizabeth,’ she replied, ‘but I must abide by the rules. Only by experience can I hope to learn, after all. Pain is learning, as the dear poet said.’
The dear poet was right, for Lucia had given herself a headache committing to memory the advice of the South-Eastern Area champion, and he had been most insistent on securing Trafalgar Square. Meanwhile Elizabeth found herself entertaining quite unprecedented doubts about her own hitherto unbeatable strategy, and scarcely bought anything at all. So distracted was she by her worries that the Padre landed on one of her few properties without her noticing. He was about to mention it (for he was a man of God) when his wife nudged him firmly in the ribs, and he remained silent. As Diva threw the dice Elizabeth noticed her error.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she exclaimed. ‘Padre, you owe me some rent.’
The Padre began to count out the notes, but Lucia stopped him. ‘No need, Padre. The moment has passed. You are not liable.’
‘Yes he is!’ cried Elizabeth.
‘Carissima, I assure you that he isn’t. Surely you recollect the ruling on this point? Let me see now, how does it go? Ah yes, I have it. “If the owner fails to ask for his rent before the next throw of the dice, no rent may be collected.” And Diva has thrown. Ecco! So harsh, don’t you think? But we must abide by the rules, as I said earlier.’
‘I don’t remember that rule,’ said Elizabeth uneasily.
‘She’s right, old girl,’ said Major Benjy, who had the rule-book open in front of him. ‘Word for word, too, by Jove. Well remembered, Mrs. Pillson. You saved the Padre a tidy sum there, I fancy.’
Elizabeth gave Lucia such a ferocious stare that for a moment Lucia believed that her dear friend was about to strike her. Instead, she snatched the second die from her husband’s hand and cast both together with the velocity of a Larwood. For all her force, the dice registered but three points; she advanced the shiny metal motor-car the required number of places and with difficulty found room for it on a square crowded with houses and hotels. Underneath the miniature tyres of the counter the space was a blaze of yellow.
The game moved remorselessly towards an inevitable conclusion. To yellow was added blue and green, and Diva was prised out of the Old Kent Road and Whitechapel (as always, her only possessions) to add brown to Lucia’s kaleidoscopic empire. The moment came when the Mapp-Flints had no cash in hand, no properties to mortgage, and debts to the panchromatic Lucia of several thousand pounds. With utter disdain, Elizabeth rose from the table.
‘Such a delightful game, dearest Lucia. How proficient you have become, and so quickly.’
‘Beginner’s luck, carissima, and you were most unfortunate. You always seemed to be landing on my squares.’ Since Lucia had owned most of the board for most of the game, Fortune’s malice was not entirely to blame.
‘Nonsense, dear. Such hidden talent! I declare you’ll be giving us all lessons shortly.’
This was irony, and irony was meat and drink to Lucia. ‘I should be delighted to share my preliminary conclusions with you at any time,’ she said innocently, ‘but I’m sure you know just as much about the game as I do. I think you let me win, you kind darling.’
Elizabeth growled, and laid a hand on Major Benjy’s shoulder.
‘But you aren’t thinking of leaving us already?’ gasped Lucia. ‘The game is not yet concluded, and anything might happen. If you like, I will gladly loan you, say five thousand more ....’
‘Time has flown by all too swiftly,’ snarled Elizabeth, ‘as it always does when one is enjoying oneself so much. See, it is already seven-o’clock, and we must go home, or Withers will scold us. Let us call it a draw.’
Irene snorted at this, but Lucia ignored her. ‘A draw it shall be then, between you and me. And thank you so much, Elizabeth. I have learnt a lot simply by watching you.’
‘Hang on, Liz,’ said Benjy, ‘you ordered dinner for half-past nine. There’s no need to stop just yet.’
‘Benjy, you naughty one,’ hissed Elizabeth, white with rage, ‘dinner is at half-past seven. Come along.’
‘Would you like Cadman to drive you home?’ asked Lucia gently. ‘I fear that we haven’t seen the last of the rain, and since your motor is still being serviced ....’
There was a stress on the word ‘still’ that reminded everyone of a topic that had received too little attention of late. Elizabeth thanked Lucia for her too kind offer and stalked out of the room. As they passed by the lighted window of the garden-room on their long journey home, the Mapp-Flints paused involuntarily and gazed at its most unusual and distinctive curtains through which the light glowed warmly. They could hear a musical female voice apparently telling a humorous story, for it was frequently interrupted by joyous laughter. Unfortunately, they could not quite catch the words.
Chapter 5
The new garden-room curtains soon became an object of widespread interest in Tilling. So picturesque was the town that visitors from every part of the country visited it, even in winter, and few of the eager sight-seers who brought guide-book and Kodak to bear on Mallards failed to utter some appreciative cry as the curtains caught their attention. As a result, Lucia took to keeping them drawn even during the day (for to conceal something that so obviously gave pleasure to so many would be selfishness indeed), with a consequent increase in expenditure on electric light. One American couple actually rang the front-door bell and offered Grosvenor twenty pounds for them under the impression that she was the owner of the house.
Behind these curtains, Monopoly was played every Tuesday and Friday. The games now started in the morning (at about half-past ten) and lasted most of the day, so that the town took on the melancholy appearance of Goldsmith’s Deserted Village. Elizabeth had invested in a book by the North-Western Area champion on advanced tactical planning and Lucia had gone one step further by engaging in personal correspondence with the victor of the recent British Open Championship. The other players were confined to rather subsidiary roles in the epic struggles that ensued, being content to watch, to wonder and, very occasionally, to assist one or other of the two Commanders in one of the secret conspiracies that gave the game its own particular spice. Thus, if Diva received, through furtive signalling, the impression that Elizabeth wanted her to buy Mayfair while she had the chance and resell it to her after a discreet interval, she would endeavour to do so; although, since she frequently failed to understand Elizabeth’s necessarily perfunctory signals, the amount of assistance that she was materially able to render was limited. Nevertheless, the atmosphere of intrigue and sharp practice that such exercises bred was in itself worth its weight in hotels to the Elizabethan faction. As a result of the intensity and frequency of the contests, the two main protagonists soon achieved a mastery of the game that caused Mr. Wyse, spectator of a singularly fiercely contested encounter, to suggest that Lucia and Elizabeth should combine their formidable talents to produce a Monopoly textbook for the Badminton Library. Both parties, however, declined the suggestion with a charming display of modesty and almost at once began writing furiously, separately and in secret.
Like a forest fire which is apparently extinguished only to burst forth again in the most unexpected of places, the local history craze found a new enthusiast in the person of Major Benjy. It was universally known that he had inherited, from his poor dead friend Captain Puffin, a fine collection of notes on Tilling’s past. In reality, the fine collection consisted of an Ordnance Survey map and a sixpenny guide-book, for Captain Puffin’s scholarship had been an excuse for sitting up late with the newspaper and a bottle of whisky; and it must be admitted that Major Benjy’s renascent fascination with the subject was largely to do with finding a pretext for getting out of the house when it was too cold or to
o wet to play golf. Nevertheless, the library of the Club did contain several volumes relating to local history, from which the Major would select tasty morsels to recite to his wife, thereby producing specious evidence that he was engaged in honest employment.
One miserable day, therefore, Major Benjy, having finished the crossword and replenished his glass, settled down with a large, dusty book entitled Sussex County Families. He was feeling unaccountably drowsy and the earnest tone of the book did little to command his attention until his eye lit upon an intriguing sub-heading:
deMap
He blinked twice and relit the cigar that had extinguished itself between his stout fingers.
deMap
Roger de Map (1004-72) received land from the Conqueror in the vicinity of modern Maidstone. Domesday Book records that his son Hugo held the same land, also a manor outside Tilling. Although Hugo’s dates are lost to us ....
Major Benjy’s eye followed the print but his mind wandered and soon he was asleep again. His fist, with the cigar gripped in it, fell across the page, which soon began to blacken and then to smoulder. Fortunately, the conflagration was short-lived; nevertheless, when he awoke he found to his annoyance that the entire entry on the de Maps had been reduced to cinders.
He cast an anxious eye round the library and soon ascertained that his incendiary activities had not been observed. He swiftly closed the book and returned it to the shelf, finished his drink and strolled innocently from the room. A final whisky-and-soda at the bar chased away the last vestiges of drowsiness and as he savoured its forbidden fruits he rehearsed to himself all he could remember of the de Map family. They had, he distinctly remembered, been given Maidstone by William the Conqueror and it said so in the Domesday Book; Roger de Map and Hugo de Map and there had been others too, whose names he could not remember.
Despite his final whisky-and-soda, he still felt slightly drowsy and on his way towards the Landgate and home, he nearly collided with Lucia and Georgie, who were taking the opportunity of a break in the weather for a gentle stroll.
‘Good afternoon, Major Benjy,’ said Lucia brightly. ‘Good day in the library?’
‘Fascinatin’,’ replied the historian, once he had located the source of the question. ‘County families of Sussex an’ all that sort of thing. Been readin’ bout a fammly called de Map, marrofact, used to own all of Maidstone as far as the eye could see.’ Here the Major whirled his arm around his head in a sweeping gesture and Georgie instinctively stepped a little behind Lucia as if taking cover. ‘Book says they were given it by William the Conker, Conqueror. Mos’ intrestin’ fammly, the de Maps. Only one “p”,’ he added, with pride. ‘You ought to read all ’bout them some day when it’s too wet to play golf.’ He sniggered at his own joke. ‘Funny thing is, I feel mos’ deuced sleepy,’ he concluded, then proceeded briskly on his way, making full use of the whole of the pavement and sometimes venturing into the gutter as well.
‘I think our dear Major may have been investigating something else besides the county families of Sussex,’ said Lucia, sympathetically. ‘How sad, Georgie.’
‘He’ll have sobered up by the time he gets to Grebe,’ Georgie replied, emerging from behind the cover she had afforded him. ‘But how interesting about the de Maps, I mean. Elizabeth’s family originally came from Maidstone. I remember her telling us once.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Lucia. ‘How fascinating! And you believe all that about William the Conqueror and owning Maidstone?’
‘He generally takes a few notes to prove he’s been working and not boozing,’ he replied (he had seen the Major at his labours before now), ‘so I suppose it could well be true. But just fancy! If Elizabeth does turn out to be descended from one of William’s knights ....’
Lucia pondered this for a moment as they looked out from the Belvedere Platform at the great bend in the river. A huge barge was being fussed over by a small but active tug and it reminded them both irresistibly of a married couple of their acquaintance. ‘It’s not inconceivable, I suppose,’ she remarked at length. ‘After all, you and I are both descended from someone or other in the Middle Ages.’
‘Do you really think so?’ exclaimed Georgie. ‘How exciting!’
‘Everyone is,’ explained Lucia patiently, ‘or else we wouldn’t be here at all. Ultimately we are all descended from Adam and Eve, although Mr. Darwin and his followers would have us believe that Adam and Eve were no more than highly developed monkeys.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Georgie despondently. ‘I thought you meant someone in particular in the Middle Ages. And I do hope I’m not descended from a monkey, however highly developed. My mother’s people were Bartletts. I suppose that means I’m related to the Padre, generations and generations ago.’
‘Not necessarily, Georgino. Many names della famiglia are derived from a trade or occupation: Smiths and Taylors and Farmers. I expect you’ll find that a Bartlett was a mediaeval tradesman of some description.’
‘That’s even worse,’ was Georgie’s reply, ‘especially if Elizabeth really does turn out to be a Norman.’
‘It may be just a coincidence.’
‘Unlikely, since it’s not a common name and they both come from Maidstone. I do hope she isn’t too tar’some about it.’
‘The more I think about it,’ said Lucia dreamily, ‘the more likely it becomes. There was a vulgar, uncivilised streak in the Normans. They were, after all, descended from Viking raiders who seized the Normandy peninsula. Their leader—I read all this when I was researching the Tapestry—was called Rollo but his original name was Rolf the Walker.’
‘Well, that sounds like Elizabeth. She walks everywhere, even though she’s supposed to have that dashing little motor-car. I wonder what’s become of it?’
‘Do listen, Georgie. Rolf the Walker’s name derived from the fact that he was so fat that no horse could bear his weight, so that he had to walk everywhere. Not that I would call Elizabeth fat exactly ....’
Elizabeth knew nothing of Rolf the Walker and her delight in Major Benjy’s discovery was unalloyed. She sent the Major back next day to copy out the entry in full and was most disappointed when he reported that some careless person had defaced the book in the intervening time. Nevertheless, she had no doubts at all that in the Maidstone de Maps she had identified her own progenitors. She had always wanted to know more about her ancestors, but information had been scarce. There was no family bible and apart from a few collateral branches in remote parts of the country, she was, as far as she knew, the last of her distinguished line. A determination not to be unworthy of her illustrious forebears seized her, for she was firmly of the opinion that noble birth carries with it the onerous duties of leadership. The fact that she was virtually a subject in her own rightful kingdom inspired her to seek new ways of putting Lucia firmly in her place; but how to achieve that worthy aim?
She knew all too well that her fellow-citizens were perfectly capable, if they felt so inclined, of pouring scorn on even the most justifiable pride, so she allowed the news of her new-found connections with the companions of the Conqueror to be disseminated by others. There was no shortage of willing heralds, for by the time she ventured forth into the High Street at the hour dedicated to shopping and conversation, she discovered that her news had already become common knowledge. Lucia, she was well aware, would not have broadcast the intelligence; it must have been dear Mr. Georgie. What a gossip that man was!
The enormous Rolls-Royce motor-car that daily carried the Wyses the few hundred yards from Starling Cottage to the poulterer’s during the pheasant season drew up beside her. Susan Wyse, a tiny human kernel in a shell of sables, wound down the window and greeted her with more than usual warmth.
‘Good morning, my dear Mrs. Mapp-Flint, although I hear that that is no longer quite correct.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Elizabeth, mystified.
‘My wife and I have gathered a morsel from Dame Rumour’s lips,’ said Mr. Wyse, craning over the sable
-mountain and smiling charmingly. ‘As a result, might we not expect some small alteration to that name already so highly respected in our little community?’
‘Oh, I see! How naughty of your to tease me so, dear Mr. Wyse, when I have not uttered a word on the subject. Mere idle speculation on my dear husband’s part, of course. He is the scholar of the household. Poor unlearned I—’
‘Nevertheless,’ persevered Mr. Wyse, for all that leaning across his wife was giving him cramp in his upper arm, ‘I hope that I might presume to suggest an emendation to Time’s poor scholarship and address you as Mrs. de Map-Flint in future.’
‘Dear Mr. Wyse, what a suggestion! Plain Elizabeth Mapp-Flint will suffice as well today as yesterday. I would not have it otherwise, I’m sure.’
Susan, clearly deeply impressed by this monumental act of self-denial, of which she felt, had she been in Elizabeth’s happy position, she would not have been capable, issued a most fervent invitation to dine the next evening—‘Just en famille, you understand.’ Elizabeth quite understood the implication. The aristocracy should stick together. She expressed delight at the prospect and went into the shop, much to the relief of the queue of motorists that had formed behind the enormous bulk of the Royce.
Once inside, Elizabeth bought nothing grander than a boiling-fowl, for the de Maps no longer owned Maidstone and game was such a terrible price. Diva was standing at the counter, endeavouring to persuade Mr. Rice that he had a larger, plumper hare hidden away somewhere out of sight despite his protestations to the contrary.
‘Are you sure that’s a hare, Mr. Rice? Looks like a large rabbit to me. Oh hello, Elizabeth. Do you think that’s a hare?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said Elizabeth brightly, ‘but if Mr. Rice says so, I’m sure I believe him. It’s his job to tell rabbits from hares after all, isn’t it Mr. Rice? A boiling-fowl please; the Major does so like a hot curry at this time of the year.’
