by Muriel Spark
‘The music,’ says Heloise.
‘Sister Barton,’ says Pablo. ‘If you don’t come and help I can’t go and put on the wedding record for Heloise.’
‘It’s atrocious,’ says Sister Barton, weeping but not helping. ‘To take him away from me now, after all I’ve done.’
The Reverend looks for a moment at Sister Barton then looks away as if finding her unsavoury. ‘Have you got a Protestant Bible?’ he says. ‘If not, we’ll do without.’
‘The English Prayer Book,’ says Eleanor, but she cannot be heard above the noise of the storm and the ecstasy of the man from the attic, whom Clovis is now assisting Hadrian to hold. Standing beside Heloise the patient is apparently dumbstruck and gazes at her with only his grin. Greensleeves starts up again.
‘It’s getting late,’ says Lister.
‘The Book of Common Prayer,’ says Eleanor.
‘It’s within my competence as a pastor to perform a legal marriage in this country according to my own simple formula,’ says the Reverend looking at his watch then at him from the attic, while pointing to Heloise. ‘Gustav Anthony Klopstock, do you take this woman to be your wedded wife?’ he says.
The bridegroom escapes, once more, to tumble upon Heloise.
‘That means “I do”,’ says Pablo, helping with the others, to rescue the bride.
‘Nobody can now say he wasn’t in his right mind at the time of the marriage,’ says Lister. ‘He knows perfectly well what he’s doing.’
‘In my condition,’ says Heloise.
When the couple are set in place again the Reverend says to Heloise, ‘What is your father’s name?’
‘Klopstock,’ says Heloise
‘Klopstock?’
A howl of delight is emitted by the Klopstock from the attic.
‘Kindred and Affinity!’ shrieks Eleanor above the boisterous instrumentals of the storm, the music and the groom.
‘It is a coincidence,’ Lister says, spreading his hand like a conductor of an orchestra pleading a pianissimo. ‘Her father is a humble Klopstock, a riveter. No connection with the House of Klopstock whose residence this is, where galaxies of generals, ambassadors, and their bespangled consorts mingle with cardinals and exiled Arabians by night when the Baron and Baroness are not privately engaged.’
‘Are you of age?’ says the Reverend to Heloise.
‘I’m twenty-two,’ she says, swinging a little to the rock-music as it speeds up, and shaking the white mink coat.
‘She’s twenty-three!’ says Sister Barton, still tearful.
‘Well you’re a major,’ says the Reverend to Heloise. ‘Heloise Klopstock,’ he says, ‘will you take this man to be your wedded husband?’
‘I will,’ says Heloise.
‘They have no ring,’ says the Reverend looking round irritably.
Lister produces a ring immediately.
‘He’ll only put it in his mouth and swallow it,’ weeps Sister Barton.
‘I shall place the ring on the bride’s finger by proxy,’ says Lister, doing so.
‘I hereby pronounce you man and wife,’ says the Reverend placing a hand on each shoulder of Heloise and her new husband who, now overjoyed, once more leaps out of reach, this time gambolling to the far end of the room. Numerous precious vases crash to the floor.
Mr McGuire hastens to protect his bobbins, while Mr Samuel says, clicking his camera, ‘Marvellous! His laugh’s very like a large-mouthed cry of elation such as any beauty queen might give at the moment of her election.’
‘I would never resemble him to that,’ says Heloise.
Her husband is sprightly and will not be caught. He rips the whole zip-fastener from the stuff of his suit and exultantly dances out of the garment. Then, capering lustily with carols and further damage to the furniture, he pulls the mink coat off his wife’s back, drags her into a corner and falls on top of her.
Pablo rushes to intervene.
‘Leave him be. He has every right,’ says Lister.
‘He has no right at a wedding,’ says the Reverend. ‘It’s not the thing to do.’
Sister Barton sobs and the storm revels, while Heloise shoves with hard athleticism and finally escapes, fleeing to the safety of the sound and film-track area. ‘Give me a comb,’ she says.
Clovis is blowing out the candles.
Mr Samuel says, ‘This will need a lot of editing.’
‘In my condition,’ says Heloise, ‘and I’ve lost a shoe.’
The bridegroom is being held by Sister Barton, Hadrian and Pablo, and is being clothed with the embroidered table cloth by Eleanor.
‘Bite his finger and keep him quiet,’ says Clovis to Sister Barton.
‘He was only doing his thing,’ says Hadrian.
Lister says, ‘Kings and queens of olden days used to consummate in public. They had four-poster beds with curtains. The court had to stand by to see the curtains shake when Mary Queen of Scots married the Dauphin of France, compared to whom our friend from the attic, here, is an Einstein. And so, my dear Heloise, nobody can now contest the validity of your nuptials on the grounds that they haven’t been consummated.’
‘They were not consummated,’ say Heloise. ‘Only almost.’
‘To the eye of the candid camera,’ says Lister, ‘the marriage was consummated. Isn’t that so, Mr Samuel?’
‘Yes,’ says Mr Samuel. But nobody is listening. Lister is offering a pen and two sheets of typewritten paper to the Reverend. ‘The marriage certificate,’ he says. ‘Will you sign your witness, Reverend? I have already signed. In duplicate.’
The Reverend is looking round him as if wondering where he is.
‘Sign?’ he says. ‘Oh yes, of course, I’ll put my name. And the happy couple has to sign, too.’ He beams at everyone, takes out his glasses, rests the piece of paper on Eleanor’s flat prayer book and signs. ‘The bridegroom,’ he says, ‘then the bride.’
‘Bite his finger,’ says Clovis to Sister Barton, ‘or you’re fired.’
Tearfully, she takes the little finger of the trumpeting patient in her mouth and bites. He starts to giggle and, although she lets go, does not stop. Lister places the pen in the giggler’s hand and raising the paper and the hard book to a convenient level, moves the limp and helplessly amused hand over the space provided until the name is traced, Gustav A. Klopstock. ‘The Anthony would have taken too long,’ says Lister, very satisfied in his expression of face. ‘You never know when his milder spells will stop. Now, Heloise.’ Heloise takes the pen and writes her name above the typed address, in the space reserved for her. ‘We register this tomorrow,’ says Lister. ‘It’s a quarter to seven. Time has flown. Sister Barton, Pablo will assist you. Give him a nice warm drink and an injection.’
‘I must go home to bed,’ says the Reverend. ‘Where did I leave my bike?’ He looks around the very untidy drawing-room.
‘In this storm,’ Lister says, ‘you can’t ride back to Geneva, Reverend. We have a bed for you. We shall always have a bed for you, Reverend. Eleanor, show the Reverend to his room.’
‘Nice of you, very kind under the circumstances,’ says the Reverend. ‘I want to show a press-cutting to Cecil Klopstock. Where is he?’
‘The Baron is not to be disturbed.’
‘Tell him I want to see him when he wakes up.’
V
‘Bear in mind,’ says Lister, ‘that when dealing with the rich, the journalists are mainly interested in backstai
rs chatter. The popular glossy magazines have replaced the servants’ hall in modern society. Our position of privilege is unparalleled in history. The career of domestic service is the thing of the future. The private secretaries of the famous do well, too. Give me another cup of coffee, please Eleanor. It’s almost time to go up and change.’
They are seated round the large table where breakfast seems to be as rapidly begun as nearing its end. The storm has retreated from the near vicinity of the house, but continues to prowl on the lake and the mountain-sides. Every now and again there is a banging of fists, a shouted demand, on the back door. Nobody takes any notice.
‘Are there any grapes in the house?’ says Heloise.
‘No, you had the last of them,’ says Clovis.
‘Well, you’re wrong,’ says Irene, ‘because I brought her a huge big bunch from Geneva. They’re in the pantry. I got them from that boyfriend who’s a steward on the first class TWA.’
‘Irene, what a treasure the Klopstocks have lost in you by their death!’ says Lister.
Irene looks modestly at her crumby plate.
Clovis yawns and leans his elbows on the table and his head on his hands. ‘I’m worn out,’ he says. ‘I’ll be glad to get to bed.’ He gets up, goes into the pantry and returns with a tray on which are set a plate of large green grapes, a bowl of water in which to dip them and a tiny pair of scissors with which to snip them off their twigs. He places them before Heloise. ‘Long live the Baroness!’ he says.
Heloise pats her stomach.
Mr Samuel then goes to open the back door. He can be heard saying, ‘You’ll have to wait. Victor Passerat’s not available just yet.’
‘We’ve lost the keys of the car,’ says the woman’s voice.
‘Well, look for them.’
‘The ground’s all wet. We’re soaked through. Can’t we come in and telephone to a garage, or something?’
‘Sorry, strangers aren’t permitted.’
‘What can we do? We can’t get in the car, and we can’t get out of the gate. The porter won’t open it for us.’
‘Take a stroll in the grounds,’ advises Mr Samuel.
‘It’s wet. We’ll get caught in another downpour. This is a terrible place.’
‘You should always,’ says Mr Samuel, ‘avoid terrible places.’
Returning to the servants’ dining-room he says, ‘Amateurs. Where’s my camera? It’s just possible I could get a few shots of them to fit in an educational film I’ve got going. The young have to be taught about the average aberrant in the street.’
He takes his camera to the window and focuses.
Lister, dressed smartly for the day’s work, stands at the open front door like a gloomy shopkeeper looking at the dark, rumbling sky as Theo comes up the drive on his bicycle. Theo makes a questioning sign, pointing round to the back of the house. ‘No, come here,’ says Lister.
Theo tremulously parks his bicycle against the dripping hedge and walks the rest of the way.
‘I called for you, Theo, because there is something strange to report,’ Lister says. ‘Come right in.’
The others are coming downstairs, with sleeplessness in their movements and on their faces. The servants are dressed in their morning overalls. Behind them come Mr Samuel in a knee-length blue bath-robe and Mr McGuire in a black and white striped dressing-gown.
‘What’s going on?’ says Mr Samuel.
Theo says, ‘There’s something peculiar been going on all night.’
‘Do you like the job, Theo?’ says Lister.
‘Yes, Lister,’ he says.
‘Well, you can keep it. Only remember that nothing peculiar has been going on, as indeed it hasn’t. I want only to inform you here and now that the light is on in the library as it was last night when we went to bed with orders not to disturb the Baron Klopstocks and their guest and, furthermore, this morning the door is locked from the inside and there is no response.’
‘What’s happened?’ says Theo. ‘You know, my Clara has had dreams, terrible dreams. Have you knocked hard enough?’
Lister goes to the library door, tries the handle, shakes it, then knocks loudly. ‘Sir!’ he says. ‘Madam!’
‘We’d better break it down,’ says Theo, looking at the others one by one.
‘I have orders not to disturb,’ Lister says. ‘We shall call the police.’
‘Clara will be frightened,’ says Theo.
‘Tell her to confide in the police about her dreams, and get it off her chest,’ says Lister. ‘The more she says about her dreams when questioned, the better. As far as you two in the lodge are concerned we have been such stuff as dreams are made on all through the stormy night.’
‘There’s a couple been wandering the grounds all night,’ says Theo. ‘They came in the car and I wouldn’t let them out, as you ordered. Now they’ve lost the keys of the car and they’re taking shelter under a tree. They look a suspicious pair to me.’
‘Forget them,’ says Mr Samuel. ‘They’re only extras.’
‘Better go back to Clara,’ says Lister. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. See that the gates are opened.’
‘All right, Lister,’ says Theo in a hushed voice, looking towards the library. Then he departs quickly through the open door, mounts his bicycle and starts off up the drive. He gets drenched almost immediately for at that moment the storm descends with full concentration on the Klopstocks’ country seat. Theo pedals vigorously, and rounding a bend he is forced to get off his bicycle and press forward on foot along the loud storm-darkened avenue, streaked every now and then as it is with a dart of lightning. On the way he passes a clump of trees under one of which, shrinking into the bark, are the couple of wandering friends from the car. Theo staggers onwards up the twisting drive and at the porch of his house lets fall the bicycle, bends through the torrent to the gates of the house, unlocks them and throws them open. Then he returns to the lodge and tumbles indoors.
Meanwhile the lightning, which strikes the clump of trees so that the two friends huddled there are killed instantly without pain, zig-zags across the lawns, illuminating the lily-pond and the sunken rose garden like a self-stricken flash-photographer, and like a zip-fastener ripped from its garment by a sexual maniac, it is flung slapdash across Lake Leman and back to skim the rooftops of the house, leaving intact, however, the well-insulated telephone wires which Lister, on the telephone to Geneva, has rather feared might break down.
Having alerted the police and quiveringly recommended an ambulance with attendant doctors and nurses, Lister now telephones to the discreet and well-appointed flat in Geneva which he prudently maintains, and extends a welcome to the four journalists who have been Very waiting up all night for the call, playing poker meanwhile, with the ash-trays piled high.
‘Our four friends,’ Lister then instructs the household, ‘are to have first preference in anything you can say to them. They will, of course, have the scandal exclusives which Mr Samuel and Mr McGuire have prepared in the form of typescript, photographs and sound recordings. The television, Associated Press and the local riff-raff are sure to question you wildly: answer likewise — say anything to them, just anything, but keep them happy. Isn’t that right, Clovis?’
‘Yes, the arrangements between our four special friends, ourselves, and our numbered accounts in the Swiss Trust Corporate can be left to Lister. We don’t have any arrangements with the others. Keep them happy, that’s all. For the television, throw your heads into your hands
and sob, or display a sad disapproval of your late employers.’
‘I want to go to bed,’ says Heloise.
‘I shall see that you are allowed to retire at the earliest possible moment, Heloise.’
‘Listen to Lister,’ says Eleanor.
Lister then books a telephone call to the residence of Count Rudolph Klopstock in Rio de Janeiro, and having done this, says to the others, ‘There’s a delay to Brazil and they’re five hours back. We should get the Count somewhere between 4 and 5 a.m. Rio time, and allowing for human nature on the telephone exchange between here and there the news will get around pretty quickly.’
‘The brother ought to know,’ says Eleanor.
‘Know what?’ says Lister.
‘About the brother,’ says Eleanor.
‘At the present moment,’ says Lister, ‘all we ourselves know is that the library door is locked with the Baron, the Baroness and their young friend unresponsive. We’re justifiably apprehensive, that’s all. Here comes the crime squad. Group yourselves apprehensively.’
He opens the front door to the sound of sirens in the storm. Two police cars pull up at the door followed by an ambulance. An inspector of police, a police detective, two plain-clothes men, three uniformed policemen and a police photographer troop in the open door. The ambulance crew alight and come in out of the rain.
‘This is the door, Inspector,’ says Lister, leading the way to the library.
The Inspector turns the handle, rattles it, bangs on the door and listens.
‘Are you sure there’s somebody inside?’
‘We fear so. The light’s still on as it was last night. The Baron gave orders they were not to be disturbed,’ Lister says. ‘I have already put through a call to the Baron’s brother, as I felt it was right.’
‘Open the door,’ says the Inspector. Two hefty policemen break it down. The Inspector and his men crowd into the room. Lister follows while the rest of the household approaches the threshold. Mr Samuel’s camera clicks. Mr McGuire has a small, light apparatus dangling from his wrist. The body of the Baroness is lying on the floor by the window in a large dark red stain. That of Victor Passerat lies curled against a bookcase which is well splashed with his blood. The Baron’s body is slumped over a round table with a revolver not far from his fingers.
