“I’ll be at the Carnival Lunch tomorrow,” Auntie Jean tells her, as she gathers up the cups and plates. “Special invitation from the manageress, see, as I’ve supplied the Grand Surprise Bomb, and the crackers too. They’re my best stock—very expensive ones. I thought I was never going to get rid of them.”
“That crowd at the Hydro are going to need more than crackers to get them going if you ask me,” says Mrs Cadwallader putting on her coat. “Well, I’m off. Cheerio. See you at the party. And if Mona’s in her present mood, Heaven help us all!”
11
Charlie is hiding in the Hydro Hotel kitchen. The cook and the chief waitress, Winnie Probert, are prepared to put up with him only if he keeps well out of their way. So he has found a good place for himself between the cupboard where the knives and forks are kept, and the service doors which lead into the dining-room. These have little port-hole shaped windows in them, and flap open and shut continuously as Winnie and Ariadne, frilly-aproned and already red in the face with exertion, rush to and fro. On the kitchen side of the doors all is in turmoil, with Winnie and the cook screaming orders at one another in Welsh and darting about, dealing out plates as rapidly as if they were playing-cards. On the dining-room side of the door, Winnie instantly slows down to a dignified pace, gliding among the tables as though she were on castors, and giving her instructions quietly to Ariadne in English, as they gracefully distribute the half-grapefruits, each with its glacé cherry, to every place.
Now and then, when the manageress isn’t about, Charlie can get a peep through the port-hole in the door, to watch the guests assembling. They sit at small tables, each with a white cloth, a silver vase of carnations, and a cracker by each plate. Most of the Hydro residents are rather sedate, and there are not nearly enough of them to fill the huge dining-room. Conversation is hushed, and in the long pauses in between they look about as though challenging the management to create in them a mood of Carnival gaiety.
In the centre of the room, with a table all to itself, is Auntie Jean’s Grand Surprise Bomb, done out in frills of bright pink, yellow and green paper. Auntie Jean herself is in red, her favourite colour. Mrs Cadwallader wears dazzling orange and a great deal of jewellery. They sit at a table with Miss Mona, Colonel Quickly, and little Miss Mellish. The Colonel resembles a trim grey bull-terrier, and he is not in the habit of wasting words. His clipped moustache bristles aggressively as he attacks his half-grapefruit. Although little Miss Mellish does her best to chirp and squeak enthusiastically, conversation is difficult. Everyone is relieved when a musical quartet, consisting of three thin ladies, playing stringed instruments, and one very large one at the piano, strikes up on a platform at one end of the room.
The manageress appears and moves smilingly from one table to another, as though to rally the guests into enjoying themselves. Ariadne, concentrating hard so as not to drop anything, comes round with the next course—bits of chicken, rigidly set in a kind of yellow jelly, salad and potatoes. Mrs Cadwallader is plainly bored. She picks at her food, and complains that she doesn’t like the tunes that the quartet are playing, and says that they haven’t any go.
“Ah, you professionals!” cries little Miss Mellish, wagging her finger playfully. “We mustn’t forget you’re an entertainer yourself, Mrs Cadwallader. I hear you’ve been having a great success down on the prom . . .”
But, catching Miss Mona’s eye, she realizes that she has somehow said the wrong thing, and immediately changes the subject. By the time the trifle comes round, things have not improved. The quartet are fiddling away at a breakneck pace, valiantly trying to fill the huge echoing room with festive sound. Ariadne has been running with trays for nearly an hour, but she has managed to smuggle four helpings of trifle to Charlie in his vantage-point behind the door.
The party at Mrs Cadwallader’s table have finished eating at last. Mrs Cadwallader lights up a cigarette in her long green holder, and puffs away moodily.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but I do so admire that ring,” pipes little Miss Mellish, still struggling to keep the conversation going. “The one with the green stone. It’s a very unusual setting, I think.”
“My ring?” says Mrs Cadwallader, idly holding out her hand, which flashes with jewels. “Oh, this one, d’you mean?”
“Yes. How very pretty it is.”
“That one’s been in my poor dear husband’s family for many years,” says Mrs Cadwallader, taking off the ring and holding it up to the light so that Miss Mellish can see it better. “It’s the most valuable of the lot, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, how interesting!” says Miss Mellish, peering short-sightedly.
At this moment their conversation is cut short. The quartet have come to the end of a piece, and play a great flourishing chord. The manageress holds up her hands for silence in the centre of the room.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for! If you’re all ready, I am going to light the Grand Surprise Bomb so stand by for thrills!”
And with a dramatic gesture she lights the fuse on the big paper confection. There is a hush. The guests, turning from their coffee cups, watch expectantly as the Grand Surprise Bomb splutters and hisses into life. A bitter smell fills the air. This is followed by some spurts of light, rather like a firework which can’t make up its mind whether to stop or start. The coloured paper is slowly turning brown and curling at the edges. Now—pop, pop, pop! Some streamers and small objects, wrapped in coloured paper, shoot upwards and roll away over the dining-room floor. Some of the more sporting guests bend down to pick them up, discovering inside some paper hats, whistles and one or two small plastic toys. Miss Mellish unwraps a paper bonnet, which she laughingly puts on, tying the ribbons under her chin.
But Auntie Jean is beginning to look anxious. The smell is getting worse. One or two of the guests are forced to hold handkerchiefs to their noses. Some more coloured lights fly up, and one or two more parcels, but these are steadily followed by a lot of brown smoke, which drifts and billows across the room. The fleeting mood of festivity quickly gives way to one of dismay. People are coughing, their eyes streaming. The manageress flaps at the smoke with a table-napkin, but this only seems to make matters worse. She signals frantically to the quartet, who start to play again, a rousing overture this time. But the guests are retreating to the other end of the room to avoid the smoke, which by this time is so dense they can hardly see one another.
“Quick, get the handyman!” the manageress tells Winnie desperately. “We’ll have to put it out, or we’ll all be suffocated!”
“The Grand Surprise Bomb’s going up in smoke,” Ariadne tells Charlie, dashing through the service doors. “Isn’t that just too absolutely pathetic! And that isn’t all. I’ve just seen . . .”
But Charlie, who has been watching events with interest through the port-hole in the door, has had one of his good ideas. He picks up a huge jug of lemonade, which he has noticed on the table, and puts it into Ariadne’s hands.
“Here, pour that over it,” he tells her.
Ariadne, who has great faith in Charlie in these sort of circumstances, doesn’t hesitate for a moment. She runs back into the dining-room and promptly empties the entire contents of the jug over the Grand Surprise Bomb. There is a sizzling noise, and an even worse smell than before, but gradually the flow of brown smoke decreases, and then dies away altogether, leaving lemonade seeping all over the table and dripping into a puddle on the floor below. The remains of the bomb are now just a mass of charred and sodden crinkle-paper.
It takes time and a great deal of reassurance from the manageress to persuade the guests to reassemble. Two ladies have been overcome by nervous hysteria and have had to be helped to their rooms. The handyman appears with a bucket and mop, and he and Winnie start to clear up the mess. Meanwhile the quartet plays on, one jolly tune after another without a break. But by now the Carnival Lunch is a definite failure. Auntie Jean is trying hard not to catch the man
ageress’s eye. The crackers lie abandoned on the tables with the cold cups of coffee. Nobody has the heart to pull them.
“Now, if you would all like to . . .” begins the manageress, in her brightest voice, but she is interrupted by a loud cry from Mrs Cadwallader:
“Where’s my ring?” she says.
12
The eyes of everyone in the room are turned to Mrs Cadwallader.
“I know I had it just before that horrible bomb thing went off and gave us all such a fright,” she tells them. “I think I must have dropped it somewhere . . .”
“Oh dear, oh dear, I’m sure it’s my fault!” cries Miss Mellish, her paper bonnet quivering apologetically. “You wouldn’t have taken it off if I hadn’t admired it just now. Then this would never have happened.”
At this moment, Colonel Quickly, who until now has not given any sign of enjoying himself, takes the matter in hand. Briskly he declares that the ring must be found. With a few brief orders he organizes the guests into a search-party, and a great hunt begins. Every inch of the floor round the table is searched, plates carefully inspected, and coffee cups checked. This proves fruitless.
“Turn out your handbag, Connie,” suggests Auntie Jean. “You might have put it in there. You know how absent-minded you are.”
Mrs Cadwallader tips out her large handbag on to the table, but no ring appears.
“I think,” says Colonel Quickly in a quiet but determined voice, “that we should all of us, who were sitting round this table, agree to turn out our pockets and handbags for the manageress to inspect.”
There is an awkward pause.
“Surely, Colonel, you’re not suggesting . . .” says the manageress. “I mean, there’s no question of theft, of course.”
“A formality only,” says the Colonel, holding up his hand. “It’s as well to have these matters cleared up right away.”
“Oh, yes! I’d so much rather we did,” agrees Miss Mellish. “I was sitting next to Mrs Cadwallader, and I feel so responsible, really.”
“Very well, as a formality,” says the manageress.
The Colonel is the first to turn out his pockets, methodically placing each item side by side on the table—his wallet, loose change, watch and chain, and a beautifully laundered clean handkerchief. Then it’s Auntie Jean’s turn. She has no pockets, but her handbag is full of an astonishing number of things—playing-cards, used bus tickets, old photographs, hairpins, bits of a broken electric plug, all come tumbling out. And now Miss Mellish carefully lays out the contents of her embroidery bag, full of a profusion of coloured silks, and her tiny purse, only big enough to contain one or two personal items.
“Come on, Mona, your turn now,” says Mrs Cadwallader cheerfully. She seems to be the only person in the dining-room to be relatively unconcerned about the loss of the ring, and she, too, has started to enjoy herself. Miss Mona says nothing. She is rather pale. Haughtily she puts down her handbag on the table, opens the clasp, and stands back while the manageress searches through the contents.
“There’s nothing here, of course,” says the manageress as she hands it back to her. “Thank you all the same, Miss Mona. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I really don’t think there’s any need to keep you all here any longer. I’m sorry our Carnival Lunch has ended with this little . . . er . . . difficulty. But I have asked the quartet to play to you instead in the Palm Lounge this afternoon—so if you would all care to clear the dining-room . . .”
“Hey, Charlie, you’d better get out of here quickly,” says Ariadne urgently, reappearing through the service doors. “The manageress is coming this way. She’ll be wanting us to turn out our pockets next, I expect. But don’t go away. I must talk to you.”
“Where’ll I hide?” says Charlie.
“There’s a little room full of buckets and brooms and things just near the tradesmen’s entrance,” Ariadne tells him. “She’ll never find you in there. There’s something I’ve just got to do, but I’ll come as soon as I can.”
The guests of the Hydro have mostly drifted into the Palm Lounge, to listen to the music, and complain to one another in undertones about the events of the day so far. Mrs Cadwallader, Miss Mona and Auntie Jean are sitting in basket chairs in a corner of the deserted veranda which overlooks the sea. The two friends are still discussing the possible whereabouts of Mrs Cadwallader’s ring, but Miss Mona is very silent.
“I hope it’s insured,” says Auntie Jean. “The way you keep getting it mislaid, it certainly ought to be.”
“Er . . . well . . . as a matter of fact, I’m not sure that it is. I know I should have remembered to keep up the payments, but somehow it kept slipping my mind.”
“But supposing it has been stolen? Surely it’s a matter for the police?”
“The police? Well, I suppose it’ll have to be, if it doesn’t turn up.”
But Miss Mona suddenly starts to her feet, white-faced with agitation.
“Oh, no, Connie! Not the police!” she says. “I mean . . . think of all the trouble . . . the questions, publicity, even . . .”
“But, Mona, how else are we going to find out where it is?”
“I’ll tell you, if you like,” says a voice behind them.
They all look up in surprise. There stands Ariadne, still wearing her apron, with Charlie looking over her shoulder.
“And where have you two come from, indeed?” asks Auntie Jean. “And what do you mean, exactly, Ariadne, if we may ask?”
“I know where your ring is, Mrs Cadwallader,” answers Ariadne. “It’s inside a cracker.”
“A cracker? What on earth is the child on about!” cries Mrs Cadwallader.
“Yes, one of the crackers that was on your table at lunch-time. And, what’s more, I’m afraid I know who put it there.”
At this moment a truly terrible thing happens. Miss Mona comes forward with clenched fists, and Ariadne, as though expecting an attack, shrinks back towards Charlie for support. But there is no attack. Miss Mona simply covers her face with her hands and starts to sob. For a moment they all look at her, quite at a loss to know what to do. But Mrs Cadwallader is soon at her side, with an arm round her heaving shoulders.
“There now, Mona. Come along, now, this isn’t like you. Just you sit down, now, and tell us all about it.”
Miss Mona collapses into a basket chair and cries bitterly for a long time. In stricken silence, they all wait for her to recover herself enough to speak. At last, painfully, her words come:
“Oh, Connie, the child is telling the truth. I can’t deny it. I took your ring when you left it lying on the table, and hid it in my handbag.”
“You took my ring, Mona?” echoes Mrs Cadwallader, hardly able to believe her ears.
“Yes. Then, when the Colonel suggested that we all submit to a search, I . . . I was terrified. I thought I was going to be exposed as a thief, in front of everyone. So I slipped it into the cracker beside my plate. It was the only way I could think of to avoid being found out. I just couldn’t have borne it—but now . . .”
“But Mona . . .” Mrs Cadwallader interrupts her, “I don’t understand. Why on earth . . . ?”
Miss Mona puts a shaking hand on to her arm.
“I’ll try to explain. It’s so difficult, but I’ll try. I owe you all an explanation. I took the ring, and other bits of jewellery too, when you left them lying about. But I’m not a thief! I never intended to take them for myself, Connie. In fact, they’re all safely in your bank.”
“In the bank? You mean, you sent them there?”
“Yes. To stop them really being stolen, by someone else, or from being lost for ever. You were so careless, Connie. All these years you’ve been wearing the jewellery that Caddy left you—the jewellery that was my mother’s, that has been in our family for generations—and I’ve had to sit by and watch you leave it about, and lose it as though it was so much rubbish . . .”
And Miss Mona starts to cry afresh. Auntie Jean and the children look at the ground, embarrass
ed by her distress, not knowing what to say. Mrs Cadwallader silently pats her hand for a while.
“Mona,” she says at last, “I’ve been a real pig—a selfish pig! Fancy me not noticing how much you minded about it, all this time. You’re right about my being careless, too. Why, I’d have given you the whole lot, if you’d only asked me!”
“It wasn’t for me to ask, Connie. You were Caddy’s wife, after all. I just took a brooch or a necklace here and there whenever you left it lying about. And when this boy here returned three of your rings, I kept just one, so that I could send it to the bank for safe-keeping, and gave you back the other two—and you never noticed! Then you mentioned—so unconcerned you were about it, Connie—that you’d left your pearls in that awful waxwork place. Heaven knows what might have happened to them there . . .”
“I found them,” puts in Auntie Jean. “And I returned them to Connie, of course.”
“I didn’t know. I thought if I could get hold of them without you noticing, Connie, I could rescue them, too. I knew you’d lose them in the end. So I . . . I went down there the other evening when you were all out. I found the back door open . . .”
“That was the night we chased the Morgan boys—” gasps Charlie.
“—and I saw one of the waxworks move,” says Ariadne. “It must’ve been you!”
“Yes, I know I frightened you. I kept very still among the waxworks at first, hoping that you wouldn’t discover me there when you came in. I was so confused. I didn’t know what to do, you see. But in the end, I thought I’d better show myself. I was trying to pluck up courage to tell you I was there, but you ran away before I could speak!”
“There! I told you, didn’t I?” says Ariadne, rounding on Charlie. “And you wouldn’t believe me. Typical!”
“But now we must get your ring back out of that cracker, Connie, or I’ll never forgive myself, never!” says Miss Mona.
The Charlie Moon Collection Page 8
