‘Well, whatever you mean,’ said Fen, tiring abruptly of this subject, ‘we want to see Mr Shorthouse.’
‘Impossible,’ said the small woman with furious emphasis. ‘Completely impossible. The Master is working and must not be disturbed.’
‘Please, Miss Thorn.’ Adam was cajoling. ‘It’s really a matter of some urgency.’
‘Impossible. The Master can only be seen by appointment.’
‘We’ve travelled a considerable distance, Miss Thorn.’
‘Mr Langley, if you had travelled from Mars the situation would be no different.’
‘Look here,’ said Fen, who was liable to resort to unlikely impostures when in any difficulty, ‘I represent the Metropolitan Opera House, New York. I wish to negotiate with Mr Shorthouse for the Oresteia.’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed Miss Thorn sharply; it was as though she had suddenly caught sight of a vampire. ‘Mr Langley, is this true?’
Under the compulsion of Fen’s malignant blue eye, Adam admitted that this was true.
‘Then,’ said Miss Thorn, mollified, but still a little suspicious, ‘you must come in. Please keep to carpets, and avoid tramping your feet on the bare boards. The least noise . . . And I should be obliged if you would pitch your voices to the faintest whisper.’
‘Oh,’ said Fen, momentarily awed by these directions. ‘Oh.’ They went inside.
Though preternaturally quiet, the house gave marked evidence of the vehement demeanour of its châtelaine. Everything conveyed the impression of furious activity transfixed in mid-career. A bronze Mercury strained savagely upwards from his ballasting pedestal; on a large canvas, the Eumenides were represented fairly whisking along against a background of embattled cohorts; Beethoven glowered from a wall-bracket; a stuffed panther was in the act of hurling itself, open-mouthed, on some incautious denizen of the jungle; Laocoön, marble-limbed, struggled eternally in his coils; St George, with lance uplifted and muscles tense, would never, it was obvious, succeed in dispatching his dragon; and in one corner of the hall a furious-looking cat was trying to get at a parrot. It was far from restful; indeed, it was almost apoplectic. Though he had seen it all before, and hence might consider himself to some extent acclimatized, Adam was unable to repress a shudder.
Miss Thorn, striding unperturbed through this ghostly tumult, conducted them into a small back room. Here she turned to face Fen.
‘Well?’ she inquired in a hoarse whisper.
‘Well?’ Fen countered blankly. ‘Where is Mr Shorthouse?’ He gazed suspiciously at a large urn whose sides were stencilled with an energetic Rape of the Sabine Women, as though expecting that the composer might be concealed within it.
‘All the Master’s business affairs,’ hissed Miss Thorn, ‘pass through my hands. You may speak freely to me.’
‘Oh, I may, may I?’ said Fen, who was not possessed of much patience at the best of times. ‘But I’m sorry to say I have no authority to deal with anyone but Mr Shorthouse himself.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Then I shall go back to America,’ Fen announced with conviction.
‘If you could wait an hour or so . . .’
‘No,’ said Fen, on whose normal tones an American accent had rather implausibly grafted itself during the foregoing interchange. ‘Impossible,’ he added involuntarily. ‘I have to see Richard Strauss – almost at once.’ He frowned with such severity that Miss Thorn, who, Adam suspected, was essentially a credulous soul, was visibly shaken.
‘Well,’ she whispered, ‘I suppose we might disturb the Master . . .’
‘Let us by all means disturb the Master. I don’t doubt he’ll be most annoyed if you keep me from him.’
This was a hit, a palpable hit; it was evident that the last thing Miss Thorn wanted was the Master’s disfavour. She drew a deep breath, like one about to plunge into cold water.
‘Wait,’ she said, ‘I shall be back shortly.’
They waited; she was back shortly. ‘Will you come this way,’ she said; it was less a question than an awestruck comment on their transcendent good fortune. ‘The Master will see you.’
They returned through the hall. How nice it would be, thought Adam, if by this time Consummation had supervened – Mercury flown, the Eumenides vanished, the panther quiescent and satiated, Laocoön dead, the dragon dispatched. But no; all were fixed and immutable in their rage, as before; and Adam shuddered again as Miss Thorn led them up the staircase. Her manner suggested that the Veil of the Temple was about to be put aside; she walked on tip-toe, with elaborate precautions against noise.
It was not long before they reached the door of the Holy of Holies. Miss Thorn opened it reverently and peered inside. A peevish voice said:
‘Well, come along, come along.’
Another moment, and they were in the Presence. The Presence, it should be said, displayed no special desire for Miss Thorn’s continued company.
‘All right, Beatrix,’ it said testily. ‘I can manage.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Leave me alone with these gentlemen.’
‘Very well, Master. Don’t tire yourself.’
‘I am perfectly fit.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting, Master, that you weren’t perfectly fit. But you mustn’t exhaust yourself unnecessarily.’
‘Will you go away, Beatrix.’
‘Very well, Master. If you need me, you have only to call.’
‘It’s very unlikely that I shall need you.’
‘But you might.’
‘In that case I’ll call. Now please leave us.’
Sighing, Miss Thorn departed. The Master advanced to greet them. He was a small, plump, middle-aged man with a large head and horn-rimmed spectacles, and he looked harassed.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said; his voice held the faintest suggestion of Cockney. ‘I expect you’d like to hear some of my Oresteia. Can either of you sing?’
‘Surely you remember me, Shorthouse?’ said Adam, annoyed.
‘Oh, Langley. Of course. How stupid of me. Are you going over to the Metropolitan? We’re losing all our native singers nowadays . . . Well, I’ll play you the second act of the Agamemnon, if you like. That’ll give you an idea of the work as a whole.’
‘This is Professor Fen, from Oxford.’
‘Glad to meet you. Very progressive of the Metropolitan to employ an educated man as their agent.’
‘No, no . . . Professor Fen has nothing to do with the Metropolitan.’
‘Beatrix distinctly said . . .’
‘It was a ruse,’ Adam explained. ‘She wouldn’t let us in at first.’
‘I’m not surprised, either,’ said the Master; and then, evidently feeling that this might sound ungracious, added: ‘What I mean is, she lets very few people in at the best of times.’ He had crossed to the window and was contemplating Lily Christine. ‘What a nice little car. I wish,’ he said wistfully, ‘that I could have a nice little car like that.’
‘Surely you could if you wanted one.’
‘No. Beatrix wouldn’t let me. She’s very anxious to protect me from noise. People creep about this house, you know, as though one were lying dead. It becomes unnerving after a time . . . Well, do sit down, if you can find anywhere.’
For the moment this was a problem, since the room was less untidy than chaotic. It was dominated by a Steinway grand piano, and every available surface was littered with music manuscript paper. Over by the window was a tall wooden desk at which the Master stood while scoring; quantities of bedraggled hothouse flowers drooped from vases; and a photograph of Beatrix Thorn and the Master gazing at one another, rather self-consciously, hung crookedly on the wall. Fen and Adam cleared a couple of chairs and sat on them; the Master paced up and down.
‘I’ve really lost all control,’ he was saying. ‘Beatrix doesn’t want me to be worried with domestic details, so I can never find out what’s going on. For example’ – he shook his head, mystified – ‘there se
ems to be a huge number of maidservants, who whenever you meet them are always either tear-stained or actually weeping. I used to think Beatrix was responsible for this, but I’ve discovered recently that it’s Gabriel, my amanuensis, who has a penchant for the opposite sex. I can’t think,’ he added with great frankness, ‘what he does to them . . . By the way, did you come to see me about anything in particular?’
‘Yes,’ said Adam. ‘About your brother.’
‘Oh, Edwin.’ The Master was not enthusiastic. ‘And how is the dear fellow?’
‘You must know he’s dead.’
‘So he is,’ said the Master, brightening. ‘I had a telegram about it this morning. Well, well. When is the funeral? I don’t expect I shall get to it, though.’
‘It’s thought that he was murdered.’
The Master frowned. ‘Murdered? What an extraordinary coincidence.’
‘Whatever do you mean, coincidence?’
‘I’ll tell you something’ – the Master leaned forward confidingly – ‘provided you don’t let it go any further.’
‘Well?’ Fen asked. He appeared stupefied by so much cold-bloodedness.
‘I had seriously considered killing Edwin myself.’
Adam gazed at him, aghast. ‘You can’t mean that?’
‘Of course,’ the Master admitted, ‘I had to consider the pros and cons.’ Here Fen muttered something unintelligible, and hastily lit a cigarette. ‘The question really was whether Edwin’s voice or Edwin’s money was going to be more useful to me in producing the Oresteia. I won’t say it wasn’t a difficult decision to have to make. Edwin was a very fine singer – very fine. It seemed, in a way, a great pity to have to sacrifice him. But’ – the Master waved his hand in a simple gesture of resignation – ‘first things must come first. And the dilemma, after all, was entirely of his own making. If he had voluntarily offered to finance the Oresteia, of course it would not have arisen.’
‘You felt’ – Adam spoke very cautiously – ‘no kind of scruples?’
‘Well, of course,’ said the Master handsomely, ‘one’s always a little upset when an emergency of that kind arises. And I confess that when it came to the point I hadn’t the heart to go on with it. I postponed the matter – out of sheer moral cowardice, I’m sorry to say. I can hardly forgive myself now. Still, all has turned out for the best. There’s a Providence watching over us, as I’ve always maintained.’ And he gazed up at the ceiling, as though expecting actually to see this benignant spirit at its tutelary task.
‘And what exactly,’ Fen inquired in a strained, unnatural voice, ‘was your plan?’
‘I went into the matter with some care,’ said the Master. He nodded at a row of detective novels and criminological works reposing on a shelf. ‘One oughtn’t to go about these things in an amateurish way – otherwise the police are liable to find out what has happened. It seems, for example, that one’s fingers leave a distinctive mark on certain textures and surfaces – a most interesting point . . . However, I won’t weary you with an account of my preliminary studies. The first action I took was to write a note to Edwin asking him to meet me at the theatre last night. I thought,’ the Master explained, ‘that that would constitute a rather less public mise en scène than his hotel.’
‘But surely he must have considered such an arrangement rather odd?’
‘Oh, dear.’ The Master was taken aback. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps he did. It’s conceivable, of course, that he never turned up there at all. Certainly he sent no reply to my note.’
‘You didn’t see him, then?’
‘No. As I told you, my resolution gave out. Beatrix and I left here at nine o’clock in the Vauxhall – it’s a big, purring thing,’ the Master informed them aggrievedly, ‘not at all like that nice little car you’ve got. And we arrived in Oxford at half past ten, I suppose. It was then that my resolution failed me. We went to the “Mace and Sceptre” with a friend of mine, and drank coffee. Then at about midnight we left and drove back here again.’
‘Were you and Miss Thorn together all the time?’
‘I suppose so,’ said the Master vaguely, ‘I’m not sure that I can remember, really . . . I’ve an idea that Beatrix and I lost one another at one stage in the evening; and to be candid’ – he lowered his voice to an apprehensive whisper and glanced furtively at the door – ‘I wasn’t altogether sorry. Still, that’s another story.’
Fen sighed, and fidgeted with his feet. ‘What is your friend’s name?’
‘Wilkes,’ said the Master. ‘A very charming fellow. You should look him up if you’re ever in Oxford.’
‘Wilkes,’ said Fen with deep disgust. He expelled breath in a serpentine hiss. ‘I know him.’
‘Splendid, splendid.’
‘And how’ – Fen hesitated, in great embarrassment – ‘how did you actually intend to – ah – to deal with your brother?’
‘A knife,’ said the Master dramatically. ‘I had provided myself with a knife. And I was proposing to jiggle it about in the wound,’ he added, ‘so that no one could tell what size blade had been used.’
Fen rose hastily. ‘Well, we must be off,’ he said.
The Master was mildly perplexed. ‘You wouldn’t like to hear some of the Oresteia?’
‘I’m afraid we haven’t the time.’
‘Well then, you must let me know when the Metropolitan proposes to put it on.’
‘No, no, Shorthouse,’ said Adam. ‘Professor Fen has nothing to do with the Metropolitan.’
The Master shook his head sadly. ‘Stupid of me,’ he said. ‘There are times when I almost wonder if I’m not getting a little absent-minded.’
He opened the door for them. In the corridor outside a maid flitted by, silently weeping.
‘There,’ said the Master. ‘You see? I suppose I ought to talk to Gabriel about it. The trouble is, though, that as one gets older one forgets about these things, except in broad outline . . . Well, good afternoon to you. You’ll let me have the American agreement sometime, won’t you? You needn’t be afraid my terms will be at all harsh . . . ?’
And the Master retired triumphantly into his room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELIZABETH HAD SEEN Fen and Adam off from the main gate of St Christopher’s; and as the tumult of Lily Christine III died away in Broad Street, she began almost to wish that she had gone with them. Oxford in vacation-time has a certain hollowness – imparts a sense almost of anticlimax. The occasional don or scout or undergraduate to be seen wandering about the quadrangles serves only to emphasize the echoing vacancy about him. Minatory pronouncements, in thick black type, warn the public that it is no longer permissible to enter the college gardens; porters, slumbering in over-heated lodges, are so rarely disturbed that any intrusion on their quiet rouses them to positive offensiveness; sung services, in the various chapels, degenerate with startling abruptness from a plethora to a definite scarcity, and the clergy are to be found droning away to exiguous congregations of surreptitiously yawning dévots; while on normally crowded noticeboards a few belated placards, their edges curling with neglect, flap dismally in the breeze, and one may see an occasional roped trunk, overlooked by the railway, accumulating dust amid a clutter of red-painted fire-buckets and sandbags.
Cumulatively, these things are depressing, and Elizabeth was a little downcast as she stood gazing up St Giles’ after her departing husband. She might, she thought, go back to the ‘Mace and Sceptre’, there to spend the afternoon reading; she might rummage for books in Blackwell’s; she might go to the cinema . . . But in her present restless mood none of these things held much immediate attraction. She decided at last to re-visit Somerville, her old college, and accordingly set off along the Woodstock Road.
The expedition, however, proved barren. A porteress, new since Elizabeth’s time, and accommodated in more civilized if also more austere fashion than her confrères at the men’s colleges, informed her that all the women dons she had known were at present out of O
xford – berugged and befurred, Elizabeth supposed, in the sunlight of a Swiss hotel terrace, or sequestered in a quiet corner of the Bibliothèque Nationale, annotating with minute and unflagging industry the scribal errors of some medieval manuscript . . . Elizabeth turned away, disappointed. She had made up her mind, without any particular confidence, that what she needed was company and conversation – even the company and conversation of female dons. She found a telephone-box, and telephoned fruitlessly to acquaintances until her supply of pence was exhausted; considered renewing it at a nearby shop, and almost immediately lost heart; wandered morosely towards the Taylorian, half intending to look up a recent German volume on fingerprints; and eventually – as she had all along rather expected – went to a cinema.
The two films she saw did little to dissipate the cloud of depression which was gathering round her. The first was one of those documentaries, so dear to the critics of the Sunday press, about the Earth and those .who lead their simple lives in constant contact with it. A sententious voice uttered a sententious and at times appalling commentary (‘The life is the wheat, the red wheat, the white wheat; the wheat is the life’, etc. etc.). There was a seemingly interminable sequence depicting a primitive childbirth. And the end of it all was an obscenely hygienic apocalyptic vision – the more progressive characters staring wet-eyed but optimistic into the Future – of almost everyone being inoculated against something or other; with, Elizabeth presumed (though the film made no mention of this), the usual crop of post-inoculation horrors so amiably set forth in the handbooks.
The second film concerned spies, and might perhaps have been considered as one of the lesser tolls levied on a peaceable and inoffensive world by Hitler’s paranoia. It was one of those films in which, at the beginning, there is great uncertainty as to who is on what side, and in which, at the end, the problem has not been properly elucidated. Besides, this example was particularly odious in resorting to a gas whose sole and invariable potency lay in causing people to rise from their beds at dead of night and precipitate themselves, uttering loud and melancholy cries, over adjacent cliffs . . . Elizabeth left the cinema in a condition of black accidie, pausing only to inform an elderly gentleman who was on the point of buying a ticket that if he expected to be entertained by what he saw he had better think again. What action he took as a result of this advice, apart from raising his hat and mumbling unintelligibly, Elizabeth did not wait to observe.
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