Deck With Flowers

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “About your next job—”

  He paused. Angela had come in with a tray, and at the same moment there were footsteps on the stairs—unmistakably Mrs. Major’s. They heard her pause to get her breath as she reached the landing, and then came a knock on the door, Rodney opened it.

  “If you’ve mislaid your dustbin,” he said, “you’ll find it outside the house. This house. Come in. What can we do for you?”

  In her hand were the much-crushed boxes which last night had held flowers. She had taken off and folded the gold ribbon.

  “Shan’t come in, dear, ta all the same. I just wanted to make sure you meant to throw these away.”

  “I’m quite sure,” Rodney told her. “Didn’t I put the dustbin lid on properly?”

  “No, it wasn’t that. I went out when I seen you’d put the bin back, and I noticed this bit o’ ribbon ’anging out, and I looked to see, and I said to meself: ‘Now surely nobody’d throw away good, expensive ribbon, would they?’ But if you don’t want it, then I’ll keep it.”

  “It’s yours. How about a nice cup of tea, just made?”

  “No, ta, ducks. I’m goin’ to look at a football match on the telly.” She leaned forward to peer into the room, and nodded agreeably to the two girls. “I’ll pop up for a chat another time.” She paused and glanced down at the boxes. “When I took ’em out o’ the dustbin, I remembered that’s where Angela works.” She looked at Angela. “That’s the place, isn’t it? Packing the flowers, you said. Nice job. I’d ’ave liked to work with flowers, but I’m past it now. Ta-ta.”

  Rodney closed the door behind her. An idea, a mere seed, had entered his mind and was growing fast. He turned to stare at Angela.

  “You work at Claribel’s?” he asked her.

  “Yes. I’ve poured out your tea.”

  “Thank you. In the packing department?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t, I suppose, know anything . . . No. I’m raving. You couldn’t have had anything to do with it.” He stared from her to Nicola. “Or could you?”

  Nicola’s face betrayed nothing, but he saw that Angela had grown pale.

  “Drink your tea,” Nicola told him.

  “In a moment. Do you know,” he asked Angela, “what was in those two boxes that were sent to Henrietta and her mother?”

  She hesitated. Then she drew a deep breath.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You... you put them in?”

  “Yes.”

  “The order said orchids, and you decided—”

  “It was my idea,” Nicola said. “Stop bullying her and start on me.”

  His legs felt weak; he walked to the sofa and steadied himself.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “Oliver ordered orchids, and—”

  “I knew he’d have to order flowers of some kind,” Nicola said. “I rang Angela and asked if he had, and she said no. The order didn’t come through until the late afternoon, and when she told me, I asked if she’d be doing the packing, and she said she would. So I told her what I’d do in her place. She didn’t want to do it, but I made her see that it was the last chance of saving him. I hoped he’d hand them over himself—and he did, and got them back right in his face. And that’s all it was.”

  “All it was? All it was? It was a rotten, dirty, low-down... My God! Don’t tell me you stole his car.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Nicola said. “We just drove it down to the end of Belthane Street and then put it back again, that’s all. And I know it was a trick, but look at the tricks Henrietta played, to get him.”

  “But if she’d gone to Claribel’s to—”

  “—make a complaint? Did she think of the florist when she saw those flowers? No. No girl would. All she’d think, all she did think, was that it was something Oliver had thought up. So she took it out on him. If she ever turned her mind to Claribel’s, when she’d calmed down, it would be too late—no evidence, the boxes having been deposited in Mrs. Major’s dustbin. All we did was throw a lifebelt at a drowning man. If you want to tell him, go ahead and tell him.”

  “Tell him? Do you think I’d tell him that my own sister—”

  “If I’m ever allowed to make a date with him,” Angela said, “I’ll tell him myself.”

  “If we hadn’t thought of doing something, who would have saved him?” Nicola asked. “Not you. You’re the originator of the phrase ‘stew in your own juice’. Your policy is to—”

  She broke off; the telephone had rung. Rodney went to answer, and at his first words, Angela went across the room and stood beside him.

  “Father? Yes, Rodney here.”

  As always, when his father spoke, there was no waste of words.

  “Your Uncle Julian died this morning. Your mother is travelling up tonight. I can’t go with her because I’m down with flu; she was, too, until a day or so ago, so it’s a pity she is to go travelling in this weather. Her train will arrive at eight-five tomorrow. Meet her, please, and take her to a comfortable hotel and see that she has a rest and some breakfast before driving down with you to Brighton. I take it you’re able to go to the funeral with her?”

  “Yes. How did you get the news?”

  “The police. He collapsed during a walk along the cliffs, our mother will give you more details. Remember, eight-five. Goodbye.”

  Rodney put down the receiver.

  “Uncle Julian’s dead, and Mother’s coming up for the funeral,” he told Angela.

  “Not Father?”

  “No. He’s down with flu. Mother’s coming on a night train. I’ll have to leave early in the morning; her train gets in just after eight.”

  “Shall I go too? To the funeral, I mean.”

  He considered.

  “No,” he decided. “There’s no need for you to go.”

  “Will you bring Mother back here when it’s over?”

  “I’ll try, but you know as well as I do that she’ll insist on going straight home.”

  “I’m sorry about your uncle,” Nicola said. “I’m glad you took me to see him.”

  “So am I.” He frowned. “I wish the weather would warm up. Mother was down with flu a couple of days ago.”

  But there was no noticeable difference in the temperature when his alarm woke him next morning. He left Angela sleeping. As he went down the stairs, Mrs. Major, in a red woollen dressing-gown, was taking in the milk.

  “Where you off to so early?” she asked in surprise.

  “A funeral. My uncle’s.”

  She looked at his overnight case.

  “Going far?”

  “Brighton. Goodbye.”

  He walked out of the house. As he turned in the direction of the garage, the door of the house next door opened. From it came stumbling a wild-eyed figure, pyjama-clad, barefoot. It was Peter Grelby. He ran blindly towards Rodney, almost knocking him over. Rodney caught him by the arm.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Priss,” her husband panted. “Started off. Jumped the gun. Got to phone Doctor Larrander. Urgent. For God’s sake—” From the top step, Mrs. Major spoke commandingly.

  “ ’ere, what’s all this?”

  “Emergency,” Rodney said briefly. “Baby in a hurry. I’ll do the phoning, Peter; you get back to Priss.”

  But Peter, unhearing or unheeding, was on his heels as he re-entered the house.

  Mrs. Major placed her day’s supply of milk on the doorstep. She let Rodney pass her without impeding his progress; as the panting Peter reached her, she put out a hand and barred his way.

  “That’s orl right,” she said calmly. “ ’E’s doin’ the phoning. You’re comin’ with me, back to yore wife. I ’aven’t brought dozens of babies into this world without knowin’ somethink about it. Now you come along with me, nice an’ quiet. Pull yourself together, or you’ll frighten ’er. No need to lose yore ’ead. Look at you, nothin’ on your feet. She’s a fine, ’ealthy girl an’ she’ll ’ave it out and done with in no ti
me. Smooth back yer ’air; you don’t want to look like this, do you, the first time the baby lays ’is eyes on you? Now remember yore wife’s dependin’ on you to buck ’er up. Come on.”

  Rodney came down in time to see them closing the door of Number 9. He walked thoughtfully to the garage; birth and death, one gone, one to come...

  He reached the station just as the train was due. He parked his car and stood watching his mother walking down the platform towards him—an older, more angular Angela. “Rodney, my dear. I’m sorry to have brought you out so dreadfully early. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Mother. Just this one case?”

  “Yes, and very light.” She let him take it from her. “With few porters these days, it’s silly to bring more than one can carry, and you know how your father hates using porters even when they’re available. You know he’s down with flu?”

  “Yes. And you’re just up.”

  “Mine was a very mild dose. I wondered if Angela would come with you. I’m glad she didn’t.”

  They walked together to his car.

  “Who found him?” Rodney asked.

  “A man who was taking his dogs for a walk. There was a very strong wind, so there weren’t many people about. This man found your uncle.”

  “Alive?”

  “No. A heart attack. I’m glad he went quickly. The police were notified and there wasn’t much difficulty about identification because he was known by name and by sight to so many people. Your father advised me to telephone his lawyers as soon as their office opens this morning.”

  “I’ll do the phoning while you’re resting. Who are they?”

  “Creed, Boyd and Waring. Ask for Mr. Waring. It’s not old Mr. Waring any more; it’s his son, but he’ll know all about your uncle. The old man used to deal with all your grandfather’s affairs. When did you last see your uncle?”

  “Last week. I met him out walking.”

  “Did you get into the house any more?”

  “Yes. I took a girl to see him. He wasn’t pleased, but he came round, and in the end he even showed her his railway. You’re going to get a surprise when you see it. It‘s an incredible lay-out.”

  “I doubt if it’ll be more complex than the sets he used to have before he went out to India. Even then, he had to have a special room to put down his lines. The trains were never toys; even as a very small boy, he insisted on model engines.”

  “I don’t know what’s to be done with all the hundreds of feet of track he’s got laid down in the house.”

  “Perhaps he’s left it all to some institution.”

  “What institution wants giant-sized toy trains? What institution can rope off six great rooms to house a railway system? And who’s going to do all the wiring-up? There’s a control board that takes up half a wall.”

  “Poor Julian. While other boys were reading adventure stories, he was reading railway timetables.” She looked out at the hotel at which he had stopped. “This looks nice. Did you book a room?”

  “Yes.”

  They had breakfast together, and then he sent her up to her room to rest. He telephoned the lawyers at Brighton, and after being passed through a protective screen of secretaries, spoke to Mr. Waring, who was businesslike to the point of brusqueness. He made an appointment for four o’clock that afternoon, and rang off. Rodney thought he was not going to like Mr. Waring. He made another telephone call to book two rooms in a hotel not far from Victoria Lodge.

  His mother came down looking rested, and he suggested setting off at once, and stopping for lunch on the way. They did not speak much on the journey, and it was only as they neared Brighton that she spoke again of her brother.

  “Your father never liked him, even before the quarrel,” she said. “Julian had gone out to India before I married—as you know, he was a good deal older than I was.”

  “Fifteen years?”

  “Fourteen. When your grandparents died, he kept on the Brighton house, and for a time he even kept a skeleton staff in it. Even when there were no servants and no more money, he refused to sell or to let the house.”

  “I’m not surprised. He wanted room to fix up his rolling stock.”

  “The only thing I regret was not being able to buy some of our old furniture. I often wonder who bought it. He also had some very good things he’d brought back from India.”

  “Speaking of India, did you ever hear him mention a place called Hardanipur?”

  A glance told him that she had turned in her seat and was staring at him in astonishment.

  “Never,” she said with emphasis. “He would never have mentioned it, and certainly your father and I wouldn’t have mentioned it when he was around. Surely he didn’t speak to you about Hardanipur?”

  “Now I come to mention it, he didn’t seem to want to linger on the subject.”

  “But what brought it up?”

  “There was, there still is, a Maharajah staying with Madame Landini. An old and close friend. When I heard he was the Maharajah of Hardanipur, the name rang a bell, and I knew I must have heard it from Uncle Julian. But he said, and now you say, that I didn’t.”

  “It just shows you what children hear when you think they’re not listening. You couldn’t have been more than four or five the last time your father and I discussed Hardanipur. Imagine your carrying the name through all these years!”

  “Uncle Julian told me he was the Resident there.”

  “And what else did he say?”

  “Not much. Was there more?”

  “A good deal more.”

  “But he didn’t go into it. Why not?”

  “Because it was a very discreditable episode in his career. He was sent to Hardanipur to keep an eye on the Maharajah. It was known that the Maharajah had succeeded in sending several millions, certainly not less than thirty, out of the country, as well as his famous diamonds. The point was that he wasn’t confining himself to his private funds; he was digging deep into the revenues of the State. There were other things, too, which needed looking into; the Maharajah’s goings-on were no credit to his Harrow and Cambridge education. Julian was there for a year. He was installed in a palace nearly as grand as the Maharajah’s, and had a personal bodyguard and several elephants and I dare say some dancing girls, too. He and the Maharajah became great friends. Instead of your uncle exerting a western influence, which was what he’d been sent there for, the Maharajah exerted a very eastern one. At the end of the year, your uncle was recalled and reprimanded. I don’t think anybody really found out exactly what had gone on during the year he was in Hardanipur, but it was felt that it would be better not to enquire. The only reason your father and I heard anything about it was because some of the facts leaked through a member of the Maharajah’s suite, and filtered through to us. Your father thought that Julian ought to have lost his job, but he didn’t, and in time he even got his knighthood. But that was the foundation for your father’s dislike, even before he juggled away my inheritance—and his own. What time did you say our appointment at the lawyers’ was fixed for?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “Would it have been quite, quite impossible for us to have stayed at Victoria Lodge?”

  “Yes, Mother, it would.”

  “I should have liked to have stayed in it just once more. I was born in the room above where you say your uncle has his control board. So, for that matter, was he. Did he ever mention the mortgage?”

  “Yes, once. I wonder if he sold the telescope?”

  “Tele . . . Oh Rodney, you couldn’t have given him the beautiful telescope your father gave you?”

  “I did. I felt sorry for him. If it’s still there, I’ll take it back. Or you will. I suppose you’re his next-of-kin, legally speaking?”

  “Did Mr. Waring say anything about a Will?”

  “How could there be a Will. Uncle Julian had nothing to leave.”

  But there was a Will. It had been drawn up, Mr. Waring told them in dry, bored, precise tones, a year ago. Sir
Julian had come in, had stated that he wished to make a Will but was in a hurry and would go elsewhere if the matter were not put in hand at once. The Will had been drawn up, signed and witnessed, and Sir Julian had gone away. They had not seen him again.

  “Two lines only.” Mr. Waring’s voice and manner became frigid. “I will read it:

  “I, Julian Rodney Mull, leave everything of which I die possessed to my nephew, Rodney Julian Laird.”

  There was a pause.

  “He didn’t possess anything,” Mrs. Laird observed.

  “Of the present contents of the house, I know nothing,” Mr. Waring said. “There was, as you know, no money remaining from the considerable sums which you and he inherited from your father. The furniture, as you doubtless know, was sold some time ago. We now come to the house itself. You are no doubt aware that it was once mortgaged by the Bank. Sir Julian wished them to increase the sum, and they refused. He came to us. We would not agree to a mortgage, but after consultation, my partners and I offered to buy the house, and to allow him to live in it, rent free, for the remainder of his life. I dare say you know these facts.”

  “Yes. He told me,” Rodney said.

  “Quite so. I was merely making them clear.”

  “So what it comes down to,” Mrs. Laird said, “is that there’s no money, and the house belongs to you.”

  “To the firm of Creed, Boyd and Waring,” Mr. Waring corrected in a tone so chilling that Rodney had to fight down a desire to get up and hit him with one of his own paperweights. “I should add that in the agreement we made with Sir Julian, his heir or heirs were to be given first refusal of the house. This means”—he turned to Rodney, his air weary —“this means, Mr. Laird, that we now offer it to you. If you wish to buy it, we are ready to come to terms, but I fear you may find the terms somewhat high.”