The Gipsy's Baby

by Rosamond Lehmann

  ‘She didn’t want to much,’ continued Jane. ‘But she did. And he kept saying: “Come along now, a nice squeeze, don’t be shy. Call that a squeeze? Give him a nice squeeze like you give your boy-friend.” As if she had one! She’s only seven.’

  ‘Oh, dear, how dreadful!’

  ‘And at the end he said the—Jack was going to sing The Bluebells of Scotland, but he didn’t, he sang a bit of Tipperary. I can’t think how it happened.’

  ‘He was blind drunk,’ said John.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, squiffy. He kept on knocking over the glasses of water he was doing his drivelling tricks with.’

  ‘Oh, his tricks were super,’ said Jane. ‘I couldn’t see how he did any of them.’

  ‘They were putrid,’ said John. ‘I could have done better myself with a week’s practice. However, the kids enjoyed them. There was one ghastly youth who would keep going up on the platform and showing off—I can’t think who he was—crowing out that one glass had a false bottom and he’d seen Feakes slip the handkerchief up his sleeve. Thinking himself jolly smart. Feakes obviously wanted to murder him. I don’t blame him.’

  ‘Well, I hope he got away all right in time for the last train,’ sighed Mrs. Ritchie. ‘Mrs. Carmichael swore she’d see to it.’

  ‘Not a hope, I shouldn’t think,’ said John. ‘There was some sort of muddle with the taxi.’

  ‘Then he’s walking back to Brading. Twelve and a half miles.’

  ‘It’s no good worrying,’ said John. ‘Perhaps he got a lift.’

  They were through the gate, out of the field, and walking up the Carmichaels’ drive. As they reached the front door, a figure standing before it moved aside and mumbled:

  ‘Good-evening.’

  ‘Oh, Captain Moffat! I nearly walked into you.’

  ‘I’ve rung several times,’ he said. ‘Can’t seem to make anybody hear.’

  ‘I think we’re expected just to open the door and walk in. Probably there’s too much noise going on for anyone to hear the bell,’ said Mrs. Ritchie, cheerful, laying a hand on the latch. A prolonged rumble as of feet galloping up and down uncarpeted stairs, shouts, shrieks, yells of laughter came to their ears.

  ‘No, no,’ said Captain Moffat urgently, almost laying a detaining hand upon her arm. ‘I won’t come in. I can’t possibly stay. Mrs. Carmichael very kindly asked me to join the party, but I can’t possibly. I only came along to pay my respects. Perhaps you would explain to her: I’ve had a rotten headache all day. I think I’ll cut along home. Besides, I’m expecting a telephone call. You might tell her that, would you? I’m expecting a call.’

  ‘From your wife?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Oh, we’re missing it, we’re missing it,’ broke in Jane, in a frantic whisper. ‘I’m sure they’ve started to play Murder.’

  Captain Moffat muttered on through closed teeth: ‘I wrote to her yesterday and told her she’d better come back. I don’t like the idea of her being up in town. Those last raids were child’s play to what’s coming, so I hear. They might start any moment. I can’t have her exposing herself to them. Besides’—his voice went up into his nose, weak with self-pity—‘I can’t see to everything myself day in day out like this. There’s all the potatoes to go in. It means too much stooping for me.’

  ‘Can she leave her aunt?’

  ‘She’ll have to make some arrangement. That’s what it comes to. I told her so in my letter. Dragging on like this. When all’s said and done, I told her, she’s got to consider her own health. It would be a nice how d’ye do if she broke down. These last two days, I don’t know why it is, I’ve been completely deaf in one ear. Stone deaf …’ His voice trailed away.

  In pregnant silence John began to apply his weight to his mother’s shoulder, edging her towards the door.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Captain Moffat. I’m sure your wife will take the first train home to-morrow and all your troubles will be over. If only her poor aunt—it would be best if the end were to come for her poor aunt as soon as possible, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would be a happy release,’ he said, brightening for a moment. ‘It’s all been very trying for us.’

  ‘It’s trying all round really, isn’t it? Good-night, Captain Moffat. I’ll tell Mrs. Carmichael. She’ll be so sorry, but she’ll understand. I hope you enjoyed the show a little bit?’

  ‘Tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘I didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Oh, and you promised.’

  He made a sound of nervous laughter.

  ‘It looked so uncommonly like rain, I thought I’d better not risk turning out. Besides, I’m not much good in a crowd. An over-heated atmosphere tries me very much.’

  He stood, he stood, he blocked the drive, the door; he was a dead man behind them hanging from the strangled moon, slumped against the door in front of them, against the way to light and sound. He fixed her in the dark with his sightless eyes; the enormous force of his negative energy held her rooted. John turned the handle, pushed her in with Jane and shut the door rapidly upon him.

  They stood in total darkness. From the stairs and the landing came creakings, a muffled giggle. All round them invisible bodies breathed loudly, hemmed them in.

  ‘It’s Murder,’ whispered Jane, despairing. ‘It’s started. I knew it.’

  From six inches away arose a subdued enthusiastic bubbling.

  ‘Mrs. Ritchie? Hallo! Jane? John? Good, good, superb. Gerald here. We’ve just started the second murder, you’re just in time. Here, Jane, hold my hand, I need moral support. Mrs. Ritchie, would you care to join in? Daddy’s playing, he’s somewhere. If not, Mummy’s in the drawing-room. She refused to play. I’m so sorry we can’t turn the lights on, but perhaps you could manage to grope your way?’ He bawled: ‘Pax for a few moments! No murder till Mrs. Ritchie’s passed.’

  Mrs. Ritchie stepped cautiously down the passage. Somebody rushed past her and tumbled up the stairs. From above, Meg squeaked. A hidden agency opened the drawing-room door in front of her. The voice of Mr. Carmichael murmured a deprecatory greeting. She whispered, arch:

  ‘Are you the murderer?’

  ‘Aaa-ha! Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  He sounded quite … really so very … quite unlike himself; such a tease, so curiously uninhibited, so close in the dark. Where were his hands? The skin crawled on her neck. She nipped past him in a hurry and shut the door.

  ‘Claire?’

  But for the smothered glow of a log fire, here too all was lapped in shade.

  ‘Margaret! I’m over here on the sofa. Do forgive me. I’m forbidden to show a light, though I’m sure there’s nobody secreted in this room. Can you possibly find your way?’ Mrs. Ritchie found her way and sank upon the sofa beside her. ‘That’s right, darling. Lie the other end and put your feet up like me. You must be worn out. I am. I feel I must sink while they play this dreadful game. Actually I don’t suppose they’ll ever stop. I’ve known them go on for two hours and a half, and sometimes I can’t help wondering if it’s good for them. They seem to get such a strange flush and glitter. Still, it makes entertaining beautifully easy.’ She yawned.

  Next moment, a prolonged blood-curdling screech appalled their ears. Somebody sprang up smartly from the window seat and galloped to the switches. Light flooded the room, revealing Audrey in the act of flinging open the door. ‘Stay where you are, everybody!’ she called; and marched forth into the now illuminated beyond to view the crime. The form of Oliver was seen to be stretched prone in the hall. The others stood against the passage wall or peered over the banisters. An indescribable babble was going on.

  ‘Boo! ! !’

  Mrs. Ritchie and Mrs. Carmichael leapt violently. The sofa was convulsed throughout its frame as the figure of a small boy shot up from behind it and, with this disagreeable exclamation, rendered full blast, reve
aled himself.

  ‘Oh, Norman,’ said Mrs. Carmichael, icy, ‘what a fright you gave me.’

  ‘Aha! I thought I’d give you a start. You didn’t know I was there, did you? I’ve been there all the time.’

  He came and capered before them on short stout legs; twisting himself double, cackling with triumph.

  ‘If there’s one thing I cannot bear,’ said Mrs. Carmichael, ‘it’s someone bouncing out on me and saying “Boo!”’

  He cackled the more. His knees, between hairy grey stockings and grey flannel shorts, protruded aggressively. Mrs. Ritchie saw him in her mind’s eye bundled into a belted navy blue raincoat, topped with a striped school cap, beating out tunes with his boots, loudly whistling, hanging out of the window of a crowded railway carriage. He tore from the room to join the others, shouting: ‘I gave them such a fright! I was behind the sofa all the time and they never knew!’

  ‘Nobody will take the slightest notice of him,’ remarked Mrs. Carmichael.

  ‘Who on earth?’

  ‘My dear, it’s Audrey’s brother. It struck me at the very last minute I must ring up her parents and invite them, but luckily they had colds and didn’t feel like it. But Mrs. Parker said Norman was so very keen to come, only she didn’t like him bicycling back alone in the dark. So what could I do but offer to put him up? After what Audrey’s done for me. He turned up at tea time, and everyone has completely ignored him. I’ve scolded Meg, but it’s no use. She says he needs squashing. It does seem bad manners.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to feel the squashing.’

  ‘He’s not very attractive,’ sighed Mrs. Carmichael. ‘But boys of nine or so are always repulsive, don’t you think? He enjoyed the show anyway.’

  ‘Oh!’ Light dawned. ‘He’s the boy John was so withering about who went up on the stage and saw through all the conjurer’s tricks.’

  ‘Oh, dear, yes. I’m afraid poor Mr. Feakes got rather upset.’

  They fell silent.

  ‘Do you think he caught his train?’ said Mrs. Ritchie gently.

  ‘He cannot have,’ said Mrs. Carmichael. ‘The taxi didn’t turn up till twenty past—it had another job—and the train goes at ten past. It doesn’t bear thinking of.’

  ‘Perhaps the taxi took him to Brading.’

  ‘No. The man particularly said it was out of the question. He hadn’t the petrol. He came from East Marling, you know—as a special favour. However,’ she added, looking on the bright side, ‘I gave Mr. Feakes a cheque on the spot, so that’s off our minds.’

  They came bursting through the door, all talking at once. Mr. Carmichael followed them, with an expression of mild satisfaction.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, your husband, our father, slew his firstborn.’

  ‘Ugh-gh-gh! I nearly died,’ said Meg, falling into an armchair. ‘I felt somebody’s hot breath on my neck.’

  ‘It was only me,’ said Jane, falling beside her. ‘I was trying to find you for company.’

  ‘Jane’s breath is always scorching,’ said John. ‘Like wild animals. Reeking of carrion.’ He sauntered over to the refectory table at the end of the room and looked with absorption at the plates of buns, sandwiches and cakes, the bowls of trifle and preserves.

  ‘I was the only one who stayed in here,’ said Norman in his singularly strident treble. ‘I saw you all sneaking out so I jolly well stayed behind. Look, I was just here, behind the sofa. Look!’

  The two girls wreathed in the arm-chair glanced stonily in his direction, looking away again, toying with each other’s lockets, their enamelled profiles laid side by side. Mr. Carmichael mixed three rum cocktails, and presented the ladies with one apiece. Roger met his own reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, smoothed his plumey hair.

  ‘Who’s for one more murder before we eat?’ cried Gerald. His mother’s protest was drowned in a chorus of acclamation, and he started to deal the cards round. ‘Mrs. Ritchie, you must play this time.’

  ‘No, no, I really won’t. Not for a thousand pounds I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy, you must,’ began Jane. She pulled a card from the pack, glanced at it, laid it gently down in her lap and sat silent, placid, with transparent extroverted eyes.

  Mr. Carmichael had the detective’s card. Once more the lights were extinguished; with creak and padding tread the company dispersed. The parents relaxed and talked in low voices, sipping their drinks.

  ‘How much did we make?’ said Mrs. Ritchie.

  ‘Sixteen pounds eleven shillings and sixpence,’ said Mr. Carmichael. ‘Really a remarkable effort for a small village. There wasn’t a child who didn’t put in sixpence at least; and there were a surprising number of notes. Remarkable.’

  Mrs. Ritchie repressed the wish to say that she had put in a pound. What had the Carmichaels put in? No doubt Jane would have inquired of Meg and obtained satisfaction.

  ‘How splendid,’ said Mrs. Carmichael. ‘What a grand start off to the week. It shows how much they enjoyed it. It was a success, thank goodness. We did deserve a success, didn’t we? We’ve all worked so hard. I do hope there won’t be jealousy.’

  ‘Nerves are getting frayed on the committee,’ said Mrs. Ritchie. ‘I hoped we could avoid class antagonism by having half gentry, half village, but it seems to be working out the opposite way. What it comes to is, the village feel we ought to be running it all for them. They’re alarmed, I suppose, at the responsibility. If we butt in they think we’re patronising and if we retire they think we’re snobbish. Both ways they’re resentful.’

  ‘My dear, I know,’ said Mrs. Carmichael. ‘Poor Mrs. Jessop—you know she’s helping Mrs. Minchin run the Social—her husband rang me up in an awful state after lunch. She’d retired to bed in tears, he says he’ll never let her lift a finger for the village again. She spent all morning making rock cakes and popped down herself with them to Mrs. Minchin before lunch. What do you think? Mrs. Minchin opened the door, took the whole tray and threw them at her head.’

  ‘No! Why?’

  ‘Oh, a lot of stuff about having left all the dirty work to her Dorrie, and who was going to see that the band got drinks, and of course we’d all be too stuck-up to come to the Social—and I don’t know what. She’s a bit mad, of course.’

  ‘It’s the change, Mrs. Plumley says,’ murmured Mrs. Ritchie.

  ‘Now I suppose we’ll have to go,’ sighed Mrs. Carmichael. ‘And if we do they’ll feel awkward and be on their best behaviour. What a pity it all is … Oh, and Mr. Parkinson resigned from being Treasurer. He says Mrs. Hoddinott accused him of embezzling her raffle money. He says Mr. Jebb can damned well take it on. But who’s going to tackle Mr. Jebb? Margaret, would you? You might sort of joke him into it. You always make things sound so amusing.’

  ‘Tell him you want to lay a problem before him for spiritual guidance,’ said Mr. Carmichael.

  At this moment they heard a distant stir, a shift behind the sofa.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ said Mrs. Ritchie after a short pause, ‘vous n’allez pas me dire, par exemple, que ce maudit garçon est encore là?’

  ‘En effet,’ said Mrs. Ritchie. ‘Tout prêt à sauter sur nous.’

  ‘Tuons-le immediatement,’ said Mrs. Carmichael.

  ‘C’est qu’il a peur, sans doute.’

  ‘Vous croyez?’ said Mrs. Carmichael; adding in a half-hearted way: ‘Pauvre petit.’* Then she said clearly: ‘Hallo, Norman. Are you there again? Do you want to come and sit beside us?’

  Silence.

  A howl rose from the hall. Mr. Carmichael switched on the lights and went to do his duty. Unassumingly this time, Norman emerged from behind the sofa.

  ‘Well, I may as well come out,’ he said. He slid a glance at his hostess, and added with careful flatness: ‘You gave me away to the detective, so there’s not much point in my joining them for the investigation.’

 
‘Norman, how awful of me. I didn’t think.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  He bore no malice. He had his sister’s ruddy springing cheeks and rubber mouth. With these, with his light-brown glass eyes, chubby jutting nose and chin, and general appearance of being coated with a layer of varnished know-all jauntiness, he looked not unlike Mr. Feakes’ Jack. Yet many, thought Mrs. Carmichael, noting this, would call him a jolly little beggar, keen, the right stuff.

  ‘Still, I might as well,’ he said; and took himself off, leaving the two ladies to exchange conscience-stricken grimaces.

  ‘We have humiliated him,’ said Mrs. Ritchie. ‘Never mind. It’s something to know he has human sensibilities.’ Back swirled the horde around them. Roger came and perched gracefully on the arm of the sofa beside Mrs. Ritchie.

  ‘I do congratulate you, Mrs. Ritchie. Jane’s grip on life is remarkable, you need have no fears for her future. I shall bear the marks for many a long day,’ he added as Jane, flushed, exultant, came to join them.

  ‘Jane, you don’t mean to say you murdered Roger?’

  ‘I was determined!’ cried Jane, fixing him with starry eyes. ‘I waited ages beside you at the bottom of the stairs, to put you off. I knew it was you because I felt your corduroy trousers; you’re the only one wearing them. Then I went up on the landing and waited there another long time, then I crept down again quiet as a mouse, but you’d moved by then and I had an awful time finding you again. I nearly got somebody else. I think it was John—’

  ‘I’ll say it was,’ said John. ‘I felt her horrible clammy paws paddling on my face. I nearly let out a yell.’

  ‘And at last I got you!’ continued Jane. ‘I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to reach your neck, but I did.’

  ‘You did,’ said Roger. ‘Undoubtedly you did.’ Ruefully he stroked his windpipe. ‘I’ve had some bad nightmares in my time, but nothing to equal that grisly moment.’

  ‘A promising criminal, your daughter,’ said Mr. Carmichael, grave, stroking his moustache. ‘I rather fancy myself as an amateur sleuth, but she completely took me in. That look of perfect innocence when I questioned her—not overdone, mind you, just simple childish honesty—coupled with a capacity for lying which I can only describe as—’