The Loving Cup

by Winston Graham

‘If there are no gardeners about.’

  ‘None comes today until six, when they finish their other work.’

  So they went into the garden, and Jeremy told him.

  III

  They walked beside the pool and Geoffrey Charles said: ‘My God! I don’t believe you! I can’t believe you!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Well . . . No!’

  ‘I assure you that’s what happened.’

  ‘Just as you have said?’

  ‘Just as I have said.’

  ‘It’s – out of all reason!’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, why? What reason could you have had?’

  ‘The obvious one. I wanted money.’

  ‘And you got some?’

  ‘Yes, quite a lot.’

  ‘And – and how have you used it?’

  ‘So far I have not.’

  Geoffrey Charles thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. ‘You are telling me the truth?’

  ‘Why should I not? It is not a thing one admits to lightly.’

  ‘Jeremy, you must have been mad!’

  ‘A little, no doubt.’

  ‘And the others too.’

  ‘I cannot answer for them.’

  ‘Were they similarly – bereft?’

  ‘Geoffrey Charles, tell me, if you love Amadora as I love this girl, and you knew she was to marry another man only because he had sufficient money, which you had not, how would you feel? Just tell me that!’

  ‘I should feel – if it is the way you describe it – that the girl is worthless.’

  ‘But would it stop you loving her?’

  ‘God knows! God Almighty knows! My dear cousin, how can anyone know what another feels? I am sorry if I called you mad. And yet . . .’

  ‘A little mad,’ said Jeremy. ‘I accept that. For I know that what I stole could never be enough to win the girl from the man she is promised to. That is my chief madness. Even if we were lucky with the amount we got – as we were – I would have had to take a further risk by putting it to immediate use – indeed gambling with it in some way – for it to produce the sort of sum I needed. Instead of which – once done – once accomplished – I found the – the protest over-sufficient of itself. For the time being. So far I have done nothing with the money at all!’

  ‘But the others have?’

  ‘The others have. Cautiously. They no more wish to suffer the consequences than I do.’

  ‘That’s the great danger now. These are local young men?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that.’

  Geoffrey Charles grunted. ‘But the risk of recognition . . .’

  ‘We were all disguised after a fashion.’

  ‘But how did you do it? You say it was in no way a – a stand and deliver?’

  ‘The coaches only seat four inside. We booked our seats and booked the fourth for a fictitious man, who of course did not turn up. Once inside we drew up the blinds and cut through the back of the coach into the safe box under the coachman’s seat. It nearly all went to plan.’

  ‘Nearly all?’

  ‘Well, there was one hitch that almost ruined it. A fat elderly lawyer called Rose insisted on taking the empty place inside from Liskeard to Dobwalls. However hard we tried to put him off, he would sit there; so for that length of time we were held up – part done but the work hidden until he left.’

  ‘I wonder you kept your nerve. And it was all your plan, you say?’

  ‘Months before, my – er – one of the others brought in a London newspaper telling of a robbery on a Brighton coach. No one could imagine how it could have been done. I worked out one way in which it could be done.’

  ‘Well, my God! . . .’ Geoffrey Charles blew out a breath. ‘This takes the biscuit! I have never . . . And whose money was it you stole? Did that ever come out?’

  ‘Oh, yes, we knew that from the beginning. It all belonged to Warleggan’s Bank.’

  ‘War . . .’ Geoffrey Charles stared at his cousin. ‘It belonged to – to my step-father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause and then Geoffrey Charles let out a great explosive shout of laughter. Startled birds rose from the other side of the pond.

  ‘You stole it from – from Step-father George? From Smelter George? But how appropriate – how singularly, excellently, divinely funny! Do you not see it as funny, Jeremy?’

  They had stopped and were standing facing each other.

  ‘Not funny.’ Jeremy was wooden faced. ‘Maybe appropriate.’

  Geoffrey Charles took out a handkerchief and blew his nose and wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I should not have been amused. It is no matter for amusement. A Dieu ne plaise! But I have to confess I am relieved that no widows or orphans are suffering for your crime!’

  He took Jeremy’s arm and they walked on.

  Geoffrey Charles said: ‘This is the place where Drake planted the frogs night after night, just to annoy my stepfather. I laughed hysterically then. But it nearly cost Drake his life. So in a sense, though in many ways vastly different, there is a similarly personal note in my amusement. And this might have cost you your life! Still might.’ The grip on the arm tightened. ‘Why have you told me this?’

  Jeremy shrugged. ‘It seemed – necessary.’

  ‘Like the robbery?’

  ‘No. I think a better reason.’

  ‘Confession being good for the . . .’

  ‘Maybe. Certainly I would never have spoken to anyone else. When I came this afternoon I had no intention of saying anything even to you!’

  ‘You have told no one else?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well, I counsel you to Trappist silence. I am embarrassed in a sense that you have asked me to share this secret with you. Of course you can rest assured your confidence will never be abused . . . But do you see this act – you clearly do – as another reason for getting away? Is it because of something in yourself or because of the risk of discovery?’

  ‘Something in myself, I suppose. Not the latter. I think now we are reasonably safe.’

  ‘You will never be reasonably safe, Jeremy – not at least while the money is unspent – not for years. But the fact that you have spent nothing of it and now wish – or are considering – joining the army suggests to me that you are looking on this crime as something that needs to be expiated.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as that.’ Jeremy did not like the question. It was too close to the truth, yet in some way departed from it. He couldn’t simplify his feelings to that extent. He did not feel exactly remorseful for what he had done; he didn’t actually regret having done it. It was not expiation he needed so much as escape – escape from the circumstances which had provoked it – to be no longer surrounded, stifled by them. For a while in astonishment and self-disgust he had no longer had any desire for Cuby at all. That had not lasted; the action, the crime had killed feeling, killed sensation; but after a while the insensibility had worn off. His latest meeting with her in the music shop, and his contriving a future meeting at the Trenwith party was totally in accord with his old behaviour, as if the robbery had never taken place, as if he were still the stupid gangling boy, following her, hoping for the kind word, the light flirtation, and knowing all along its utter uselessness. It was his acute consciousness of this return to an old situation, and his vehement rejection of it, which had prompted everything he had said to Geoffrey Charles today.

  ‘You will not mind using this – your share of the money in buying a commission or in the ordinary expenses of a military life?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But don’t wish to use it in furthering your experiments in steam?’

  ‘That may be.’ Jeremy said something of his meetings with Goldsworthy Gurney. ‘It is a choice I must make within the next few weeks.’

  They had strolled out into the fields and towards the wood where Geoffrey Charles as a young boy had first met Drake. In the distance Will Nanfan was seeing to his s
heep. They waved.

  Geoffrey Charles said: ‘Well, since you have told me all this, I imagine you may be soliciting my advice.’

  ‘I have said so.’

  ‘Not that you are likely to take it. From talks in camp and mess, I generally assume if someone asks my advice he really wants support for the thing he has already decided to do.’

  Jeremy half smiled. ‘That may be. I don’t know. I don’t promise to follow your advice but I should greatly value it.’

  ‘There has been no shadow of suspicion so far – cast upon any of the three of you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I think I should stay and face it out. This is a prime paradox! For isn’t going to fight a little like running away? These problems you are facing are really within yourself. Are they not? How you came to do what you did will still be an issue even if you are fighting on the Pyrenees. When the war is over . . .’

  Geoffrey Charles paused and looked towards the main gate. Three people were coming through it. When they saw the two young men they waved and broke into a run, which clearly became a race.

  ‘Let me know your choice. I would wish to know.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Drake was winning the race, with Loveday running clutching at her skirts just behind. Morwenna, who tripped quickly rather than ran, brought up the rear. As they came on, Geoffrey Charles wondered if he had given Jeremy the right advice. His cousin did not seem the stuff of which soldiers were made. If he had the sort of sensitivity of feeling which had driven him into the mess he was now in, how would he adapt to a world in which death was the daily possibility, one’s friends were mutilated and one’s feelings ever blunted by the harsh realities of camp life and of war? And yet, as Jeremy had pointed out, had he not himself entered the army as a raw youth who until then had lived a privileged and cushioned life? It was too far back for him even to recognize himself as the youngster who had loved Drake and been under the too gentle control of Morwenna as his governess. It belonged to another life, another person.

  Now, just now, after so many years of strife and comradeship and inner loneliness, he had found Amadora . . . But Jeremy had lost his love. This girl must be seen, a girl on whom Jeremy so doted that, when he saw himself likely to be deprived of her, he lost his judgement, his caution . . . Did not one still have some belief in the Commandments? Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not covet . . . Thou shalt not kill . . . Who did not break these Commandments?

  ‘D’you know,’ said Drake breathlessly. ‘I met Ellery. Peter Ellery! Y’know, we went on that venture together to France to rescue Dr Enys. We was always some close. After all these years – he’d hardly changed at all.’

  ‘Nor have you, Drake,’ said Geoffrey Charles.

  Cuby Trevanion was the name. She must be quite an exceptional girl. Geoffrey Charles very much hoped she would come to the party.

  Chapter Twelve

  I

  Michaelmas Fair was on the 29th. On the twenty-eighth Art Thomas turned his ankle in a rabbit hole and by the following morning could barely hobble. John, the elder brother, would not have any truck with such trade and never went near a fair or a fete, so Art said: ‘Music, you be goin’. Aunt Edie have need of some potion for her blains. She d’say thur be an old woman d’ave a stall there – called Widow Crow. She have this potion that Edie say she need, so you can get it for she, stead of me. Eh?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Music. ‘Eh?’

  ‘You ’urd.’ His brother repeated what he had said.

  Music went on whittling at his stick. One of his five cats, the one called Ginger, came over and sniffed at the shavings but quickly lost interest and strolled away. ‘Don’t ’ave no dealings wi’ witches,’ Music was presently heard to mutter.

  ‘Witches? Widow Crow ain’t no witch, I tell ee, else Edie would never venture near her. She’m just a skirt old woman as knows ’ow to mix the potions. Why ye mind when Wallace Bartle ’ad that wambling of the innards; he took her potions, and was brave in no time. And Nigel Ellery’s son – she cured he of the hooting cough. And—’

  ‘There ain’t no such thing as witches,’ said John grumpily, who was not in one of his best moods because of the failure of the pilchards to arrive off the coast. ‘Nor skirt ole women neither. They’m all pomsters, every last one of ’em.’

  ‘Don’t know as I be gwain,’ said Music. ‘Tes a long way to troach.’

  ‘Giss on. Ye know ye never miss’n. If any soul be goin’ fair or feast day, tis you, Music.’ Art contemplated his brother. In spite of his amiable nature, Music was prone to occasional obstinacies, and Art did not want one to develop now. For two years Art had been courting the fat little Edie and her fat little tannery business, and he found it a constant strain sitting with her when juicy girls of his own age were to be had for the asking. Little errands such as this one were an easy way of obliging her. ‘Tes only for the blains. Ye smooth it on and it cools ’em, stops the springeing.’

  ‘Don’t know as I be gwain,’ said Music.

  ‘Damnation cats,’ said John, aiming a kick at one of them. ‘Always under your feet – worsen children. Git rid of ’em, I say.’

  ‘She’m a good ole woman, Widow Crow,’ said Art. ‘She’ve this stall nigh by the knife grinder; never misses. I expect ye’ve seen her many time there yerself, Music.’

  ‘Don’t know’s I ’ave.’ said Music.

  ‘Girls go to ’er too. They say she’ve a fine line in love potions. Failing powers, bleeding ulcers, overlooked babies, wildfire, warts.’

  ‘Just an old pomster,’ growled John.

  Music finished his whittling. With a long thin hand he began to brush the shavings together.

  ‘They got a lunatic this time,’ said Art. ‘In a cage. Chained by the neck. I’d ’ve dearly liked to see her; they say she’s violent. Tis a penny to go in. Penny back if you get’n to shake hands.’

  ‘Didn’t oughter be allowed,’ said John.

  ‘And a bull,’ said Art, watching his brother. ‘Yer was always one for the baiting, Music.’

  ‘Never was,’ said Music. But the idea of the lunatic appealed to him.

  ‘And they do say Black Fred’ll be there. We seen ’im five years gone at Summercourt. You mind ’im, John? He swallowed a live mouse on a string and then after ye’ve counted ten he d’pull ’n of it up again still alive and kicking. You didn’t go that year, Music; you was ’ome wi’ measles. Ye’d like to see that, Music, wouldn’t ee.’

  ‘Aw, leave’m bide, Art, do ee,’ said John.

  Music got up and threw the shavings of wood into the kindling box. The chickens scattered at the noise.

  ‘The potion’s sixpence,’ said Art. ‘Edie say tis very small in bottle but it cool her blains wonderful. I reckon I’d pay ee twopence for your trouble.’

  ‘Don’t know as I be gwain,’ said Music.

  II

  Yet he did go, and beheld all the wonders of the fair. The lunatic was disappointing – first because it was a man (and sometimes the women were scanty dressed) and second because he simply sat in a corner of his cage, and would not move even when poked with a stick. Black Fred disappointed too because the mouse was half dead and scarcely wriggled at all. But there were other things to entertain, and Music mooched about until it was almost nightfall before he approached Widow Crow. He had passed her booth half a dozen times but always there was someone at it, buying something or talking to the widow, and he was always sensitive at the thought of being laughed at. But the last time she was alone – indeed beginning to pack up and thrust her tins and bottles into an old sack to throw over her shoulders and carry home.

  She was a thin tall sallow woman with locks like black horse-hair that fell to her shoulders, and big bony hands with enlarged knuckles and black-rimmed nails. She wore an old muslin blouse decorated with jet beads, a tattered black jacket and a long dusty grey fustian skirt. She was quick enough to sum Music up, and tried to put him at his ease, telling him she could see a fine healthy
young fellow like him would never never suffer from the chilblains so he must be buying her special potion for someone else – a mother? an aunt? a sister? Music explained that it was for his brother’s girl and then stuttered with nervy laughter at the thought of calling old Edie a girl.

  ‘Got a girl of your own, have you?’ asked Widow Crow.

  Music went red. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘How sort of, my dear? You in love with she?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  The widow took a small stone bottle from her bag and put it on the trestle. ‘This be for your brother’s girl, see. That’ll be sevenpence.’

  ‘Brother telled me sixpence.’

  ‘Sevenpence, my dear.’

  With great cunning Music said: ‘Tes a small little bottle for sevenpence, you.’

  ‘D’you know what it cost me to make?’

  ‘Brother telled me sixpence.’

  Widow Crow put the bottle back in her bag. ‘It is sevenpence or nothing, my dear.’

  Music hesitated. ‘Sevenpence then.’

  ‘D’you know what be in it?’ the widow said in a low voice. ‘Shall I tell you?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Music bravely.

  ‘Frogs.’

  ‘Frogs?’

  ‘Yes. Frogs are red-blooded creatures like you and me. But cold. See that, my dear? Cold. Cold to cool the blains. It is all in here. Frog spittle, frog sperm, frog juice, frog’s eggs. And resin and balsam to bind. Lay it cool upon the blains and they’ll disappear – just like magic. You see!’

  Music fumbled in the front pocket of his breeches and gradually took out seven pennies. The widow’s sharp eyes caught the glint of silver.

  She counted the pennies as they were reluctantly passed over. ‘You got a girl, you say, my dear? Only sort of? That what you say?’

  Music grunted and took the bottle of lotion.

  ‘You in love, you say? That right, my dear? But the young leddy? Mebbe she’s not in love with you, eh?’

  Music grunted again and put the bottle in his pocket. A few people were lighting lanterns, but much of the fair was about to close.

  ‘Not in love with you?’ said Widow Crow. ‘A fine handsome, handsome fellow? Not in love with you, eh?’