The Courtesy of Death

by Geoffrey Household

  I had something to eat—standing up—took a taxi home and limped up the stairs to my first-floor flat, asking myself why I had been so blasted courageous or cowardly in dealing with a scratch. And there, sitting on the steps which led up to the next landing, was Barnabas Fosworthy peacefully reading a book.

  He shut it, got up and almost embraced me. With his shy smile, always more effective in inspiring affection than confidence, he whispered mysteriously:

  ‘I have not been followed.’

  I made no comment on that. He wouldn’t have known it if half Somerset had trailed him up the street. I let him in and locked the door.

  ‘I fear you have done yourself a mischief,’ he said.

  I replied that it was just a painful touch of sciatica—for there was no point yet in telling him what had happened—and asked where he had been since he vanished from Hammersmith.

  ‘Bristol,’ he answered. ‘I came to impart to you that, though remaining in concealment, I have been able to press my suit. I knew you would be so delighted.’

  Incredible! I resisted the impulse to point out that the tweed he always wore would not hold a crease.

  ‘It was received?’

  ‘With courtesy and charming reserve.’

  ‘Splendid!’

  ‘And I shall need your help.’

  No doubt he took my broad grin as sympathetic. Actually I had been struck by vague echoes of Bertie Wooster.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I wondered if you knew a woman of the utmost respectability.’

  ‘Possibly,’ I replied. ‘But I might be wrong. Why?’

  ‘Miss Cynthia Carlis has appeared at my hotel. A chaperone is essential. I should not wish a breath of suspicion to rest upon her.’

  ‘But, for God’s sake, you can have separate rooms!’ I exclaimed. ‘And what makes you think she wants one anyway?’

  I received the full broadside of an outraged Fosworthy. My remark was an insult to her. She was the very flower of innocent purity. One had only to look at her. How dared I?

  I apologised. I begged him to believe that my view of womanhood had been corrupted by mining camps. A preposterous statement! Mining camps in fact are suspended in an unsophisticated void between cheerful obscenity and an idealism as hopeful as Fosworthy’s own. But he accepted my excuse as plausible, and calmed down.

  So I was able to persist with tactful questioning and obtained some account of his doings. He assured me that he had been very cautious, avoiding Undine’s home and friends and waiting for a chance to waylay her in the street. As soon as he succeeded, it was no longer necessary to visit Bath, for she was willing to meet him in Bristol or half-way. Twice she had tea with him. Once he took her to a theatre. Once they had a morning together in the river meadows of the Avon.

  ‘And did you come directly back by train to London?’

  ‘Yes, from Bristol, where I said farewell to her. And then very carefully I called on you last night. But you weren’t in.’

  It sounded like a child’s reproach.

  ‘And how did you spend today?’

  ‘Quietly in my room. I telephoned to her by previous arrangement to tell her that I had arrived and to express my devotion. She replied shortly that she herself was coming to London and that I should book a room for her at my hotel. I blame myself for not reminding her at once that she would be compromised, but I was so overjoyed and she sounded so agitated that I did not. After her arrival this afternoon I wished to see you and confide in you instantly. I was very conscious, however, that I owed it to you to wait until dark.’

  Dark! He was hypnotised by words and conventions. As if he could not be followed in the excellent street lighting of London! He probably turned up his coat collar and pulled his hat over his eyes, making himself more conspicuous still.

  It was now certain that there really had been an attempt to remove me. The coat alone did not prove beyond doubt that I had received and helped Barnabas Fosworthy; he might have chucked it into the boot of the car himself, rather than into a ditch. Similarly, my indiscretion to the Bank Manager could have an innocent explanation—that I had guessed, by putting two and two together, the name of the man whom Aviston-Tresco had chased through the haunted darkness of the Mendips. But when, on the previous night, Fosworthy had been followed to my address, there was no longer any reason to hesitate.

  ‘Is Miss Carlis connected with all these former associates of yours?’I asked.

  ‘No! No!’ he exclaimed. ‘If she were, I could never have risked all this. As it was, I had to be especially careful, since she has a female friend who heard, I fear, my original rejection of our beliefs and was most displeased by it, but she had no reason to guess the identity of the cause of my emotion.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t your Cynthia have told her?’

  ‘Because I asked her not to, and she willingly gave me her word.’

  Well, I couldn’t complain. He had warned me when he was at Hammersmith that his whole object in life was to be with his enchantress. My only hope was that she felt the affinity nonsense as strongly as he did. But it seemed most unlikely.

  ‘So this friend of hers is in touch with Aviston-Tresco?’

  ‘You know his name?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I answered impatiently. ‘What I don’t know is why he has it in for you. Didn’t you tell me that when you were struggling through that hedge he got hold of your foot?’

  ‘For a moment. But I was kicking.’

  ‘Did he apologise?’

  ‘No. I am sure he only meant to put me back in con­finement until he got what he wanted from me. How do you know about the Apology?’

  ‘Poor little pussy-cat, for one thing,’ I replied obscurely.

  ‘You should show respect for earnestly held beliefs until you know enough to confute them, Yarrow. That is your only fault,’ he said, getting up. ‘But I see you are tired.’

  ‘What hotel are you staying at?’

  ‘The Pavilion in Bayswater. But propriety demands that I should spend the night elsewhere. I shall return to Petunia Avenue and make it, in military parlance, my headquarters. Love unconquerable in battle! Doubtless you remember your Sophocles?’

  I replied rather sourly—for I felt extremely sore—that I doubted if Roman generals would approve of his tac­tics. He found it necessary to inform me that Sophocles was Greek, and mercifully let it go at that.

  Perhaps I should have accompanied him, but by this time I felt unable to move anywhere but bed. I warned him that he really ought to assume that he might be followed, and recommended a few quick changes of the Underground, entering or leaving trains just as the doors were closing. That should do the trick. If he was being tailed, it was, after all, by one or two complete amateurs, not by experienced detectives.

  Next morning I felt much better and was able to hobble about more easily. At breakfast I was called up by a woman. She had a pleasant but rather too decided voice.

  ‘My name is Filk,’ she said. ‘Miss Filk. Dr Dunton advised me to call on you to discuss a very personal matter.’

  I replied that I was unfortunately laid up with a touch of sciatica which prevented me from inviting her to lunch, and that I should be delighted if she would come round and have a drink about midday.

  There was nothing else I could do—short of saying that I refused to be interviewed except in the presence of police. It was just possible that she did come from Dun­ton, though I doubted it. She might be the patient he had mentioned who had given him half her confidence and was inclined to see little foxes in blots.

  Whoever she was, I suspected that she was coming to negotiate on behalf of Aviston-Tresco, with a foot somehow in both camps. In that case I had a chance to convince her that I did not know and was not particu­larly anxious to know why my pub-keeping or supposed prospecting or any other activity was alarming them, and that the Quantocks would suit me just as well as the Mendips for my future hotel.

  I then telephoned 34 Petunia Avenue and
asked for Mr Smith—partly to satisfy myself that he was all right, partly to see what he knew of Miss Filk. The landlady told me that he had gone away over a week ago, leaving no address. But hadn’t he, I asked, returned last night? No, he hadn’t.

  I did not like that at all. I could only hope that Undine had told him not to be a fool and that he had remained at the Pavilion Hotel after all. I called them up. Mr Fosworthy had come in late, paid his bill and left. Was Miss Cynthia Carlis there? Yes, she was. At the mention of her, the male voice from the reception desk at once took on a tone of cordiality, even of enthusiasm. I guessed that there was still another would-be collector of blue willow pattern.

  Telephoning for a taxi, I directed the driver to Notting Hill underground station which was not far from the Pavilion. I kept an eye on the back window and made sure that no car was following. I also waited in the station and watched out for loiterers. As soon as I was certain that no one was taking any interest in my movements, I limped to the hotel.

  The porter was helpful. Mr Fosworthy had left on foot, carrying the small bag which was his only luggage. He had, I gathered, tipped generously, asking the porter to take the greatest care of Miss Carlis and saying that he would look in after breakfast to see how she was. He had not yet arrived.

  This demanded immediate action. The disappearance of Fosworthy was a plain fact, as Aviston-Tresco’s attempt on me was not. The police could be called in and told the little I knew. I wish to God that I had done so then and there, but I thought it best to find out first what Cynthia Carlis had to say.

  I sent up my name with a message that I was an old friend of Barnabas Fosworthy and would much like a word with her in the lounge. She came down almost at once—not in the least bothered about Fosworthy but evidently eager to gossip with someone who knew him.

  To my eyes she looked a lot less fragile and more nor­mal than at the hospital dance, for she was dressed in an expensive and countrified sweater with a rolled neck. One was only conscious of very transparent, white skin on her forehead and below her ears, and there was little temptation for the middle-aged to speculate on the extent of the network. She was also rather older than I had thought, though well under thirty.

  I introduced myself and made it sound as if I had known her Barnabas from childhood. Then I told her, to see how she would react, that he had called on me the previous night and asked me if I knew of a respectable chaperone.

  ‘Oh, isn’t that like him!’ she exclaimed with a laugh which I found artificial. ‘He’s such an absurd darling! Do you know that he actually left for another hotel?’

  I replied that I did not. I had no intention of mention­ing his disappearance until I knew how and where she entered the story. For the moment Petunia Avenue and Mr Smith were no business of hers. So I merely asked what time she expected him to return.

  ‘He said he would be here at half past nine precisely,’ she replied. ‘But you know his habit of looking round corners to see what is following him. I expect that is just what he’s doing and that he has lost himself.’

  ‘Did you always find him like that?’ I asked.

  ‘Losing himself? Well, he’s so absent-minded.’

  ‘I meant the looking round corners.’

  ‘Yes, except the first time we were out together. I thought it was just one of his peculiarities—things that make him different and rather attractive.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  She hesitated and admitted:

  ‘Well, there was a friend of mine whom neither of us much wanted to see.’

  Obviously innocent! She knew nothing and was not being used. So I decided to go on playing the part of old and trusted friend and find out what the devil she was up to. I did not for a moment believe that she was in love with Fosworthy. If she had been, she would have man­aged to convince him that his duty was to stay with her, separate rooms or not, instead of treating his mannerisms as a joke.

  I ordered some drinks while we waited for the lover who was not going to arrive, and let her interrogate me about his character and background. She seemed the sort of woman who is incurious about the depth of our earthy roots, content to loiter through life in a compli­cated surface daze. Well, if appearance reflects character, I suppose that is about all one could expect from a water nymph: weakness.

  Yet, fluttery and irresponsible though I found her, I could not forget the kindness and self-possession with which she had treated the poor, old, flat-earth mathema­tician. The fact was that her graceful body looked so sensitive and her manners were so automatically good that they covered up her lack of intelligence. In a way she represented, like Fosworthy, a continuance of the best provincial society of the turn of the century.

  I wonder how far she realised that Fosworthy’s own manners concealed an insanity of love. She may have seen their relationship as sweetly sentimental—like that, say, between some college student and her much older tutor. She possibly went so far as to speculate about a gentle, physical affair, but had no intention of having one.

  ‘I like Barnabas very much and I am so sorry for him,’ she said.

  ‘How did you first come across him?’

  ‘At a meeting of the Arimathaeans in Bath.’

  She told me about it. Fosworthy had insisted on holding the floor. It seemed to be his habit to appear as a minority of one. He was deferred to. I doubt if I ever appreciated his importance as a local oracle. It accounted for the fury of his disciples when he denied his own teachings.

  This society, however, had nothing to do with his sect; it was semi-literary with a dash of archaeology, harmlessly and romantically occupying itself with the real and mythical history of Bath and the Mendips: Arthur and Avalon, of course, the supernatural discovery of the plans of Glastonbury Abbey and so forth.

  Fosworthy had been disrespectful about the Christmas-flowering thorn supposedly sprung from the staff of Joseph of Arimathaea. He suggested that this variety had been among the first shrubs to colonise the tundra after the retreat of the ice, and still required cold to flower. He became excited and eloquent on the marvel of this thorn to palaeolithic man and emphasised the vast antiquity of folk memory.

  Undine’s account was naturally incoherent; but that she could repeat the subject matter at all showed that then and there she had been oddly impressed by Fosworthy. Well, of course she had. He had never taken his adoring eyes off her. When they had their first tête-à-tête she had been fascinated by his gentle, ceremonious devotion. His eccentricity did not alarm her. She accepted him as the conventional, comic figure of absent-minded professor.

  ‘Your friend is also interested in primitive religion?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know what she is interested in,’ Undine replied sharply, ‘besides breeding dogs and killing animals or not killing them or something. Men are so absurd. Women, I mean.’

  The slip of the tongue passed right over my head at the time. But it seemed a good moment to get her to talk about herself instead of Fosworthy.

  ‘It was sweet of you to come to London and see him,’ I said. ‘What made you decide so suddenly?’

  ‘Because I shall do what I like.’

  I apologised. I assured her that it was only my personal affection for Barnabas which had made me put so impertinent a question.

  ‘It wasn’t impertinent at all,’ she answered graciously. ‘You have every right to ask. It was someone else I was thinking of.’

  ‘This friend of yours?’

  ‘How did you guess? Yes, she was following me and she saw me say good-bye to Barnabas on Bristol station. And then we had a row. So when Barnabas telephoned me yesterday, I decided I would come to London.’

  ‘Have you told her where he was staying?’

  ‘No! She doesn’t know where I am either,’ she added with a shade of satisfaction.

  Well, if she didn’t, she soon would; but that was no business of mine. I had got all I wanted, so I pleaded a previous appointment which prevented me waiting any longer for Barnabas and
said an affectionate good-bye as gallantly as I could manage.

  My intention now was to see this Miss Filk and insist on her accompanying me to the nearest police station. I arrived back at my flat with quarter of an hour in hand and limped up to the flat roof of the building from which one had an extensive view of my own street and two side streets. I wanted to make certain that she was alone and that no monkey business was being planned under cover of her visit.

  I spotted the probable Miss Filk when she was fifty yards away on the opposite pavement. She was dressed in a black town suit, smart but severe, with a man’s cravat round her throat, and wearing a simple felt hat. Pacing alongside her on a slack lead was a magnificent black Doberman—a very effective chaperone when committing oneself to the flat of a stranger. It occurred to me that I should have to be pretty tactful if I meant to detain her against her will.

  As soon as I saw her examine the street numbers and wait to cross the road, I hopped fast down the stairs with the aid of the banisters and was inside my front door before she rang. She was in her late thirties, taller than I had thought and authoritative. She struck me as a woman of experience with whom it might be possible to talk frankly without bringing police—or Dobermans—too crudely into the picture.

  I supplied her with sherry and cigarettes—she puffed continuously and aggressively—and admired the dog. She said that she bred them. I then expressed my admiration of Dr Dunton, though by now I was sure that she had only used his name as a passport. Her response was curt, so I left a pause for her to open up.

  ‘A Mr Fosworthy,’ she said, ‘has been making himself a nuisance to my ward.’

  So that was it. The wardship was rather out of my depth. I could, however, understand it when I remembered the devastating effect which Cynthia Carlis had on some of my sex. It was more than likely that in early youth one or two of her contemporaries had been far too brutal. And then there were the rest of us who stared at her with an almost insulting absence of desire. She must have found men cruel and unaccountable. Even more convincing than anything else was the fact that Fosworthy, being Fosworthy, would of course have set his guileless heart on a girl who was unattainable.