by Simon Raven
Realizing he had let himself down, he went on more calmly: 'They, none of them knew anything. The Acres had a large suite and went there, as you may have gathered, in an off season and to avoid people — even ones they knew. They weren't likely to start picking up unfashionable riff-raff. It wasn't a smart hotel, you know. As for the dates, they're all down there — they're common knowledge in any case. No,' he said, 'everything that can be done from the outside has been done. You're on the inside. A word here, a letter there' —Esme shuddered — 'who knows? Who knows, dear boy? You have a lucky face, a charming face if I may say so...'
He was silent for about half a minute, and then began again quickly and rather savagely—
'And it's high time you took your charming face back to Mrs Fairweather — who always misses a novelty if it's away for long.
My chauffeur will drop you anywhere handy — provided it's well clear of her house.'
The very sight of Esme seemed now to be filling him with nervous irritation. Esme shook hands hurriedly and was shown to the door, where the immaculate chauffeur appeared from nowhere and took him down to the car.
VI
When Esme got to bed that night in a large and handsome bedroom at Badlock House, he had time to think things over.
Even now he had hardly recovered from the first and most obvious reaction — which was surprise. And after all he had grounds for it. He had been abducted in broad daylight and in the best Dornford Yates fashion, and had had a proposition put to him that was tantamount to criminal. Again, all this elaborate conspiracy and the vast reward it involved seemed to be focused round the most commonplace and trivial occurrence — the use, by an excitable woman, of a few malicious but probably thoughtless words. Esme, of course, had yet to gain much insight into the methods and modes of thought of the very rich. Had he been a previous witness of the bizarre combinations of extravagance and meanness, or the endless and white-hot controversies about nothing at all, which form so large and prominent a part of their world, he would not have thought Mr Chynnon's offer so odd. For Mr Chynnon too was really very rich indeed, while the grievance he harboured was exactly the sort that is calculated to shake the houses of the first four hundred for months on end.
And indeed Sandra had rather let her tongue loose on his account. For though she had many friends of long standing among men of his type, periodically the memory of her brother's disaster would rise before her to cause a sudden and violent reaction. She would then refuse to see her equivocal friends for weeks at a time, and allow herself to develop a gnawing hatred for one or more of them and for no apparent reason at all. Before her latest little upset she had often entertained and been entertained by Edward Chynnon: but as he was really more than usually repellent, and as the target he offered was, without doubt, more than usually vulnerable, she had suddenly surprised the town with a series of references, anecdotes and innuendoes which, by the sheer naked quality of their malice, excelled anything in their kind that the last twenty years could show. The result was that Sandra's remarks had received the well-deserved compliment of being incessantly repeated over a period of months and in every nook, corner and cloakroom of the first ten hotels in London. It was not surprising that some of them had come round to Mr Chynnon, and still less surprising that he appeared a trifle restless under their lash. Nor could he be blamed altogether if the accumulations of such lashes began, after a week or two, to turn his restlessness into anger and then his anger into fury. Esme, of course, could hardly grasp the full force of the situation at so early a stage of his acquaintance with it; but a more detailed knowledge of the circumstances would have explained most things and a deeper insight into the constitution of Mr Chynnon and his immediate circle would have accounted for all.
But if he had yet to realize the full extent of the devastating waves of hysteria that sweep in continuous succession across the world he was now entering, he had already received a sort of opiate inoculation from Sandra that was beginning to atrophy his faculty for amazement. Nor, for the matter of that, had he any illusions about the potential vileness of mankind. His surprise therefore was not as strong as it might have been, and was speedily giving place to another emotion — that of resentment. For when he thought over what had happened, he decided that his assent to Mr Chynnon's little scheme had been entirely taken for granted — and by himself as much as by Mr Chynnon. Like all people of easy virtue, he resented being taken for granted — he liked to preserve the illusion that he had certain standards if he cared to use them. He was particularly annoyed with himself: for whether it was the lunch, the surprise, or the impact of Mr Chynnon's personality, he had given his immediate consent without thought, word, or gesture. 'What do you say to that, Mr Sa Foy?' — and he had grabbed at it with both hands. One should try to put a price on oneself — that was his rule; and for all practical purposes it was on the way to becoming as otiose as the laws of Solon.
On this point, however, he managed by degrees to reassure himself. For if he had refused, Mr Chynnon, who seemed to know his record, would probably have threatened to submit that record to Mrs Fairweather. It was a specious argument, but it raised yet a further question — the first of a long list of half-digested doubts. Where the devil did Mr Chynnon get all his information? It was a simple matter to trace someone's past history: but how did he know about Esme's appointment as tutor? Above all, how did he come to be so well apprised as to his almost hourly movements? Had he another member of Mrs Fairweather's house in his payment? But Esme had told no one, not even Terence, where he was having lunch. Very well then, had he private detectives in his employment? And if so, how did they discover that Mrs Fairweather, Terence, and Esme were driving down to Badlock that day? On second thoughts, however, this was an easy one. A casual word with one of the servants would soon have revealed that. But it occurred to Esme that they must be private detectives of a peculiarly shady sort, at any rate if they were acquainted with Mr Chynnon's motives.
And here was another point. What were his motives? Himself had explained them as the discovery of something discreditable about Sandra to be circulated among her friends. It might just as well be blackmail. If so, he, Esme, would be an accomplice; and while he had no rooted objection to blackmail as such, he had no particular wish to end up in prison.
This again raised the whole question of his safety. A bird in hand, after all, he said to himself, and just let Mrs Fairweather catch him meddling about with letters and things for a prize disaster. On the other hand, if Mr Chynnon was so well informed, it was on the cards he would go on being so. What would happen if Esme did nothing at all? Mr Chynnon's payment would stop, doubtless, but even worse might happen. He might, for example, take delayed action by way of revealing Esme's really remarkable unfittedness for his employment. He might start blackmailing Esme. He might even have Esme's throat cut, thought Esme, as Badlock was doubtless full of people who would cut their mothers' throats for the asking. No, this was getting morbid, out of proportion — no one would get his throat cut, pull yourself together. The fact remained, however, that the situation, so gleefully accepted along with twenty pounds in an envelope, was more complex than comfortable. One must decide on a line of action as consistent as possible with peace of mind and stick to it come what might. After two days' thought it seemed to Esme (who had so far seen no one who even remotely resembled an agent of Mr Chynnon's) that comfort and profit might be sought in concert. Whatever happened he had the twenty pounds (it had been rather like snatching money in a dream and waking up to find it in your hand), and this would be a great help to him in fulfilling the Bursar's demands. The thousand-pound jackpot was remote to say the least of it and might most properly be left to the disposal of the devil, whose instrument it doubtless was. But without in any way compromising himself with Mrs Fairweather, he could easily dispatch a series of non-committal, intelligent, and even apparently hopeful reports that should serve to bring in a little extra money later. It was rather a spiritless decision, he supposed
, but really he was entirely alien soil, having never been either a tutor or a private agent before. He would send in his reports and otherwise leave things to take their course. And with this rather stagnant resolution, he settled down to inconvenience himself as little as possible for the ensuing nine weeks.
But the stars in their courses had no intention whatever of providing Esme with an easy summer.
In the first place, there was the marked difficulty of living life in the same house as Mrs Fairweather. She had an uncanny faculty for knowing what went on — even at Badlock, where the house and garden between them should have given sufficient concealment for a century of undiscovered crime. The richer people are the more they want their money's worth, and the mere suspicion that Terence and Esme might be up to no good was enough to set the internal telephone ringing along every corridor. During the day Esme could never sit on his bottom with anything like a sense of security, and to lose sight of Terence amounted to high treason. Then there would be the most exhausting rows about anything from the loss of a nice table-mat to the discovery of an unsuspected horsewhip — which, it was presumed, had been imported by Terence to repeat the outrage on the gardener's boy. Such trifles were only settled by a complete disruption of all domestic system and economy. Until the mat was found, there would be no meals — the entire staff were looking for the mat. Until it was discovered that the horsewhip (a long-forgotten present) in fact bore Mrs Fairweather's initials, there would be no peace for anyone till the entire house had been searched (secretly of course, for Terence must not know of it) for more concealed horsewhips. Many things of interest came to light this way, and a good half of them provided material for further rows, searches, telephone calls and conferences. Esme found that, like an officer of the Brigade of Guards he must never show signs of fatigue. It was all a bit rough on the nerves.
Secondly, there was the difficulty of life with Terence. The difficulty here was of a different sort. It is of course always rather lowering to be with the same person every hour of every day, but as Terence was, for his age, an intelligent and very amusing child, this was not the immediate trouble. The trouble was to prevent him baiting his mother and thus discrediting his tutor. Now Terence had taken a liking to the indulgent Esme (he was on, he foresaw, to a very profitable thing), and was anxious therefore to treat him fairly gently, trick him into a position of complete complicity and not give cause for complaint against him. But even with this in mind, his mother was a target irresistible to the saints themselves. The very sight of her as she flew off after imaginary horsewhips or rampaged around in search of disappearing table-mats tickled his sense of humour so much that he could hardly stand. It was too much to expect of human nature that he should refrain from providing a few' artificial situations of his own ingenious manufacture to recreate the same effects. It was also too much to expect of human nature that when Sandra returned from a prolonged conference with the local doctor to find Terence prostrate on the floor with a packet of tablets that have the well-known effect of turning the intestinal acids a bright scarlet, she should take it lying down. Even the excuse that he had only intended to try them on her favourite dachshund did no good. Esme was summoned for a raging scene, the vividness of which was only increased by the simplicity and antiquity of the way she had been duped. No, it was not at all easy on the nerves.
However, on the Saturday after their arrival at Badlock, it really looked as though peace was to be restored. At twelve o'clock Esme, who was just beginning to wonder how much money a suitable rest-cure in September would necessitate, was summoned to Sandra's bedroom and told that she was off to spend the weekend with the Marquess of Luton Hoo, proposed proceeding thence to London, and from London to Montreal. She would be in Canada a week. Esme must manage servants, house, drink, cars and cash till her return — and must drive Terence to London on Monday, where Dr McTavish wished to see what difference another term in Switzerland had made, and where they could wish God's speed to herself before she flew away. She also remembered to warn him that Bellamy was coming on long leave from Eton the following weekend, and that in all probability he could expect another weekend visitor in the person of Dr Trito, who, at a cost of a round fifty pounds, also wished to assess the recent progress of Terence. Would he please call her Sandra (S.A.N.D.R.A), because his everlasting 'Mrs Fairweathers' were making her feel about ninety? She had decided she both liked him and placed confidence in him she might add. They would forget the incident of the unfortunate pills.
Having delivered herself of this condensed series of instructions, she got into the powder-blue Rolls and drove away. At noon she was there and at twelve-fifteen she wasn't. Terence and Esme heaved a sigh; and went in to celebrate with a couple of double gins. The rest-cure, it seemed, could be enjoyed in instalments and while Esme was still being employed. With the exception of Monday, ten days of perfect peace were before him.
But ironically enough it was that afternoon on which a third factor in the situation made its appearance, and finally shattered every idea of repose Esme had been rash enough to retain.
It all fell out very simply. After lunch it rained with all the persistence and gloom peculiar to the fenlands, so that Terence and Esme (who had in any case intended to do nothing at all) went gratefully into the lounge to spend their first afternoon of stationary peace for some days. Esme, in particular, welcomed the chance of absorbing some of his necessary drug, print, which he had so far been consistently denied.
What with the time of day and the weather something fairly light was called for; and he accordingly went up to his bedroom, where there were displayed two row's of fiction suitable to weekend visitors, and pounced on a copy of Caprice. It had been left there, it seemed, sometime ago: for on the inside of the cover appeared the name William Gomery, followed by a date, 1936. Esme blessed Mr William Gomery and his forgetful nature with all his heart, and went to join Terence, who was busy tormenting the dachshund with a knitting-needle and drawing a picture of four masked men disembowelling a cow with their fingernails.
At page fifty Esme was provided with a thrill that had nothing to do with Firbank. He turned the page to find a letter — a short note on only one side of a small piece of handsome paper. At the top was written '3.30 a.m., Sunday morning'. Now it was a custom of Sandra's to retire to her room about midnight and then to stay awake till four o'clock or later reading and writing letters. One morning Esme had found four different sets of contradictory instructions on the breakfast table, dated respectively 12.30, 1.15, 2.45, and 3. This habit was evidently of long standing, for the note now before him was also in Sandra's hand, though he noticed that it had been firmer in those days, and that the dashes she used to introduce an inconsequence were less frequent. It began without heading — a common trick of Sandra's even in full-dress letters.
'You can't imagine,' it said, 'the relief it has been to me to find someone, after all this time, in whom my intuition permits me to confide. Few people seem to have sympathy — of your own sex next to none. So I feel I must send you this to thank you, my dear Bill, and tell you how happy you have made me. The fact you can say what you have means all the more to me when I remember how fond you were of poor Earl.
Your everlasting grateful friend, Sandra.'
As Esme was on the verge of going to sleep, for a moment or so his reactions were merely the mechanical ones of construing four sentences. Sandra had been seeking advice or consolation and had been afforded a diplomatic reception. He closed his eyes, the word 'Earl' went through his brain like a needle, he slammed the book and bolted for his own room. There he read the note again, slowly and carefully.
So there was something, it appeared, in Mr Chynnon's hunch. Or there might be. Examine the evidence. In primis, there was something worth confiding ('in whom my intuition permits me to confide') — but was there? Sandra would write twenty notes if she confided a mole on her bottom. Well, whatever it was, it concerned the late Mr Marshal Acre ('how fond you were of poor Earl') of chivalrous
instincts and bad blood. (Perhaps he had a mole on his bottom.) Gomery had said something which she valued, the more because he was a friend of Acre's. But then he could be valued as such without her confidences necessarily concerning Acre. Unlikely. The interview had taken place during or since 1936 — when Gomery had treated himself to a copy of Caprice. Sentimental memories would be failing; one could say, 'I like what you said because you knew Acre,' only if what had been said was about Acre — especially if one had only been married to Acre three weeks. Finally there was someone else who knew (if he was still living) what it was all about. Mr William Gomery, who read Firbank — who was also a friend of Sandra's. Find Gomery. Win a thousand pounds. Let Chynnon find Gomery — and send someone else to win a thousand pounds. Forget the thousand pounds and expect a handsome bonus for being smart. 'Dear Mr Chynnon, after a laborious and dangerous search in Mrs Fairweather's private escritoire (to break it open I had to buy a jemmy, price twenty-two shillings and sixpence) I discovered that...'
Nitwit: wait a day or two, and try to find out where Gomery lives — he might live in Badlock — or Tahiti. But worth a few days' wait and see. one thousand pounds.
If Esme succeeded in saving sixty pounds, he would be well on his way to paying his college account. The unfortunate thing was that he had a level three hundred pounds worth of additional debts. Some of these, of course, were private and could wait — but one liked to do the right thing by one's friends. Others again were owed to tradesmen. Now Esme had long since discovered that compliments and charm will be accepted in lieu of the most substantial payments — indeed he had discovered it so long ago that he had allowed his method to grow stale. There were tradesmen pressing — acknowledging compliments of course, but still pressing. This meant shortage of wines, books, food, clothes and even, on occasion, sleep. It was quite intolerable.