The Mystery of Briony Lodge

by David Bagchi

  ‘Miss Lodge—Briony—I once asked you if there were anyone with whom you had an understanding of any sort. I must confess that I had another motive in asking you that question.’

  ‘I thought you might have had, J.’

  ‘Briony, you have come into my life and turned everything in it upside down. Or rather, you have turned it the right way up. You have even re-named my dog—though I have to say he does seem to like it.’

  ‘He’s always been “Monty”, J. He told me the first time I met him.’

  ‘Briony, you are the cleverest, the bravest, and the most beautiful woman I have ever met. I know it is far too soon. But I also know that if I do not ask you I shall regret it all my days. You have changed one name today. Is it too much to hope that you would consider changing another—your own?’

  ‘I really don’t think “Monty” would suit me, J. Besides, just think of the confusion that would arise.’

  ‘No, I mean…’

  ‘I’m sorry, J., I should not jest about something that means so much to you. I was not unaware of your feelings for me, and your question, flattering as it is, of course, was not wholly unexpected. I say this not out of arrogance, but as a simple matter of fact. It is the lot of every woman to be proposed to several times, sometimes several times the same day. Young men are very free with proposals, and don’t always mean what they say, or say what they mean. Often they do not mean it at all, and are simply practising for the day when they will.’

  ‘Briony, I am quite earnest…’

  ‘Then you must recognize that I also am earnest when I say that I have resolved never to marry. I told you once before that I am devoted to teaching, and I have never yet spoken an untruth.’

  ‘But is there no chance you may not reconsider? I spoke too boldly, and too soon. Perhaps in a few months, a year from now, I might again…’

  ‘No. It would be cruel indeed of me to offer false hope to one who is so very dear. Once resolved upon a course, I never waver from it. Let us be friends, J., the best of friends. Friendships between the sexes are too rare, and should be cultivated. It is nearly the twentieth century, after all.’

  ‘If that is as much as you feel you can be to me,’ I replied, almost trembling with emotion, ‘then it is more than I could ever want.’

  My mouth suddenly felt very dry, and my eyes unusually damp.

  ‘You are a true friend, J., and much more than a friend: for I owe my life to you.’

  Now she took my hands in hers, and stared intently into my eyes.

  ‘J., you have been open and frank with me. May I be as open and as frank with you?’

  ‘Of course, Briony.’

  ‘When I say that I intend never to marry, that does not mean that I wish to be entirely alone. The teaching profession is a lonely one, I have found. The girls take up so much of one’s time, energy, and emotions that one cannot easily cultivate adult friendships.’

  ‘What of your fellow mistresses? Are they not sympathetic?’

  ‘They are wonderful people, J. But none of them, I think, could ever be a true soul-mate to me. Indeed, until I met you I did not think such a thing possible. Since meeting you, J., I have realized that I have needs, the needs of a young woman for companionship, for laughter, for…’

  She paused, and lowered her gaze to the floor.

  ‘… for the physical dimension of friendship.’ My mouth became even drier.

  Still unable to look at me directly, Briony continued.

  ‘J., I have a proposition of my own to make. I could not even utter it—I could not even think it—if I did not trust you absolutely and regard you as my truest and dearest friend upon this globe. I wish to propose an arrangement between us. It is not a conventional one. To some it will seem scandalous, Bohemian even. Indeed, I realize that my very suggesting it may shock your noble, upright soul to the core, and end our young friendship on the spot.’

  My mouth was now very dry indeed.

  ‘Speak, my darling,’ I said, hardly believing what she was saying, even if it was nearly the twentieth century. ‘Do not fear, my beloved. Do not be afraid of expressing your heart’s desires.’

  ‘You promise you will not be shocked?’

  ‘I promise, my darling. I will not.’

  It was, in the words of the excellent Lestrade, a definite result.

  She looked up wordlessly, her blue eyes, flecked with indigo, so large. I wished to drown in them.

  ‘Then let Monty move in with me.’

  I pulled away from her so suddenly that her hands fell back into her lap.

  ‘What!’ I said.

  ‘What’s the matter, J.? Did you not realize that is what I meant? What else could you think I…'

  ‘Of course,’ I intervened hurriedly. ‘Yes. I knew that is what you were asking. Naturally. What else could it have been? Ha! Ha! It’s just that Montmorency and I… well, we are soul-mates too.’

  ‘What nonsense, J.! That Monty is fond of you and you of him, I shall always allow. That you are soul-friends, never. Why, you hardly understand a word he says.’

  It was true, I reflected, that Montmorency was sometimes less eloquent than I would have liked. But I had always put that down to his being a dog.

  ‘Let us strike a deal,’ Briony said suddenly. ‘Let Monty himself decide between us, and let his decision be final.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Let Montmorency decide.’ (The name Monty really did not suit him after all). I still felt that Briony had not quite grasped the point that Montmorency was my dog, not a disputed enclave in the Balkans. However, it seemed a just solution.

  ‘Monty: do you want to live here with Uncle Jerome, or come to live with me in my house?’

  Montmorency looked first at Briony, and then turned to look at me. He cocked his head to the side in the way that he always did, then came and brushed against my leg. It was, however, merely the fox-terrier way of saying good-bye, for he then gave a whimper of delight, ran over to Briony and sprang on to her lap. He stared up into those indigo-blue eyes for a long time. She stared back.

  I was thoroughly confused. Of whom was I more jealous—Monty for stealing the heart of my beloved, or Briony for taking my dog? At the heart of every man on this planet there is, I believe, a core of Dog. It is the Dog in us that makes us Men. How could it be otherwise? When womenkind captivate us, and our eyes bulge, and our tongues loll, and we leap and dance at their whim, and roll over upon our backs, is it not merely the Eternal Canine responding to the Eternal Feminine?

  Briony would take no man into her service; but by taking my dog, Montmorency, I feel that in some ineffable way our three souls were entwined.

  And, for me, that would always be the real Mystery of Briony Lodge.

  * * *

  And so, dear reader, my tale is complete, and our time together has come to an end. If ever we meet in the flesh, it would be my pleasure to let you buy me a drink. (May I recommend the Mitre on the Marylebone Road? You can get a chop and two glasses of Bass for 1/6d, and it would still be cheap at twice the price.) We can yarn about your adventures and mine—for yes, I still have a few more to tell if time and paper allow—until the embers die in the fire and the landlord gets shirty and tells us he has a bed to go to even if we don’t. Let our conversation range far and wide, but one limitation alone I insist upon, and if you have read this story to its end you will not ask the reason for it. That one thing is:

  to say nothing of the dog.

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  Acknowledgements

  My first debt is, naturally, to anyone who has handed over their hard-earned cash to buy this book: thank you. I also wish to thank Dr Sarah Walton for her enthusiastic support, and for teaching me so much when the arrangement was supposed to be the other way round. I am also indebted to Professor Martin Goodman and to the Barbican Press. My admiration for the writings of JKJ and ACD, which will I hope be obvious, is fully shared by my companion on ‘the River of Life’, to whom it is a pleasure to dedicate this
lucubration.