Her pale grey eyes hopefully scanned the circle, but this recorded instance of Sampson Warrenby’s consideration for his niece failed to elicit comment from anyone but Mrs Haswell, who merely said: ‘It won’t hurt your uncle to get his own tea. I shouldn’t worry about him, if I were you.’
She then handed Mr Drybeck a box of tennis-balls, saw all four players pass through the wire gate on to the court, and sat down on the garden-seat, inviting Gavin to join her there. ‘It’s a pity Mrs Cliburn is late,’ she observed. ‘If she were here they could have a proper mixed doubles, and it would make a more even game. However, it can’t be helped. I’m glad Sampson Warrenby didn’t come.’
‘You said you were not.’
‘Yes, of course: one does say that sort of thing. I had to ask him, because it would have looked so pointed if I’d left him out. You can’t leave people out in a small community: it makes things awkward, as I told Henry.’
‘Oh, is that why he went to Woodhall?’ asked Gavin, interested.
‘And if I left Mr Warrenby out,’ pursued Mrs Haswell, apparently deaf to this interruption, ‘I should be obliged to leave Mavis out too, which I should be sorry to do.’
‘I wish you had left him out.’
‘She leads a wretched enough life without being ostracised,’ said Mrs Haswell, still deaf. ‘And you never hear her say an unkind word about him.’
‘I never hear her say an unkind word about anyone. There is no affinity between us.’
‘I wonder what is keeping the Ainstables?’
‘Possibly the fear that nothing has kept Warrenby.’
‘I’m sure I said half-past three. I hope Rosamund hasn’t had another of her bad turns. There, now! the young people have finished their set, and the others have only just begun theirs; I wanted to arrange it so that Mr Drybeck should play with the good ones!…Well, how did it end, my dears? Who won?’
‘Oh, the children!’ said Kenelm Lindale, with the flash of a rueful smile. ‘Delia and I were run off our feet!’
‘You are a liar!’ remarked Abigail Dearham, propping her racquet against a chair, and picking up a scarlet cardigan. ‘We should be still at it, if it hadn’t been for Charles’ almighty fluke.’
‘Less of it!’ recommended the son of the house, walking over to a table which bore a phalanx of tumblers, and several kinds of liquid refreshment. ‘A brilliantly conceived shot, executed with true delicacy of touch. What’ll you have, Delia? We can offer you lemonade, orangeade, beer, ginger-beer and Mother’s Ruin. You have only to give it a name.’
Mrs Lindale, having given it a name, sat down in a chair beside her hostess, her coat draped across her shoulders, and surreptitiously glanced at her wrist-watch. She was a thin young woman, with pale hair, aquiline features, and ice-blue eyes that never seemed quite to settle on any object. She gave the impression of being strung up on wires, her mind always reaching forward to some care a little beyond the present. Since her husband had abandoned a career on the Stock Exchange to attempt the precarious feat of farming, it was generally felt that she had every reason to look anxious. They had not been settled for very long at Rushyford Farm, which lay to the north of Thornden, on the Hawkshead road; and those who knew most about the hazards of farming in England wondered for how long they would remain. Both were energetic, but neither was accustomed to country life; and for Delia at least the difficulties were enhanced by the existence of a year-old infant, on whom she lavished what older and more prosaic parents felt to be an inordinate amount of care and adoration. Those who noticed her quick glance at her watch knew that she was wondering whether the woman who helped her in the house had remembered to carry out the minute instructions she had left for the care of the infant, or whether Rose-Veronica might not have been left to scream unheard in her pram. Her husband knew it too, and, catching her eye, smiled, at once comfortingly and teasingly. He was a handsome, dark man, some few years her senior. He had the ready laughter that often accompanies a quick temper, a pair of warm brown eyes, and a lower lip that supported the upper in a way that gave a good deal of resolution to his face. He and Delia were recognised as a devoted couple. His attitude towards her was protective; she, without seeming to be mentally dependent upon him, was so passionately absorbed in him that she could never give all her attention to anyone else if he were present.
Mrs Haswell, who had seen her glance at her watch, gave her hand a pat, and said, smiling: ‘Now, I’m not going to have you worrying over your baby, my dear! Mrs Murton will look after her perfectly well.’
Delia flushed, and gave an uncertain laugh. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean – I was only wondering.’
Abigail Dearham, a very pretty girl, with a mop of chestnut curls, and wide-open grey eyes, looked at her with the interest she accorded to everyone who came in her way. ‘Have you got a baby?’ she asked.
‘Yes, a little girl. But I really wasn’t worrying about her. That is to say –’
‘Do you look after her yourself? Is it an awful sweat?’
‘Oh, no! Of course, it does tie one, but I love doing it.’
‘You ought to get out more, dear,’ said Mrs Haswell.
‘I expect it’s fun, having a baby,’ said Abby, giving the matter her serious consideration. ‘I shouldn’t like to be tied down, though.’
‘Yes, you would. You don’t mind being tied down by your old Inky,’ said Charles.
‘That’s different. I have set hours with him.’
‘Not much you don’t!’ said Charles rudely. ‘You’re always being kept on after hours because he’s in the middle of a chapter, or wants you to manage one of his beastly parties!’
His mother, not betraying the fact that she had received sudden enlightenment, said in an easy tone: ‘Abby is Geoffrey Silloth’s secretary, Delia. So interesting!’
‘No, by Jove, are you really?’ said Kenelm. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Oh, quite a toot!’ replied Abby cheerfully. ‘He’s gone off to Antibes for a fortnight, which is why I’ve got a holiday.’
This description of a distinguished man of letters was received with equanimity by Mrs Haswell, accustomed to the phraseology of youth; with complete understanding by Charles, and the Lindales; and with patent nausea by Gavin Plenmeller, who asked in silken accents to have the term explained to him.
‘Ah, here come Mrs Cliburn and the Squire!’ said Mrs Haswell, rising to greet these timely arrivals. ‘Edith, how nice! But, Bernard, isn’t Rosamund coming?’
The Squire, a squarely built man who looked older than his sixty years, shook hands, saying: ‘One of her heads. She told me to make her apologies, and say she’d be along to tea, if she feels up to it. I don’t think there’s much hope of it, but I left the car for her, just in case.’
‘Oh, dear, I am sorry! You know Mrs Lindale, don’t you? And her husband, of course.’
‘Yes, indeed. Glad to see you, Mrs Lindale! And you, Lindale.’ His deep-set eyes travelled to the tennis-courts. ‘Warrenby not here? Good opportunity for the rest of us to talk over this business about the River Board. Where’s Henry, Adelaide?’
‘Well, I expect he’ll be back before you leave,’ replied Mrs Haswell. ‘Though if it’s about this tiresome River Board affair, I do wish – However, it’s not my business, so you’d better talk to Henry. I must say, it does seem a lot of fuss about very little.’
‘One does so want to avoid unpleasantness,’ said Mrs Cliburn. ‘Of course, it isn’t anything to do with us either, but Tony and I can’t help feeling that it would be a shame to appoint anyone but Mr Drybeck to act for this new River Board. I mean, he always did when it was the Catchment Board, didn’t he? And he’d be bound to feel very badly about it, particularly if Mr Warrenby was appointed instead of him. But I oughtn’t to give my opinion,’ she added hastily.
‘Well, well, it isn’t such a great matter, after all!’ said the Squire. ‘We must see what Haswell thinks.’
‘Dad won’t support Warrenby, sir,’ interpolated Cha
rles. ‘I know that. For one thing, he’s dead against hurting poor old Drybeck’s feelings.’
‘Charles!’ said his mother, with a warning glance towards the tennis-court.
‘All right, Mum: they can’t hear us. And, for another, he’s just about had Warrenby, muscling into every dammed thing here!’
‘Nor is he alone in his surfeit,’ said Gavin. ‘I too shall oppose Warrenby. I feel sure Walter would have: he always opposed people.’
The Squire threw him a frowning look, but said nothing. Kenelm Lindale, lighting a cigarette, and carefully pressing the spent match into the ground, said: ‘Well, I don’t want to hurt Drybeck’s feelings either, but, to tell you the truth, I don’t really know much about this River Board.’
‘And you a riparian owner!’ said Charles, shocked. ‘There used to be one Catchment Board for the Rushy, here, and another one for the Crail, which for your better information is –’
‘All right!’ said Kenelm, grinning at him. ‘I know where the Crail runs! I also know that two old Catchment Boards have become one new River Board. What I meant was, what about the Crail half of the Board? Haven’t they got a candidate for the solicitor’s job?’
‘The man who used to look after their interests has retired,’ said the Squire shortly. ‘You’d better read the correspondence. I’ll show it to you, if you like to – No, now I come to think of it, I sent it on to you, Gavin. I wish you’d let me have it back.’
He turned away, and began to talk to his hostess. Another game was soon arranged, he and Mrs Cliburn taking the places of Charles and Abigail, who went off with Gavin and Mrs Haswell to engage in a lighthearted game of Crazy Croquet, which Charles insisted was the only sort of croquet he understood.
Tea was served under the elm tree on the lawn to the east of the house, the tennis-players joining the party when their respective sets ended, and hailing with acclaim the discovery that Mrs Haswell, always a perfect hostess, had provided iced coffee for their refreshment.
Mrs Ainstable arrived at about half-past five, leaving her car in the drive, and walking through the rose-covered archway that led to the eastern lawn. Mrs Haswell rose at once, and went to meet her; and she said, in her rather high-pitched, inconsequent voice: ‘I do apologise! Don’t say I’m too late to be given tea: I should burst into tears. Isn’t it hot? How lovely the garden’s looking! We’ve got greenfly.’
‘My dear, you don’t look fit to be out!’ said Mrs Haswell, taking her hand, and looking at her in a concerned way. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Oh, yes! Just one of my wretched heads. Better now. Don’t say anything about it: Bernard worries so about me!’
This was seen to be true. The Squire had come up to them, and was anxiously scanning his wife’s face. ‘My dear, is this wise of you? I hoped you’d have a sleep.’
‘I did have a sleep, Bernard, and it did me so much good that I couldn’t bear to stay away from Adelaide’s party. Now, don’t fuss, darling, please!’
He shook his head, but said no more. Mrs Haswell could not think it wonderful that he should be worried. Rosamund Ainstable, though more than ten years his junior, was a woman who, without having any organic disease, had never enjoyed good health. Her constitution was delicate; any exertion out of the way was apt to prostrate her; and she was the victim of sick headaches whose cause had consistently baffled her many medical advisers. She had ceased to try to discover it, saying, with her rueful laugh, that having worked her way expensively up Harley Street she had neither the means nor the stamina to work her way down it. In the popular phrase, she lived on her nerves, which were ill-adapted to bear the strain. She had endured two world wars, dying a thousand vicarious deaths in the first, when she had known that every telegram delivered to her must contain the news that her husband had been killed in action; and losing her only child in the second. Her friends had prophesied that she would not recover from this blow; but she had recovered, exerting herself to support and to comfort the Squire, whose pride and hope were buried somewhere in the North African Desert. It might have been expected that he and she, with their heir dead, would have ceased to struggle to maintain an estate impoverished by the financial demands of one war, and brought almost to penury by those of a second, but, as the Squire’s legal adviser, Thaddeus Drybeck, loftily pointed out to his acquaintance, Blood Told, and the Squire continued to plan and contrive as though he believed he would be succeeded by the son he had adored, and not by a nephew whom he scarcely knew, and did not much like.
Mrs Haswell, installing her friend in a comfortable chair, and supplying her with the tea for which she said she craved, was tactful not to betray her realisation that this was one of poor Rosamund’s bad days. There was a glitter in those restless eyes, too high a colour in those thin cheeks, an artificial gaiety in the high-pitched voice, which she could not like, and hoped the Squire would not notice. Whether he did or not it was impossible to guess: by tradition and temperament he was a man who concealed his thoughts and his feelings.
When all the strawberries had been eaten, and all the iced coffee drunk, the Vicar solved a problem which had been exercising Mrs Haswell’s mind for some time. He said that much as he would like to engage on further Homeric struggles duty called him, and he must away, to pay a parochial visit on a sick parishioner. This left only nine potential tennis-players to be accommodated on two courts, and no one could doubt, as Gavin Plenmeller informed Kenelm Lindale under his breath, that Miss Warrenby would honestly prefer to watch. He was quite right, but, judging by his expression, had scarcely fore-seen the immediate sequel to this act of self-abnegation. When polite opposition had been overborne, Mrs Haswell said: ‘You and Gavin must keep one another company, then, dear. Rosamund, I’m going to take you into the house: it’s far too hot for you to be sitting outside.’
‘Good God!’ uttered Gavin, for Kenelm’s ear. ‘This is where I must think fast! None of you who pity me for my disability have the least conception of the horrors to which I am subjected. I will not bear that afflictive girl company. Quick, what does A. do?’
‘You can’t do anything,’ said Kenelm, rather amused.
‘You betray your ignorance of my character.’
Kenelm laughed, but soon found that he had underrated Mr Plenmeller’s bland ingenuity, and had certainly been ignorant of the ruthlessness which led that gentleman to implicate him in his plan of escape. He now learned that owing to his own importunity Gavin was about to return to his home to fetch, for his perusal, the River Board correspondence; and he began to perceive why it was that Gavin was not popular with his neighbours.
‘Oh, I’m sure you ought not to!’ exclaimed Mavis, glancing reproachfully at Kenelm.
‘But I am sure I ought. You could see the Squire was displeased with me. He felt I shouldn’t have forgotten to return the papers, and I have a dreadful premonition that I shall go on forgetting.’
‘You needn’t fetch them for my sake,’ interrupted Kenelm maliciously.
‘No, for my own!’ retorted Gavin, not in the least discomfited. ‘Something accomplished will earn me a night’s repose. I rarely accomplish anything, and never suffer from insomnia, but Miss Warrenby has often told me what an excellent maxim that is.’
‘Oh, yes, but all that way just for a few papers! Couldn’t someone else go for you?’ said Mavis. ‘I’m sure I’d love to, if you think I could find them.’
Kenelm, who guessed that Gavin’s mocking references to his lameness masked his loathing of it, was not surprised that this well-meant piece of tactlessness met with the treatment he privately thought it deserved.
‘Does it seem to you a long way to my house? I thought it was only half a mile. Or are you thinking that my short leg pains me? Do let me set your mind at rest! It doesn’t. You have been misled by my ungainliness.’
He turned away, and went, with his uneven gait, to where his hostess was standing. Mavis said, sighing: ‘I often think it does hurt him, you know.’
‘He
has told you that it doesn’t,’ replied Kenelm, rather shortly.
She brought her eyes to bear on his face. ‘He’s so plucky, isn’t he? People don’t realise what it must mean to him, or make allowances.’
Kenelm felt that he was being reproved for insensibility, and obeyed, with relief, a summons from Mrs Haswell.
Three
By the time Gavin returned to The Cedars it was half past six, and the party was beginning to break up. Mrs Ainstable was the first to leave, driving home alone in her aged Austin, and very nearly running Gavin down as she came somewhat incautiously round the bend in the drive. She pulled up, calling out: ‘So sorry! Did I frighten you?’
‘Yes, I gave myself up for dead,’ he replied, leaving the grass verge beside the shrubbery on which he had taken refuge, and approaching the car. ‘And me a cripple! How could you?’
‘It’s stupid to talk like that: you’re not a cripple. You deserved to be frightened, anyway, for behaving so atrociously. You didn’t take anyone in, you know. It was as plain as a pikestaff you didn’t want to sit out with Mavis Warrenby. She is dull, of course. I can’t think why very good people so often are. Why on earth didn’t you pretend you had to go home early, and just leave?’
‘That would have looked as if I were not enjoying the party.’
‘Well, it would have been better than hatching up that quite incredible story about having to fetch a lot of unimportant papers for Bernard!’ she said tartly.
‘You wrong me. May I hand over to you the proofs of my integrity?’ he said, drawing a long, fat envelope from the inner pocket of his coat, and giving it to her, with his impish smile. ‘Is the Squire still playing tennis?’
‘Yes. It’s no use my waiting for him. He’s going home the other way, so that he can look at what’s been done in the new plantation. So foolish of him! He’ll only wear himself out to no purpose. How insufferably hot it is!’
Georgette Heyer_Inspector Hemingway 04 Page 3