by Dennis Parry
‘ ’Bout six years. Miss Deirdre ’as to stand the racket now, God ’elp ’er!’
‘Is that the daughter—the one he borrows things for from the museum?’
Turpin permitted himself a queer smile.
‘If there’s any others, they don’t come round ’ere,’ he said enigmatically.
‘How old is this Deirdre?’
‘Seventeen or so.’
‘What’s she like?’
Turpin reflected. ‘Might be worse . . . considering. Not a patch on our Blasting Bud, though.’
Cedric continued to make fairly regular appearances in the afternoon. But I was not again called into conclave. From external evidence it seemed that he had relaxed the pressure on his mother: for Mrs. Ellison went through a phase of improved health during which she not only came down to dinner but also sat up in the morning-room for a couple of hours after it. On these evenings I got to know her much better; like most old people, she was very lonely and she liked to have somebody by her to whom she could talk about the past. Listening was no charity on my part; I have always genuinely enjoyed the re-creation of a dead era.
Varvara was not much help. She was always ready with fervid love or hatred, but she could not understand the cool, reserved affection—in her eyes so little distinguishable from an equal degree of dislike—which was Mrs. Ellison’s norm of civilized behaviour. At times she grew impatient and almost rude; and then trying to make amends she would come up against those impregnable emotional defences, which were like a moat of China tea. Varvara admired her grandmother, she longed to love her, but she never found out how.
The feeling in the opposite direction was, I think, even more complex. Mrs. Ellison wanted to cherish the child of her son and to make amends for the injustice done to him by his family. But when it came to the point she quailed before Varvara’s size and violence and harsh, flamboyant beauty. Besides, by one of those processes which her generation would never have admitted, she may subconsciously have resented the girl as a usurper of her father’s place. If there had not been some buried feeling of this kind, I doubt whether Cedric’s machinations would have had any effect.
My next sight of that villain was accidental. I was sitting out on the roof-garden and I had moved two or three of the potted shrubs to form a barrier between my neck and the sun. They also incidentally concealed me from the french windows. Presently I heard voices which I recognized as belonging to Cedric and Nurse Fillis. I had no wish to eavesdrop—at any rate at first—but I also wanted to spare myself five minutes of insincere and laboured small-talk. I therefore sat still.
He was saying: ‘Now, we’re not going to be silly, are we? We’re not going to start having imaginary attacks of conscience? Because it doesn’t suit us. We stop being rather a specially nice person . . . and our friends don’t feel the same at all.’
It was a pretty odd speech, but for a moment I could not understand why it jarred me so sharply. Then I realized that the speaker had usurped the idiom of the person he was addressing; that jollying tone, those facetious plurals, teetering on the verge of baby-language, were Nurse Fillis’s own coin. On her lips they might be irritating; from those of Cedric Ellison they came with an oily, sinister roll.
Without shame I turned quietly in my chair so that I was looking through the branches.
The other two were standing just inside the window, by a big writing-desk. Their bodies had assumed an attitude which was in keeping with the subtle perversity of the whole atmosphere. She was leaning back against the desk, her hands resting behind her on its edge, so that her shoulders were pulled back and the lower part of her trunk was pushed forward. Cedric loomed over her bending in an opposite and complementary curve which made it appear that he was about to fit his body to hers. But in fact, by a considerable feat of muscular discipline, he kept a clear six inches between them at every point.
Nurse Fillis said in a quick breathy voice: ‘I don’t like it, Mr. Cedric. It wouldn’t be ethics. Where’d I be if I was found out?’
‘In another job, perhaps,’ said Cedric in a teasing voice.
‘I’d be struck off the register.’
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I suppose the people who’d got you into this wicked mess would have to look after you. Would you mind being looked after?’
Cedric suddenly lowered his face towards hers. An intervening branch stopped me from seeing whether he had completed a kiss, or was merely tantalizing her. The second I think; he was a prudent man and he cared no more for Fillis than for a bag of hay.
They moved further back into the room, still arguing. I could no longer distinguish the words, but soon one side or the other appeared to have prevailed, for the door opened and the voices faded away into the interior of the house.
I did not mention this scene to anyone, chiefly because it revolted me too much. I felt that my spying had brought me into contact with the nadir of human servitude.
A day or two afterwards we made our expedition to Somerset House. I had previously found out from Turpin the year and month of Joseph Ellison’s death—June 1916—and as I knew that he had been residing in Aynho Terrace at the time, I did not expect much difficulty in picking up the trail. We were shown into the main index-room where the probates are listed by the dates of grant. When I had looked up the file number of Ellison’s will, a clerk went to fetch a copy, for the Registry does not allow the public loose among its shelves.
Varvara was rather subdued by the atmosphere of venerable dustiness.
‘Afterwards,’ I said graciously, ‘we’ll go out and have lunch.’
I had spent little money of late and I meant to stand her a first-class meal at Simpson’s. It was the sort of place which should suit her appetite.
‘I am sorry,’ she replied, ‘but I am already lunching. And then I have a fitting.’
‘With Chief Couturier Callingham in attendance, I suppose,’ I said viciously.
Varvara looked at me with reproach. She obviously felt that I was taking an unfair advantage of the temporary increase in her dependence on me.
The clerk came back. I received the copy of Joseph Ellison’s will with some misgivings. If you have studied law academically you will know why. The student performs a sort of minuet with hard realities like mortgages and executor’s accounts, but contact is seldom established. He can, if he is sufficiently industrious, write reams about them—and particularly about various interesting decisions delivered between 1250 and 1780. But the whole performance takes place in vacuo. He has never mortgaged anything, except unconsciously to the pawnbroker, his practical knowledge of the marshalling of assets is confined to a bland confidence that, if his aunt leaves him money, he will get it. In other words Law only achieves a real meaning in relation to one’s own affairs. The university catches young lawyers too early. I always notice how many people who become successful barristers and solicitors embarked on their careers only after they had a grasp of the raw material of their profession.
Fortunately Joseph Ellison’s will happened to be simple. He had made a few smallish legacies to servants etc., and a single large one whereby all his shares in Ellison, Dyer Ltd. were to go to his son Cedric Walter Ellison absolutely. As to the residue, he gave one-quarter to the said Cedric Walter Ellison absolutely and the other three-quarters to his dear wife, Eleanor Louise Ellison for the duration of her life.
The crux was in the gift-over after Mrs. Ellison’s death. That was where the famous Power of Appointment raised its head.
Cedric had been perfectly correct. In non-legal language, the will gave Mrs. Ellison absolute authority to dispose of the capital in which she had a life-interest in such shares as she thought fit among the children of her own marriage or their children by any wife. Even to my inexperienced eye it was clear that no illegitimate child would have the shadow of a claim.
It was a curious will for a man of Joseph Ellison’s acumen to have made. For one thing it ran the risk of attracting unnecessarily heavy death duties; for another it left the bu
rden of distributing the bulk of his vast estate to an elderly woman with only a limited knowledge of affairs.
I think that the explanation may lie in the testator’s ambivalent attitude towards his exiled son. Perhaps he was never happy about his treatment of Fulk. On the other hand it was foreign to his nature to admit himself in the wrong; and in his eyes the good old Victorian disinheriting act was an essential part of any family row. So Fulk could not be given a halfpenny directly. But if his mother, who made no secret of her affection for him, was given the last word, it was unlikely that he would go empty-handed.
Though she stated it too frequently and with too little tact, there was a lot of moral justification for Varvara’s claim that she was entitled to a fair slice of her grandfather’s estate.
The clause ended with a gift in default of appointment. If Mrs. Ellison did not exercise her Power, the money would go to the children of the marriage in equal shares, the offspring of a deceased child taking the parent’s share. This was awkward for Cedric. Prima facie Varvara would share in the distribution. If he wanted to exclude her he would have to adopt the not-very-savoury procedure of instigating an action to bastardize his own niece. No, from Cedric’s viewpoint there was everything to be said for keeping up the pressure on his mother.
As we went out into the Strand, Varvara said: ‘I have thought. Why should you not come to lunch as well?’
‘I don’t want to disturb your tender tête-à-tête.’
‘Do not be bestial,’ said Varvara. ‘Otherwise I shall be compelled to withdraw my favours.’
I could not help laughing.
‘You filthy little blackmailer! All right, where are you meeting Andrew?’
‘Near here. At a place called Simpson’s.’
I ground my teeth quietly.
Andrew was waiting in the cocktail-lounge on the first floor. When I was in crowded hotels or restaurants I always had to signal wildly for five minutes in order to attract a waiter, but he simply lifted one finger in a fatigued way and instantly a man was at our table.
‘I hope you don’t mind me tacking myself on,’ I said.
‘I’m always delighted to see you, David.’
To my inflamed ears there was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. But obviously it was lost on Varvara; I could see her mentally contrasting my churlishness with Andrew’s sunny charity.
‘And what have you two been doing with yourselves?’
If it had been left to me I should have made some evasive answer; assuming that Varvara would not want to publicize her family feuds. But she jumped in ahead of me without a trace of inhibition.
‘We have been looking at my grandfather’s will. Under it there is a great fortune owing to me, but my uncle wishes to cheat me out of it.’
‘Nothing is owing to you,’ I said, not from pedantry, but because I thought it was important to get the fact straight in her mind.
After that, of course, we had to tell Andrew the whole story. On reflection I was not sorry, for I had begun to feel my responsibility as Varvara’s only adviser. Besides, Andrew was extremely shrewd for his years.
In another mistaken effort to spare her feelings, I tried to skate lightly over the issue of legitimacy. But I need not have been so delicate.
‘Have I the air of a bastard?’ she demanded, glaring at the waiter who was bringing our soup.
As I expected, Andrew’s comments were to the point.
‘I don’t see that there’s much to be done, except pray that Mrs. Ellison holds out.’
‘Do you think it would be wise for Varvara to try to force some kind of a showdown?’
He shook his head.
‘If you once enter a shouting-match you have to accept that the prize will be given for the loudest shouting and not for any of your other merits. She should avoid putting herself on a par with her uncle.’
I agreed; but at the same time I foresaw that it was going to be very difficult to restrain Varvara if Cedric’s campaign continued much longer.
‘This Cedric chap has a pretty queer name,’ said Andrew unexpectedly.
‘I didn’t realize you knew anything about him.’
‘Of course he does,’ said Varvara. ‘Andrew will know about your family too, and whether any of them has some money and good lineage.’
It was one of the few occasions when I saw Andrew blush. He went back hastily to the main topic.
‘My father’s had a few dealings with him. Not more than he can help.’
‘I suppose he’s pretty crooked in business.’
‘The old man can look after himself,’ said Andrew. ‘What he complained of was that Ellison made him feel so damned uncomfortable. Besides he’s a terrific nagger and worrier. He’ll ring up twenty times a day about some footling detail.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked, disappointed.
‘Not quite,’ said Andrew. I saw him glance at Varvara and hesitate. ‘Well . . . I suppose we may as well broaden the little snowdrop’s mind. It’s the only thing about her that needs it.’ (This was obviously revenge for the remark about his habits of social inquiry.) ‘Seven or eight years ago Ellison nearly landed himself in bad trouble. A girl died after an illegal operation, and the evidence pointed pretty clearly at him as the person who’d procured and paid for it. At the inquest the coroner threatened him with a prosecution for perjury.’
‘Did anything happen to him?’ asked Varvara.
‘No. They couldn’t pin the charge. But something will happen one day. I don’t go in for gipsy-gipsy stuff, but there’s one way I’m psychic: I know a natural-born happenee.’
‘Andrew,’ said Varvara, ‘you please me very much.’
Without any rudeness it was made quite clear that my invitation did not extend beyond the door of Simpson’s. I went back to Aynho Terrace by bus, teasing myself the whole way with images of Varvara, statuesque and desirable, being fitted and suavely leered at by Andrew.
Before I had even rung the bell I knew that something was wrong inside. The sound of angry voices percolated through the closed door. It was opened, too, with unusual promptitude, the reason being that Turpin was just inside and was probably glad of anything which might divert the storm of abuse which had broken about his head. Cedric marched up and down snarling out the threats.
‘You’re going to have quite a lot to explain, my man. I shall be surprised if you can get the police to believe that solid objects dissolve into thin air.’
‘Now, look here, Mr. Cedric,’ replied Turpin calmly (though it struck me that he was looking rather worried), ‘twenty-two years I’ve been in this ’ouse. If I wanted to steal, ’ow many times d’you think I could ’ave found something better than a dirty old writing-case? Of course, if you tell me it was stuffed with jewels, that’s different . . .’
Apparently Cedric did not feel competent to tell him anything of the sort. His attitude became perceptibly more reasonable.
‘But where the hell can it have gone? I wasn’t in the cloakroom more than three minutes. . . . You say that you went through to the study?’
‘To close the window in case it rains,’ said Turpin so speciously that I knew he was lying.
Fortunately the same crassness which made his own conduct so transparent often blinded Cedric to the obvious in other people.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s most mysterious, most disquieting. If the thing turns up, you’re to let me know immediately. . . . Oh, and one other point, Turpin, I don’t on any account want Mrs. Ellison worried by the business. There’s nothing that would upset her more than the thought that things were inexplicably disappearing. You understand?’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Turpin, giving me a surreptitious wink.
Cedric seemed to become aware of my presence for the first time.
‘Lost something,’ he said brusquely and superfluously. ‘Bit on edge today. It’s this damned thunder in the air.’
He went out of the door, almost at a run.
‘Ah,’ said Turpin, bringing
out his old favourite. ‘ “ ’E nothing common did nor mean, Upon that memorable scene—” I don’t bloody think!’
‘Has he gone bats?’
With a mixture of relish and apprehension, Turpin described the events which had preceded my arrival. Cedric had touched them off by his own malice. He had the idea that butlers should be made to jump around for their money. Often when he had been paying a visit to Aynho Terrace he would ring the bell for Turpin simply in order that the latter might open the front door to let him out. This imbecile bit of feudalism was of course heartily resented. On this particular afternoon Cedric decided to sharpen the pinprick by keeping Turpin hanging about for an additional five minutes. So he went off to the downstairs lavatory to wash his hands. Whilst he was away Turpin’s attention was caught by his luggage. As usual, when he was going to or coming from his office he had a big portfolio, but today it was accompanied by a much smaller and shabbier article—an old-fashioned writing-case covered in green leather. He looked at it the more closely because he had an impression that it had been placed between the portfolio and the wall for partial concealment. Moreover it appeared vaguely familiar. After a few moments he remembered where he had seen it before; several times when he brought up tea to the boudoir he had noticed it lying on Mrs. Ellison’s desk and once he had seen her locking it away in her safe. It may have been this last observation or pure intuition which suddenly filled him with a deep stubborn certainty that the green case was not a thing which Mrs. Ellison would ever knowingly entrust to her son. Before he could think himself into caution he had acted.
‘What did you do?’ I asked.
‘Took my ruddy future in my ’ands,’ replied Turpin.
He had picked up the case and hidden it.
‘Where?’
Smirking proudly, he led me to the back of the hall where there was a radiator enclosed in a mahogany box. He undid a latch and the box opened, showing the writing-case nestling under the pipes. I took it out and looked at it curiously.
‘It’s going to be awkward if by any chance she did mean him to have it.’