Death of a Peer ra-10

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Hullo, darling,” cried the Lampreys.

  “Did you like our haka?” asked Frid. “I wanted us to wear Maori mats and be painted brown but Henry wanted to be bearded so we compromised. It’s such fun you’ve come.”

  “Tell me,” said Henry solemnly, “What do you think of dear old England?”

  “Did you have a nice voyage?” asked Frid anxiously.

  “Were you sick?”

  “Shall we go now?”

  “Or do you want to kiss the Captain?”

  “Come on,” said Frid. “Let’s go. Henry says we’ve got to bribe the customs so that they’ll take you first.”

  “Do be quiet, Frid,” said Henry, “it’s all a secret and you don’t call it a bribe. Have you got any money, Robin? I’m afraid we haven’t.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Roberta. “How much?”

  “Ten bob. I’ll do it. It doesn’t matter so much if I’m arrested.”

  “You’d better take off your beard,” said Frid.

  The rest of the morning was a dream. There was a long wait in the customs shed where Roberta kept remeeting all the passengers to whom she had said good-bye. There was a trundling of luggage to a large car where a chauffeur waited. Roberta instantly felt apologetic about the size of her cabin trunk. She found it quite impossible to readjust herself to these rapidly changing events. She was only vaguely aware of a broad and slovenly street, of buildings that seemed incredibly drab, of ever-increasing traffic. When Henry and Frid told her that this was the East End and murmured about Limehouse and Poplar, Roberta was only vaguely disappointed that the places were so much less romantic than their associations, that the squalor held no suggestion of illicit glamour, that the Road — looked so precisely like its name. When they came into the City and Henry and Frid pointed uncertainly to the Mansion House or suggested she should look at the dome of St. Paul’s, Roberta obediently stared out of the windows but nothing that she saw seemed real. It was as if she lay on an unfamiliar beach and breaker after breaker rolled over her head. The noise of London bemused her more than the noise of the sea. Her mind was limp; she heard herself talking and wondered at the coherence of the sentence.

  “Here’s Fleet Street,” said Henry. “Do you remember ‘Up the Hill of Ludgate, down the Hill of Fleet’?”

  “Yes,” murmured Roberta, “yes. Fleet Street.”

  “We’ve miles to go still,” said Frid. “Robin, did you know I am going to be an actress?”

  “She might have guessed,” said Henry, “by the way you walk. Did you notice her walk, Robin? She sort of paws the ground. When she comes into the room she shuts the door behind her and leans against it.”

  Frid grinned. “I do it beautifully,” she said. “It’s second nature to me.”

  “She goes to a frightful place inhabited by young men in mufflers who run their hands through their hair and tell Frid she’s marvellous.”

  “It’s a dramatic school,” Frid explained. “The young men are very intelligent. All of them say I’m going to be a good actress.”

  “We’ll be passing the law courts in a minute,” said Henry.

  Scarlet omnibuses sailed past like ships. Inside them were pale people who looked at once alert, tired and preoccupied. In a traffic jam a dark blue car came so close alongside that the men in the back seat were only a few inches away from Roberta and the Lampreys.

  “That’s one of the new police cars, Frid,” said Henry.

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, I know it is. I expect those enormous men are Big Fours.”

  “I wish they’d move on,” said Frid. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we fell into their hands one of these days.”

  “Why?” asked Roberta.

  “Well, the twins were saying at breakfast yesterday that they thought the only thing to be done was for them to turn crooks and be another lot of Mayfair boys.”

  “It was rather a good idea, really,” said Henry. “You see Colin said he’d steal incredibly rich dowager’s jewels and Stephen would establish his alibi at the Ritz or somewhere. Nobody can tell them apart, you know.”

  “And then, you know,” added Frid, “if one of them was arrested they’d each say it was the other and as one of them must be innocent they’d have to let both of them go.”

  “From which,” said Henry, “you will have gathered we are in the midst of a financial crisis.”

  Roberta started at the sound of that familiar phrase.

  “Oh, no!” she said.

  “Oh, yes,” said Henry, “and what’s more it’s a snorter. Everybody seems to be furious with us.”

  “Mummy’s going to pop the pearls this afternoon,” added Frid, “on her way to the manicurist.”

  “She’s never done that before,” said Henry. “This is the Strand, Robin. That church is either St. Clement Dane or St. Mary-le-Strand and the next one is whatever that one isn’t. We’d better explain about the crisis, I suppose.”

  “I wish you would,” said Roberta. In her bemused condition the Lampreys’ affairs struck a friendly and recognizable note. She could think sharply about their debts but she could scarcely so much as gape at the London she had greatly longed to see. It was as if her powers of receptivity were half-anesthetized and would respond only to familiar impressions. She listened attentively to a long recital of how Lord Charles had invested a great deal of the money he still mysteriously possessed in something called San Domingoes and how it had almost immediately disappeared. She heard of a strange venture in which Lord Charles had planned to open a jewellery business in the City, run on some sort of commission basis, with Henry and the twins as salesmen. “And at least,” said Frid, “there would have been Mummy’s things that she got out of pawn when Cousin Ruth died. It would have been better to sell than to pop them, don’t you think?” This project, it appeared, had depended on somebody called Sir David Stein who had recently committed suicide, leaving Lord Charles with an empty office and a ten years’ lease on his hands.

  “And so now,” said Henry, “we appear to be sunk. That’s Charing Cross Station. We thought we would take you to a play to-night, Robin.”

  “And we can dance afterwards,” said Frid. “Colin’s in love with a girl in the play so I expect he’ll want her to come whizzing on with us which is rather a bore. Have you asked Mary to come, Henry?”

  “No,” said Henry. “We’ve only got five seats and the twins both want to come and anyway I want to dance with Robin, and Colin’s actress isn’t coming.”

  “Well, Stephen could take Mary off your hands.”

  “He doesn’t like her.”

  “Mary is Henry’s girl,” explained Frid. “Only vaguely, though.”

  “Well, she’s quite nice really,” said Henry.

  “Charming, darling,” said Frid handsomely.

  Roberta suddenly felt rather desolate. She stared out of the window and only half-listened to Henry who seemed to think he ought to point out places of interest.

  ‘This is Trafalgar Square,“ said Henry. ”Isn’t that thing in the middle too monstrous? Lions, you see, at each corner, but of course you’ve met them in photographs.”

  “That building over there is the Tate Gallery,” said Frid.

  “She means the National Gallery, Robin. I suppose you will want to see one or two sights, won’t you?”

  “Well, I suppose I ought to.”

  “Patch and Mike are at home for the holidays,” said Frid. “It will be good for them to take Robin to some sights.”

  “Perhaps I could look some out for myself,” Roberta suggested with diffidence.

  “You’ll find it difficult to begin,” Henry told her. “There’s something so cold-blooded about girding up your loins and going out to find a sight. I’ll come to one occasionally if you like. It may not be so bad once the plunge is taken. We are getting a very public-spirited family, Robin. The twins and I are territorials. I can’t tell you how much we dislike it but we stiffened our upper lips and bit on t
he bullets and when the war comes we know what we have to do. In the meantime, of course, I’ve got to get a job, now we’re sunk.”

  “We’re not definitely sunk until Uncle G. has spoken,” Frid pointed out.

  “Uncle G.!” Robin exclaimed. “I’d almost forgotten about him. He’s always sounded like a myth.”

  “It’s to be hoped he doesn’t behave like one,” said Henry. ”He’s coming to see us to-morrow. Daddy has sent him an SOS. I can’t tell you how awful he is.”

  “Aunt V. is worse,” said Frid gloomily. “Let’s face it, Aunt V. is worse. And they’re both coming in order to go into a huddle with Daddy and Mummy about finance. We hope to sting Uncle G. for two thousand.”

  “It’ll all come to Daddy when they’re dead, you see, Robin. They’ve no young of their own.”

  “I thought,” said Roberta, “that they were separated.”

  “Oh, they’re always flying apart and coming together again,” said Frid. “They’re together at the moment. Aunt V. has taken up witchcraft.”

  “What!”

  “Witchcraft,” said Henry. “It’s quite true. She’s a witch. She belongs to a little black-magic club somewhere.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “You may as well, because it’s true. She started by taking up with a clergyman in Devon who has discovered an evil place on Dartmoor. It seems that he told Aunt V. that he thought he might as well sprinkle some holy water on this evil place but when he went there the holy water was dashed out of his hands by an unseen power. He lent Aunt V. some books about black magic and instead of being horrified she took the wrong turning and thought it sounded fun. I understand she goes to the black mass and everything.”

  “How can you possibly know?”

  “Her maid, Miss Tinkerton, told Nanny. Tinkerton says Aunt V. is far gone in black magic. They have meetings at Deepacres. The real Deepacres, you know, in Kent. Aunt V. is always buying books about witchcraft and she’s got a lot of very queer friends. They’ve all got names like Olga and Sonia and Boris. Aunt V. is half-Roumanian, you know,” said Frid.

  “Half-Hungarian, you mean,” corrected Henry.

  “Well, all Central European anyway. Her name isn’t Violet at all.”

  “What is it?” asked Roberta.

  “Something Uncle G. could neither spell nor pronounce so he called her Violet. A thousand years ago he picked her up in Budapest at an embassy. She’s a very sinister sort of woman and quite insane. Probably the witchcraft is a throwback to a gypsy ancestress of sorts. Of course Uncle G.‘s simply furious about it, not being a warlock.”

  “Naturally,” said Frid. “I suppose he’s afraid she might put a spell on him.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Henry. “She’s a really evil old thing. She gives me absolute horrors. She’s like a white toad. I’ll bet you anything you like that under her clothes she’s all cold and damp.”

  “Shut up,” said Frid. “All the same I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. Henry, do let’s stop somewhere and have breakfast. I’m ravenous and I’m sure Robin must be.”

  “It’ll have to be Angelo’s,” said Henry. “He’ll let us chalk it up.”

  “I’ve got some money,” said Roberta rather shyly.

  “No, no!” cried Frid. “Angelo’s much too dear to pay cash. We’ll put it down to Henry’s account and I’ve got enough for a tip, I think.”

  “It may not be open,” said Henry. “What’s the time? The day seems all peculiar with this early start. Look, Robin, we’re coming into Piccadilly Circus.”

  Roberta stared past the chauffeur and, through the windscreen of the car, she had her first sight of Eros.

  In the thoughts of those who have never visited them all great cities are represented by symbols: New York by a skyline, Paris by a river and an arch, Vienna by a river and a song, Berlin by a single street. But to British colonials the symbol of London is more homely than any of these. It is a small figure perched slantways above a roundabout, an elegant, Victorian god with a Grecian name — Eros of Piccadilly Circus. When they come to London, colonials orientate themselves by Piccadilly Circus. All their adventures start from there. It is under the bow of Eros that to many a colonial has come that first warmth of realization that says to him: “This is London.” It is here at the place which he learns, with a rare touch of insolence, to call the hub of the universe that the colonial wakes from the trance of arrival finds his feet on London paving stones, and is suddenly happy.

  So it was for Roberta. From the Lampreys’ car she saw the roundabout of Piccadilly, the great sailing buses, the sea of faces, the traffic of the Circus, and she felt a kind of realization stir in her heart.

  “It’s not so very big,” said Roberta.

  “Quite small, really,” said Henry.

  “I don’t mean it’s not thrilling,” said Roberta. “It is. I–I feel as if I’d like to be — sort of inside it.”

  “I know,” agreed Henry. “Let’s nip out, Frid, and walk round the corner to Angelo’s.”

  He said to the chauffeur: “Pick us up in twenty minutes, will you, Mayling?”

  “Here’s a jam,” said Frid. “Now’s our chance. Come on.”

  Henry opened the door and took Roberta’s hand. She scrambled out. The voyage, the ship, and the sea all slid away into remoteness. A new experience took Roberta and the sounds that are London engulfed her.

  CHAPTER III

  PREPARATION FOR A CHARADE

  The Lampreys lived in two flats which occupied the entire top story of a building known as Pleasaunce Court Mansions. Pleasaunce Court is merely a short street connecting Cadogan Square with Lennox Gardens and the block of flats stands on the corner. To Roberta the outside seemed forbidding but the entrance hall had lately been redecorated and was more friendly. Pale green walls, a thick carpet, heavy armchairs and an enormous fire gave an impression of light and luxury. The firelight flickered on the chromium steel of a lift-cage in the centre of the hall and on a slotted framework that held the names of the flat owners. Roberta read the top one: No. 25 & 26. LORD AND LADY CHARLES LAMPREY. IN. Henry followed her gaze, crossed quickly to the board and moved a chromium-steel tab.

  “LORD AND LADY CHARLES LAMPREY. OUT, I fancy,” muttered Henry.

  “Oh, are they!” cried Roberta. “Are they away?”

  “No,” said Henry. “Ssh!”

  “Ssh!” said Frid.

  They moved their heads slightly in the direction of the door. A small man wearing a bowler hat stood on the pavement outside and appeared to consult an envelope in his hands. He looked up at the front of the flats and then approached the steps.

  “In to the lift!” Henry muttered and opened the doors. Roberta in a state of extreme bewilderment entered the lift. A porter, heavily smart in a dark green uniform and several medals, came out of an office.

  “Hullo, Stamford,” said Henry. “Good morning to you. Mayling’s got some luggage out there in the car.”

  “I’ll attend to it, sir,” said the porter.

  “Thank you so much,” murmured the Lampreys politely, and Henry added, “His lordship is away this morning, Stamford.”

  “Indeed, sir?” said the porter. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Up we go,” said Henry.

  The porter shut them in, Henry pressed a button and with a metallic sigh the lift took them to the top of the building.

  “Stamford doesn’t work the lift,” explained Henry. “He’s only for show and to look after the service flats downstairs.”

  In three days, photographs of the Pleasaunce Court lift would appear in six illustrated papers and in the files of the criminal-investigation department. It would be lit by flash lamps, sealed, dusted with powder, measured and described. It would be discussed by several million people. It was about to become famous. To Roberta it seemed very smart and she did not notice that, like the entrance hall, it had been modernized. The old liftman’s apparatus, a handle projecting from a cylindric
al casing was still there but above it was a row of buttons with the Lampreys’ floor, the fourth, at the top. They came out on a well-lit landing with two light green doors numbered 25 and 26. Henry pushed No. 25 open and Roberta crossed a threshold into the past. The sensation of Deepacres, of that still-recurrent dream, came upon her so poignantly that she caught her breath. Here was the very scent of Deepacres, of the scented oil Lady Charles burnt in the drawing-room, of Turkish cigarettes, of cut flowers and of moss. The sense of smell works both consciously and subconsciously. About many households is an individual pleasantness of which human noses are only half aware and which is so subtle that it cannot be traced to one source. The Lampreys’ house-smell, while it might suggest burning cedarwood, scented oil and hothouse flowers, was made up of these things and of something more, something that to Roberta seemed the very scent of their characters. It carried her back through four years and while the pleasure of this experience was still new she saw, in the entrance hall, some of their old possessions: a table, a steel-engraving, a green Chinese elephant. It was with the strangest feeling of familiarity that she heard Lady Charles’s voice crying:

  “Is that old Robin Grey?”

  Roberta ran through the doorway into her arms.

  There they all were, in a long white drawing-room with crackling fires at each end and a great gaiety of flowers. Lady Charles, thinner than ever, was not properly up and had bundled herself into a red silk dressing-gown. She wore a net over her grey curls. Her husband stood beside her in his well-remembered morning attitude, a newspaper dangling from his hand, his glass in his eye, and his thin colourless hair brushed across his head. He beamed with pale, myopic eyes at Roberta and inclined his head forward with an obedient air, ready for her kiss. The twins, with shining blond heads and solemn smiles, also kissed her. Patch, an overgrown schoolgirl in a puppy-fat condition, nearly knocked her over, and Mike, eleven years old, looked relieved when Roberta merely shook his hand.