by Ngaio Marsh
“Does he like charades?” asked Roberta.
“I don’t suppose he ever sees any, which is all to the good. We’ll make him feel gay. That’s poor old Gabriel’s trouble. He’s never gay enough.”
There was a tap at the door and Henry looked in.
“I thought you might like a good laugh,” said Henry. “The bum has come up the back stairs and caught poor old Daddy. He’s sitting in the kitchen with Baskett and the maids.”
“Oh no!” said his mother.
“His name is Mr. Gremball,” said Henry.
III
During lunch Lady Charles developed her theory of the way in which Lord Wutherwood — and Rune — was to be received and entertained. The family, with the exception of Henry, entered warmly into the discussion. Henry seemed to be more than usually vague and rather dispirited. Roberta, to her discomfiture, repeatedly caught his eye. Henry stared at her with an expression which she was unable to interpret until it occurred to her that he looked not at but through her. Roberta became less self-conscious and listened more attentively to the rest of the family. With every turn of their preposterous conversation her four years of separation from them seemed to diminish and Roberta felt herself slip, as of old, into an attitude of mind that half accepted the mad logic of their scheming. They discussed the suitability of a charade — Lady Charles and her children with passionate enthusiasm, Lord Charles with an air of critical detachment. Roberta wondered what Lord Charles really felt about the crisis and whether she merely imagined that he wore a faintly troubled air. His face was at no time an expressive one. It was a pale oval face. Shortsighted eyes that looked dimly friendly, a colourless moustache and an oddly youthful mouth added nothing to its distinction, and yet it had distinction of a gentle kind. His voice was pitched rather high and he had a trick of letting his sentences die away while he opened his eyes widely and stroked the top of his head. Roberta realized that though she liked him very much she had not the smallest inkling as to what sort of thoughts went on in his mind. He was an exceedingly remote individual.
“Well anyway,” Frid was saying, “we can but try. Let’s fill him up with sherry and do a charade. How about Lady Godiva? Henry the palfrey, Daddy the horrid husband, one of the twins Peeping Tom, and the rest of you the nice-minded populace.”
“If you think I’m going to curvet round the drawing-room with you sitting on my back in the rude nude—” Henry began.
“Your hair’s not long enough, Frid,” said Patch.
“I didn’t say I’d be Lady Godiva.”
“Well, you can hardly expect Mummy to undress,” said Colin, “and anyway you meant yourself.”
“Don’t be an ass, darling,” said Lady Charles, “of course we can’t do Lady Godiva. Uncle G. would be horrified.”
“He might mistake it for a Witches’ Sabbath,” said Henry, “and think we were making fun of Aunt V.”
“If Frid rode on you, I expect he would,” said Patch.
“Why?” asked Mike. “What do witches ride on, Daddy?”
Lord Charles gave his high-pitched laugh. Henry stared thoughtfully at Patch.
“If that wasn’t rude,” he said, “it would be almost funny.”
“Well, why not do a Witches’ Sabbath?” asked Stephen, “Uncle G. hates Aunt V. being a witch. I daresay it would be a great success. It would show we were on his side. We needn’t make it too obvious, you know. It would be a word charade. Ipswich for instance.”
“How would you do Ips?” asked Colin.
“Patch could waggle hers,” said Henry.
“You are beastly, Henry,” stormed Patch. “It’s foul of you to say I’m fat. Mummy!”
“Never mind, darling, it’s only puppy-fat. I think you’re just right.”
“We could do Dulwich,” said Stephen. “The first syllable could be a week-end at Deepacres. Everybody yawning.”
“That would be really rude,” said his mother seriously.
“It wouldn’t be far wrong,” said Lord Charles.
“I know, Charlie, but it would never do. Don’t let’s get all wild and silly about it. Let’s just think sensibly of a good funny charade. Not too vulgar and not insulting.”
There followed a long silence broken by Frid.
“I know,” Frid cried, “we’ll just be ourselves with bums in the house. It could be a breakfast scene with Baskett coming in to say: ‘A person to see you, m’lord.’ You wouldn’t mind, would you, Baskett?”
With that smile demanded by the infinite courtesy of service, Baskett offered Frid cheese. Roberta wondered suddenly if Baskett thought the Lampreys as funny as she did. Frid hurried on with her plan.
“It really would be a good idea, Mummy. You see, Baskett could bring in the bum, and we could all plead with him and Daddy could say all the things he really wants Uncle G. to hear. Robin could do the bum, she’d look heaven in a bowler and a muffler. It would seem sort of gay and gallant at the same time.”
“What would be the word?” asked Patch.
“Bumptious?”
“The second syllable’s impossible,” Colin objected.
“Bumboat?”
“Too obvious.”
“Well, bumpkin. The second syllable could be about relations. We could actually have Uncle G. in it. Robin could be Uncle G. His coat and hat and umbrella will be in the hall ready to hand. We’d all plead with her and say: ‘Your own kith and kin, Gabriel, dear fellow, your own kith and kin.’ ”
“Yes, that’s all very well,” said Stephen, “but you’ve forgotten the ‘p.’”
“It could be silent as in—”
“That will do, Frid,” said Lord Charles.
CHAPTER IV
UNCLE G
On the morning after her arrival Roberta woke to see a ray of thin London sunshine slanting across the counterpane. A maid in a print dress had drawn the curtains and put a tray on the bedside table. Dream and reality mixed themselves in Roberta’s thoughts. As she grew wide awake she began to count over the wonderful events of the night that was past. In the hour before dawn she had been driven through London. She had seen jets from hose-pipes splayed fanwise over deserted streets, she had heard the jingle of milk-carts and seen the strange silhouette made by roofs and chimney pots against a thinning sky. She had heard Big Ben tell four of a spring morning and the clocks of Chelsea answer him. Before that she had danced in a room so full of shadows, abrupt lights, relentless music, and people, that the memory was as confused as a dream. She had danced with Colin and Stephen and Henry. Colin had played the fool, pretended he was a Russian, and spoken broken English. Stephen with his quick stutter had talked incessantly and complimented Roberta on her dancing. She had danced most often with Henry who was more silent than the twins. He said so little that Roberta in a sudden panic had wondered if he merely danced with her out of a sense of hospitality and regretted the absence of the person called Mary. In those strange surroundings Henry had become remote, a sophisticated grandee with a white waistcoat, and a gardenia in his coat. Yet, when she danced with him, behind all her bewilderment Roberta had been aware of a deep satisfaction. Now, lying still in her bed, she called back the events of the night so potently that though her eyes were still open she had no thought for the sunlight on her counterpane but anxiously examined the picture of herself and Henry. There they were, moving together among a shadowy company of dancers. He did not wait to see if Stephen or Colin would ask her to dance, but himself asked her quickly and danced on until long after the others had gone back to their table. There was a sort of protective decisiveness in his manner that pleased and embarrassed Roberta. Perhaps after all, he was only worried about the financial crisis. “Heaven knows,” thought Roberta, “it’s enough to worry anybody but a Lamprey into a thousand fits.” She realized that the crisis lay like a nasty taste behind the savor of her own enjoyment. It was not discussed during that dazzling evening until they got home. Creeping into the flat in the half light, they found Nanny’s thermos of Ovaltine
and sat drinking it round the heater in Roberta’s room. Henry laughed unexpectedly and said: “Well, chaps, we may not be here much longer.” Frid, very elegant and pale, struck a tragic attitude and said: “The last night in the old home. Pause for sobs.” There was a brief silence broken by Stephen.
“Uncle Gabriel,” Stephen said, “has s-simply g-got to stump up.”
“What if he won’t?” Colin had asked.
“We’ll bribe Aunt V. to bewitch him,” said Frid. She pulled her cloak over her head, crouched down, crooked her fingers and croaked:
“Weary se’nnights nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine.”
The twins instantly turned themselves into witches and circled with Frid round the heater.
“Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.”
“Shut up,” said Henry. “I thought you said it was unlucky to quote ‘Macbeth.’ ”
“If we gave Aunt V. the ingredients for a charm,” said Colin, “I expect she’d be only too pleased to make Uncle G. dwindle, peak and pine.”
“They’re awkward things to beat up in a hurry,” said Frid.
Stephen said: “I wonder what Aunt V.‘s friends d-do about it. It must be rather dull to be witches if you can’t cast murrains on cattle or give your husband warts.”
“I wish,” Roberta cried, “that you’d tell me the truth about your Aunt V. and not go rambling on about her being a witch.”
“Poor Robin,” Henry said. “It does sound very silly, but as an actual fact, if her maid is to be believed, Aunt V. has taken up some sort of black magic. I imagine it boils down to reading histories of witchcraft and turning tables. In my opinion Aunt V. is simply dotty.”
“Well,” Frid said, “let’s go to bed, anyway.” She kissed the air near Roberta’s cheek and drifted to the door. “Come on, twins,” she added.
The twins kissed Roberta and wandered after Frid.
Henry stood in the doorway.
“Sleep well,” he said.
“Thank you, Henry,” said Roberta. “It was a lovely party.”
“For once,” said Henry, “I thought so too. Good night, Robin!”
Roberta, as she watched the sun on her counterpane, reviewed this final scene several times and felt happy.
II
The visit of Lord Wutherwood was prejudiced from the start by the arrival of Lady Katherine Lobe. Lady Katherine was a maiden aunt of Lord Charles. She was extremely poor and lived in a small house at Hammersmith. There she was surrounded by photographs of the Lamprey children to whom she was passionately devoted. Being poor herself, she spent the greater part of her life in working for the still-poorer members of her parish. She wore nondescript garments: hats that seemed to have no connection with her head, and grey fabric gloves. She was extremely deaf and spoke in a toneless whispering manner, with kind smiles, and with many anxious looks into the faces of the people she addressed. But for all her diffidence there was a core of determination in Lady Katherine. In her likes and dislikes she was immovable. Nothing would reconcile her to a person of whom she disapproved, and unfortunately she disapproved most strongly of her nephew Wutherwood, who, for his part, refused to meet her. At Christmas she invariably wrote him a letter on the subject of good-will towards men, pointing out his short-comings under this heading and enclosing a blank promise to pay yearly a large sum to one of her charities. Lord Wutherwood’s only reply to these communications was an irritable tearing across of the enclosures. For his younger brother Lady Katherine had the warmest affection. Occasionally she would travel in a bus up to the West End in order to visit the Lampreys and beg, with a gentle persistence, for their old clothes or force them to buy tickets for charitable entertainments. They were always warned by letter of these visits, but on this occasion Lady Charles, agitated by the crisis, had forgotten to open the note, and the only warning she had was Baskett’s announcement, at six o’clock in the evening, of Lady Katherine’s arrival.
The Lampreys and Roberta had assembled in the drawing-room to await the arrival of Lord Wutherwood. They were unnaturally silent. Even Mike had caught the feeling of tension. He stood by the wireless and turned the control knob as rapidly as possible until told to stop, when he flung himself moodily full length on the hearthrug and kicked his feet together.
“There’s the lift,” cried Lady Charles suddenly. “Mike, stay where you are and jump up. Remember to shake hands with Uncle Gabriel. Sprinkle some ‘sirs’ through your conversation, for heaven’s sake, and when I nod to you you are to give him the pot.”
“Mike’ll break it,” said Patch.
“I won’t,” shouted Mike indignantly.
“And remember,” continued his mother, “if I suggest a charade you’re all to go out and come back quietly and do one. Then, when you’ve finished, go out again so that Daddy can talk to Uncle Gabriel. And remember—”
“Can’t we listen?” asked Patch.
“We’ll probably hear Uncle G. all over the flat,” said Henry.
“And remember not to mention witchcraft. Uncle G. hates it.”
“Ssh!”
“Can’t we be talking?” Frid suggested. “You’d think there was a corpse in the flat.”
“If you can think of anything to say, say it,” said her father gloomily.
Frid began to speak in a high voice. “Aren’t those flowers over there too marvellous?” she asked. Nobody answered her. In the distance a bell rang. Baskett was heard to walk across the hall.
“Lovely, darling,” said Lady Charles violently. She appealed mutely to the children who stared in apprehension at the door and grimaced at each other. Lady Charles turned to Roberta.
“Robin, darling, do tell us about your voyage Home. Did you have fun?”
“Yes,” said Roberta, whose heart was now thumping against her ribs. “Yes. We had a fancy-dress ball.”
Lady Charles and Frid laughed musically. The door opened and Baskett came in.
“Lady Katherine Lobe, m’lady,” said Baskett.
“Good God!” said Lord Charles.
Lady Katherine came in. She walked with short steps and peered amiably through the cigarette smoke.
“Imogen, darling,” she whispered.
“Aunt Kit!”
The Lampreys kept their heads admirably. They told Lady Katherine how delighted they were to see her and seated her by the fire. They introduced Roberta to her, teased her gently about her lame ducks and, with panic-stricken glances at each other, asked her to remove her raincoat.
“So nice to see you all,” whispered Lady Katherine. “Such luck for me to find the whole family. And there’s Michael home for the holidays and grown enormously. Patricia too. And the twins. Don’t speak, twins, and let me see if I can guess. This is Stephen, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Aunt Kit,” said Colin.
“There! I knew I was right. You got my note, Imogen darling?”
“Yes, Aunt Kit. We’re so pleased,” said Charlot.
“Yes I wondered if you had got it because you all looked quite surprised when I walked in. So I wondered.”
“We thought you were Uncle Gabriel,” shouted Mike.
“What, dear?”
“Uncle Gabriel.”
Lady Katherine passed a grey-fabric finger across her lips. “Is Gabriel coming, Charles?”
“Yes, Aunt Kit,” said Lord Charles. And as she merely gazed dimly at him he added loudly: “He’s coming to see me on business.”
“We’re going to have some charades,” bawled Mike.
“I’m very glad,” said Lady Katherine emphatically. “I wish to see Gabriel. I have written to him several times but no response did I get. It’s about our Fresh Air Fund. A day in the country for a hundred children and a fortnight in private homes for twenty sickly mites. I want Gabriel to take six.”
“Six sickly mites?” asked Henry.
“What, dear?”
“Do you want Uncle Gabriel to take
six sickly mites at Deepacres?”
“It’s the least he can do. I’m afraid Gabriel is inclined to be too self-centred, Charles. He’s a very wealthy man and he should think of other people more than he does. Your mama always said so. And I hear the most disquieting news of Violet. It appears that she has taken up spiritualism and sits in the dark with a set of very second-rate sort of people.”
“Not spiritualism, darling,” said Charlot. “Black magic.”
“What, dear?”
“Magic.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. That’s entirely different. I suppose she does it to entertain their house-parties. But that doesn’t alter the fact that both Violet and Gabriel are getting rather self-centred. It would be an excellent thing for both of them if they adopted two children.”
“For mercy’s sake, Aunt Kit,” cried Charlot, “don’t suggest that to Gabriel.”
“Don’t suggest anything,” said Lord Charles. “I implore you, Aunt Kit, not to tackle Gabriel this afternoon. You see—” he peered anxiously at his watch and broke off. “Good God, Immy,” he whispered to his wife, “we must do something. She’ll infuriate him. Take her to your room.”
“Under what pretext?” muttered Charlot.
“Think of something.”
“Aunt Kit, would you like to see my bedroom?”
“What, dear?”
“It’s no good, Mummy,” said Frid. “Better tell her we’re bust.”
“I think so,” said Lord Charles. He bent his legs and brought his face close to his aunt’s.
“Aunt Kit,” he shouted, “I’m in difficulties.”
“Are you, dear?”
“I’ve no money.”
“What?”
“There’s a bum in the house,” yelled Patch.