Weekend at Thrackley

by Alan Melville

  “What’s the matter, Jim?” cried Mary Carson. “Want to have a look at the car? It’s a beauty.”

  And at that moment Jim remembered. Remembered a certain morning many years ago, when he and another bright spirit had lathered the chair at the desk where Mr. James Lockhart, M.A., usually sat. Lathered it well and truly with a plentiful supply of soft soap. He remembered, too, that the behinds of himself and of that kindred spirit had been lathered just as efficiently in return. But not with soft soap.

  “Ronnie Hempson!” he said.

  And the man called Burroughs leapt back from the car he was examining, and the spanner which he held in his hand fell with a crash on the floor of the garage.

  XIII

  “Beg pardon, sir?” said the man called Burroughs.

  Jim looked at him. The same thin face, the same jet-black hair and eyelashes, the same slightly hollowed cheeks beneath the high cheek-bones. But the chauffeur had picked up his spanner and was looking at him now without the slightest recognition.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jim. “Your face reminded me of someone I used to know.”

  “I used to drive a taxi in London, sir,” said the chauffeur. “Maybe you were a fare of mine once.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jim. “There was one delightful fellow who put me safely to bye-bye after a rather hectic night at a Three Arts Ball. D’you think that might have been you?”

  “Couldn’t say, sir.” The chauffeur leaned back over the engine of the car, and then turned his head round to Jim. “Difficult kind of thing to remember, sir,” he said. “I was always seeing young gentlemen home to bed.”

  And the man called Burroughs gave an almost imperceptible flicker of his right eyelid. Almost imperceptible, but a perfectly good wink all the same.

  “Come on, Jim,” said Mary Carson. “I’m sure it’s past lunch time. I’m simply ravenous.” And at that precise moment Jacobson the butler lifted the padded drumstick and dealt a hefty blow on the huge brass gong which hung in the hall of Thrackley. Lunch was the only meal at which the gong was used, for then the guests were scattered all over the place (the Bramptons sprawling over the lounge sofas, Raoul in her bedroom varnishing her finger-nails, Jim and Mary out in the garage, Freddie Usher linked to Edwin Carson’s arm and hearing all about the peculiar grouping of the crown jewels of Abyssinia) and no casual intimation that lunch was served would have had the slightest effect. So Jacobson dealt another blow at the gong, and another, and a fourth for luck, and disappeared to the kitchen with the feeling that if that didn’t fetch them nothing would, and to hell with them, anyway. And the Bramptons placed their markers in their books, and stretched themselves, and reached the dining-room a clear two minutes before anyone else, and whiled away those minutes by breaking their bread rolls and making rather shapeless ducks out of their serviettes. And Raoul gave a last rub to her finger-nails, and pulled her hair back to its usual anchorage behind her ears, and sailed from the room and down the stairs and hoped devoutly that the repulsive Mr. Carson would not paw at her under the tablecloth at this meal as he had done at the others. And Jim and Mary dashed to their bedrooms, and brushed their hair and washed their faces and put on dry stockings in place of those which had been soaked by their walk, and arrived at the table slightly out of breath and just in time for the soup. And the repulsive Mr. Carson broke off in mid-sentence (just when he had reached the point of his argument about the weight of the three centre diamonds in the Emperor’s crown) and said: “Ah, lunch, my dear Usher. Come along now, and you shall sit next to me so that we can continue our little talk.” And Freddie Usher said, “My God!” and reached the lunch-table in a very bad temper.

  But by the time the chicken and French salad had arrived, Edwin Carson had forgotten all about Freddie and the Emperor, and had transferred all his attentions to Raoul. He hoped that the rest of the company would help themselves, and then he showered Raoul with peppers and salts and mustards and salad creams and second glasses of the excellent white wine and sauces and sugar and cream and a cigarette. And when Raoul’s hand slipped under the table, he sent his own down to keep it company, and after a little fumbling his fingers touched it and he squeezed it very slightly. And Raoul looked up over the rim of her wineglass and smiled at him as only Raoul (fortunately, perhaps) can smile. Nice girl, he thought. Exceptionally nice girl. Most unfortunate that she had to return for this matinée of hers on Monday… now why could not this indisposition be continued for a little while? Charming to have her here alone after the others had gone… he might even tell Mary to take a few days’ holiday in town, and be left quite alone with Raoul. The thought of it made him squeeze a little harder than before, and Raoul slid her hand discreetly away from his. But she smiled again… with her eyes as well as her mouth… Beautiful eyes… oh, yes, a remarkably nice girl. Must see if it couldn’t be arranged.

  Jim was in the middle of a very light and airy pineapple soufflé when the door opened and Jacobson appeared. At the head of the table, Edwin Carson managed to take his eyes from Raoul’s shoulders and to snap out a “Well, Jacobson?”

  “A telegram, sir,” said the butler. “For Mr. Henderson.”

  Jim stopped his spoonful of soufflé half-way on its journey to his mouth and said: “For me?” Now, who on earth, he wondered, could be sending him a telegram? A month or so earlier, perhaps, and he could have understood it; but now the Derby was over and the Irish Sweep had been won by some wretched employee in a tinned fruit store in Massachusetts, U.S.A. Was it Mrs. Bertram, then?… having read in four of her morning papers that cold and showery weather was expected in all parts, and wishing to know if he had packed his extra under-flannels? And then he remembered: Freddie Usher! Freddie, evidently bored with Thrackley, had sent this telegram calling him back to town. Of course, that was it… great-aunt Maria seriously ill… urgent call to bedside… and Freddie (ever ready to help a friend in trouble) would nobly give up his weekend and drive him back to town. Quite so. But somehow Jim didn’t feel as though he wanted to leave Thrackley in such a hurry. He was beginning to get quite fond of the old place. This morning, for instance, had really been very enjoyable. The blazes with great-aunt Maria, then! He took the telegram from Jacobson and slit the brown envelope open.

  “Congratulations good memory try see me alone this afternoon working in garage all day. Hempson,” he read.

  “Nothing wrong, I hope?” said Edwin Carson.

  “No… nothing, thanks,” said Jim. “I… I had some friends coming to stay with me next week—they said they’d wire me here and tell me what day they were coming.”

  “I see,” said Edwin Carson.

  “Anyone I know?” asked Freddie Usher.

  “The Thompsons. No, I don’t think you know them, Freddie.”

  “Well, well, never mind that.” Edwin Carson did his smiling act, and patted his lips with his serviette. “For a moment I was afraid it was going to be another of my guests summoned back to London. Like poor, dear Lady Stone. And then I should have thought: I am not looking after my guests, and they are getting their friends in town to help them escape from this dull old place and this dull old man.”

  “My dear Mr. Carson,” said Freddie, “what an absurd idea!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Usher, thank you. And now shall we have our coffee out on the veranda? It tastes a great deal better when the flavour of the garden is added to it.”

  And Edwin Carson pushed back his chair and took Raoul’s arm and led his guests out to the painted wooden seats on the veranda of the house. He attended to Raoul’s coffee himself, snatching the cup from Jacobson and leering at her as he added cream and sugar. The others were forgotten; and Edwin Carson turned his back on the Bramptons and asked Raoul what she would like to do this afternoon? To laze, or to walk? Or a run in the new car—the very expensive new car, shining in silver and navy, and guilty of seventy-five miles an hour without raising its voice above its normal purr�
�a run through Surrey, into Kent, with tea somewhere, and home again in the cool of the evening just in time to change for dinner? How did that appeal to Raoul, eh? And Jim Henderson, keeping pace with Marilyn Brampton’s conversation and balancing his tiny coffee cup on his large knee and listening to Edwin Carson’s mutterings—doing all this at the same time, heard that it appealed to Raoul very much. In about three-quarters of an hour, then? Allowing one’s lunch to become thoroughly settled… splendid… he would tell Burroughs to have the car brought round.

  Jim laid his cup on the veranda floor. If old man Carson was taking Raoul into the wide open spaces for the afternoon, that meant that now was his only chance of getting a word with Ronnie Hempson. Alias, of course, Burroughs, the chauffeur. Unless Carson drove the car himself and did not require his chauffeur’s services. He thought it highly probable that Edwin Carson would enjoy his afternoon with Raoul to a much greater extent if their view were unspoiled by the chauffeur occupying the driving seat. Better not to take any chances, though; for if Edwin Carson did not drive the car, then Burroughs and/or Hempson would be ungetatable until late that night.

  “Care for a strenuous single, Freddie?” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Freddie.

  “A nice little game of tennis? Something will have to be done about this corpulence question, you know. It’s really disgusting.”

  “But, my good man,” said Freddie, “tennis—singles tennis, especially—following immediately on a lunch like that is apt to have the most appalling effects on a fellow’s constitution. And as for corpulence—”

  “Shut up, you blithering fool… do what you’re told,” said Jim from the corner of his mouth.

  “Well, perhaps I am getting a little… yes, now that I look at it that way, I’m sure I am,” said Freddie. “Tennis, did you say? What could be sweeter? Remember that time I gave you thirty and beat you six-love, six-one?”

  “Eighteen seventy-two, wasn’t it?” said Jim. “Or was it seventy-three? Anyway, come on and I’ll see if your backhand is still as lousy as ever.”

  “Lead me,” said Freddie, “to the baseline.”

  They left the veranda and entered the lounge.

  “What the blazes,” asked Freddie, “do you mean by dragging me from a comfortable chair to hit a nasty little ball with a nasty little racket?”

  “Idiot. Remember a chap called Ronnie Hempson?”

  “Hempson… I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Come on, man—think, if you can still do such a thing. Ronnie Hempson… can’t you remember a certain match against Oundle when a bloke of that name went in second last man and made seventy odd runs in about twenty minutes?”

  “Good God, yes… Ronnie Hempson!”

  “Light has dawned in the valley of darkness. Shared a study with me in my second last year at school. Gave a celebrated performance as Mad Margaret in the school operatic’s production of Ruddigore. Marred only by the fact that his knickers came down in the finale of the second act. Helped me lather old Lockjaw’s desk, and landed us in for twelve of the best through keeping the packet of soft soap in his desk. A brilliant scholastic career, in fact.”

  “All right, all right. I’ve got him now. Tall, dark specimen.”

  “Had an aunt who sent him cherry cake once a fortnight.”

  “That’s right. Enormously popular chap—once a fortnight. What about him?”

  “He’s here.”

  “Here. At Thrackley?”

  “Under this very roof. His name’s Burroughs, and he’s Edwin Carson’s chauffeur.”

  “Jim, the heat has claimed you as its latest victim. Ronnie Hempson’s name is… let me see, now… yes, Ronnie Hempson. And he left school to go into Sandhurst and probably at this very moment he’s quelling a rebellion and generally helping to keep the old flag flying in some outpost of Empire. Why, then, this babbling of Burroughs and chauffeurs and so on?”

  “Don’t talk, Freddie. It gives you away. Just keep quiet and follow me.”

  They left the house by the French windows which led from one of the side rooms out to the garden. In a minute or so they had reached the garage. The main doors were closed, but a smaller door had been made in them and this stood slightly ajar. Jim pushed it open and stepped into the garage, followed by Freddie. Inside everything was in darkness; there appeared to be no one in the building. The silvered bonnet of the big car could just be noticed shining through the darkness. Jim was about to turn back through the little door when a voice from the back of the garage said: “Shut that door behind you.”

  Jim felt his way to the door and closed it. The Yale lock clicked into its position, and the garage was now in complete darkness. And then another click came from the back of the building, and the lights from three electric bulbs glared down on them. The man called Burroughs stepped out from behind the car. “Well, well, well,” he said. “And who’d have thought of meeting Jim Henderson here?”

  “Hempson… it was you, then.”

  “Me all right.”

  “This is Freddie Usher… remember him at school? He was the same year as us. But we moved in different circles to him, of course. He was in Tower House, poor fellow.”

  “Usher… I remember now. Repulsive little rat, always in a dirty collar, highest score in inter-house matches—four.”

  “That’s the chap. The four were really leg-byes, by the way.”

  “Naturally. How are you, Usher?”

  “A bit bewildered, but otherwise all right.” They shook hands and sat on the running-board of the Lagonda.

  “Now then, Hempson my lad,” said Jim, “we’ve not got much time for reminiscencing on the old days… Carson’s going to get you to bring out the bus in about half an hour. So let’s get down to brass tacks.”

  “In other words,” said Freddie, “what are you doing at Thrackley, and why? Last thing I heard of you was that you had passed seventh out of Sandhurst and were off to Chochin-China or Nijni-Novgorod or some such spot to teach the natives how to form fours.”

  “And now I’m a chauffeur to a crook,” said Ronnie Hempson. “Have a cigarette?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You, Usher?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Careful not to drop the match into that petrol tank. I want to get a chance of explaining things.”

  “There it is safely out, then. Go ahead.”

  “I gave up the army four years ago. You need a good deal of spare cash to enjoy the army, and I hadn’t quite enough. So I turned my undoubted talents to the police force.”

  “You… a bobby?”

  “Mean to say I’ve been going in danger of having my licence suspended through you and your little stop-watch?”

  “For a short while. I was lucky enough to get on fairly well. And at the present time I’m connected—that’s the official way of describing it—to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. Which means that I do what someone at Scotland Yard tells me, and never discuss the matter with old school friends.”

  “Excuse the density,” said Jim, “but from the general look of things I should have said that you were a chauffeur to a country gentleman. Not an attachment to the C.I.D.”

  “I’m a chauffeur, certainly. Not a very good one. But then Carson isn’t a very good gentleman. No… I’m here to watch Mr. Carson. To see that he doesn’t get into any trouble. To get him into further trouble if he does.”

  “How d’you manage to get the job?”

  “You should see the references that the Yard supplied me with. I’d have got a job at Buckingham Palace with them.”

  “And what exactly is your job here? Apart from chauffeuring, I mean?” said Jim.

  “I’ve told you. Keep an eye on Edwin Carson. Do you know anything about your host?”

  “Not very much. He has an excellent wine-cellar, appar
ently, and a very charming daughter, and he dabbles in jewels, I believe. That’s about all.”

  “You’re right about the daughter. Stone cold with the other two, though. He doesn’t dabble… he steals.”

  “Steals? Good Lord!”

  “And he hasn’t a wine-cellar… he has a jewel-cellar.”

  “So his daughter told me this morning.”

  “She did, did she? She didn’t tell you that the reason why Edwin Carson keeps his collection of jewels tucked away in a cellar is that if they were brought out into the open air and shown off to the public, he’d be arrested within an hour?”

  “She certainly didn’t. But then I’ve only known her for about twenty-four hours.”

  “You’ve been doing fairly well in the twenty-four, though,” said Freddie Usher.

  “I can’t help my sex-appeal, can I? But how d’you know all this about Carson? What exactly have you against him?”

  “Nothing definite. But the Yard has had its eye on him for the last two years or so. Before then, so far as is known, Edwin Carson was a perfectly genuine collector of precious stones.”

  “And since then?”

  “Since then… well, the Maharajah of Ralputali discovered a few months ago that the principal stone in a priceless setting of diamonds had been replaced by a marvellously cunning imitation. Three months before, Edwin Carson had been a guest at the Maharajah’s palace in India. When the Countess of Bemersly had to sell all her jewels a short time ago, poor old soul, it was found that the stones in a tiara were practically worthless. A year previous to the sale they’d been valued at a quarter of a million pounds. Six months previous to the sale Edwin Carson stayed at Bemersly Castle for a fortnight’s shooting. And so on.”

  “If that’s all you’re going on,” said Freddie Usher, “I don’t think it’s much.”

  “It’s not all. It—”

  A bell rang shrilly from the back of the garage.

  “That’s Carson. Keep quiet while I’m speaking to him.”