The Satan Sampler

by Victor Canning

  He went to the south transept, under which was the Seyton family vault, on its walls a crowded collection of memorial tablets. Part of the wall close to the entry to the bell tower was covered with old linenfold oak panelling. Above it close to the bell tower door was the memorial stone for Sarah Seyton who had lived joyfully and wickedly and who had written her own memorial which from the time his father had first translated it had touched and still did touch him with sharp sympathy, Quantae sunt tenebrae! vae mihi, vae mihi, vae! Crying out against the great darkness into which she must pass without faith or hope, leaving her beloved life behind. Beneath it was a secret entry which ran from the chapel to the Hall itself; its placing leading to the latter-day doggerel ending . . . He who would enter the Hall unseen must pass by long silent Sarah.

  He turned the two centres of a pair of carved Tudor roses on the panelling which with a slight touch pivoted on its own longitudinal axis to show the beginning of stone steps descending sharply underground, a secret he and Punch had discovered as boys when they had gone up to the old choir gallery at the end of the chapel for a quiet and forbidden smoke one afternoon and had seen their father come in and operate the panel and—since he was that kind of man, hating neglect and disrepair—oil the inner central pivot on which the door swung. Going out he smiled to himself at the long-distant fear which had possessed him that his father might smell their cigarette smoke and find them, and realizing too with present affection how much of his father had been in Punch for the panel this day had swung easily on well-oiled pivots.

  * * * *

  It was a lovely morning, less late March than anticipating April. In the park outside the lawns were polished green enamel and the lake blue from the reflection of the cloudless sky. Young leaf was hazing shrubs and trees and daffodil clumps lay like scattered golden largesse. God was in His heaven, thought Quint, and saying nothing but undoubtedly pondering with some uncertainty about the future of the human race. The railway train drivers had called a three-day strike, road transport drivers were still on strike unofficially but effectively so that petrol—the life blood of a decadent age—was running short at most pumps and had been exhausted at many others. Foodstuffs for man and beast stayed in store and Trade Union leaders in a variety of accents made belligerent or falsely comforting statements which made one wonder at the debasement universal education had brought to the language of Cranmer and Shakespeare—not without help from the Church. God was in His heaven all right, sighed Quint—and why not because he was damned sure that things were run quite differently there.

  Kerslake, earlier summoned, came into the room and put a report before him. It was a report from Georgina detailing how she had made contact with Seyton. It was brief but needed little imagination to see that it might be a fruitful seeding.

  “She got moving quickly,” said Quint.

  “She’s that kind,” answered Kerslake.

  “Do I detect almost a note of admiration?”

  “A little, I suppose, sir.”

  “Generous, considering your abomination of amateurs.”

  “Any of our other girls could have done it.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know they were all artists of talent and plus.”

  “They would have found other ways in, sir.”

  “Which side of the bed did you get out this morning, my dear Kerslake?”

  Kerslake smiled. “Sorry, sir. It’s just that I’ve been thinking professionally and a bit beyond. Which you encourage me to do from time to time.”

  “And it has the same effect as getting out of bed the wrong side? Interesting. Perhaps you’d care to enlarge? And while you do you have my permission to sit down. But not on the window seat. I am enjoying the morning and pretending that God’s in His heaven and all’s well with the world. A rare fantasy.”

  “In the past,” said Kerslake, sitting himself on an uncomfortable bentwood chair by the filing cabinet, “you have allowed me some liberties. Even encouraged them from time to time.”

  “True. And interesting, too, that whenever they come you always fall into a very stilted style of speaking. Just relax and be the Kerslake I know. I am more comfortable surrounded by well-known and familiar things—a shade tautological, but it will serve. It is a pity that it is too early for a glass of sherry, but coffee will be along soon. Now then, let me have the benefit of this professional-and-a-bit-beyond thinking.”

  “Well, Miss Collet, at the end of telephoning her report to me of her visit to Seyton Hall, said that after seeing Seyton she had lunch at a local hotel and had a friendly chat with the waitress who served her about Seyton Hall.”

  “Naturally. There’s no restraining a woman’s curiosity and she wasn’t exceeding her brief.”

  “It’s let on a long lease to something called the Felbeck Foundation for——”

  “I know all about that,” interrupted Quint. “Come to the essence.”

  “Local feeling is that now that Richard Seyton has inherited the estate from his brother and isn’t short of a bob or two he will want to have the place back in his own hands, and there’s local talk that he wants to buy out the rest of the lease from the Foundation.”

  “What a wonderful thing is local gossip. It spreads like ground elder. So he wants to buy out the lease?”

  “Presumably. And——” Kerslake paused, knowing that he stood on the lip of over-reaching himself, but then, gambling on Quint’s present mood and rarely spoken respect for him, he went on, “——and local opinion is that the Foundation won’t play ball with that. It’s a long lease. They’ve spent a lot of money setting up their show there. The betting is they will say it’s a no deal to Seyton.”

  “Well, that would be logical and human. They’ve made their little nest there and, presumably, it’s a perfectly valid lease. Seyton will just have to wait until it runs out.”

  Kerslake shook his head. “That’s not what the locals think. Crudely, the feeling up there is that there’ll be bloody fireworks if Seyton doesn’t get what he wants. He’s that kind. In fact all the Seytons have been that kind. One way or another he will get his way—is the local feeling.”

  “You can’t break a perfectly valid lease. You can only buy it back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quint shrugged his shoulders. “So that’s that.”

  “One would assume so. But in that case—that he must just sit and wait for the lease to run out—I don’t quite see how we can have any interest in him. Or am I being naive?”

  For a moment or two Quint was silent, remembering the time years before when he had first met Kerslake, then a raw young police officer in his native town of Barnstaple, and with an eye for raw potential to feed the Birdcage service had—with little trouble for Kerslake knew his own worth and ambitions—seduced, enticed or with only the slightest of pushes steered him Londonwards to join the happy family whose history—could it ever have been written and exposed—would have, not paralleled, but overtopped that of the Borgias. He said, “If I stated that you were well beyond naivety—what conclusion would you draw? No guff—give it to me straight.”

  “I think, sir, that—no matter which way our interest is—there is a way to break the lease, and that either we want it to remain hidden or—not yet knowing what it is—would like to know so that we have a card in hand which we shall be able to play either way.”

  Quint shook his head, and chuckled. “Oh dear! Oh dear! Kerslake—you have grown up. I think we’ll disregard the coming of the coffee and have a glass of sherry. Perhaps you would do the honours?”

  Kerslake stood and went to the cupboard and, for the little while that his back was to him, Quint’s face sagged to a momentary premature ageing. You picked and trained them, saw them through their first real crisis—when they were Kerslake’s mettle—doubtful (because all human nature was unpredictable) whether the finger trigger would work or not. And then, blooded, intelligent, aye, and ambitious for that followed as the day the night, their mettle first matched and then, God
help us, over-matched your own.

  Taking the sherry glass which Kerslake brought to him, he sipped, sighed and then leaned back and considered the ceiling towards which, after a little pause, he addressed himself aloud.

  “This, Kerslake, is between us. I brought you from the leafy lanes of Devon and simple pastoral delights like nicking shoplifters and the tedium of common rapes and burglaries into this rare haven of loftier iniquities. I am father and you are son, absolute loyalty and love binding us. Understood? Just you and me. No one else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am as much in the dark as you, but I share your views. There probably is a way that lease can be broken. Various things suggest themselves. Probably have already suggested themselves to Seyton. Beyond that I must say that I do not know why there is this interest in the air. But I would like to know. And you, of course, understand that, if you step out of line and are caught, you will go to the wolves without saying a word of what has passed in this room this morning. Naturally?”

  “Yes, sir. Naturally.”

  “Think hard on it. Above me stand Warboys and others, and beyond them—though that is not generally known—Sir Manfred Grandison. You would be a sparrow falling by the wayside, the incident noted, no doubt, by God but not to be averted by any act of His.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Now drink up your sherry and go and leave me alone to brood upon my possible indiscretion.”

  But, when Kerslake had gone, Quint helped himself to another glass of sherry and sipped at it with an easy mind. What there was of honour in this organization was precious to him, possibly because there was so little, a tender, struggling growth, but there and comforting. Without that on what would he exercise his love?

  * * * *

  On the morning of the day when Seyton was invited to meet the Governors of the Felbeck Foundation for drinks, he received from his London office a list of the eight people who would be voting about the lease on the Hall with some brief notes—made by Figgins from sources which so far in his business life had never let him down. Miss Figgins had come a long way since the day she had arrived at the Hall fresh-faced from the winds and weathers of the Black Mountains, capable and resourceful from being the eldest of a family of seven whose head—a widower—wrung, without bitterness, a living for his brood from his small sheep farm in the stubborn hill lands where his sister, a spinster, worked side by side with him with the worth of any man.

  There were two bishops on the list. The first, coloured, was the Right Reverend C. P. Oflapi who was bishop of one of the sees of the Province of West Africa. Figgins had noted—Cheerful, fuddy-duddy on the surface, but politically active and ambitious. The other was a bishop suffragan from a South of England diocese, the Right Reverend Auguste Miller, M.A., of whom Figgins commented—A bit mad, but never misses a chance to get in the news. I guess the madness is put on, but the self-publicity is natural. Feels lonely if he’s ignored.

  Then came two Armed Forces men. The first was Major-General V. Stripert, G.B., M.G., recently retired from NATO, who was designated by Figgins as—Cheerful, smack-you-on-the-backy type, hunting, fishing. Widower which gives him scope for his favourite foible. Not to be treated lightly. Razor sharp professionally. Author of best-seller, Some Generals Who Shouldn’t Have Been. The other warrior was a Rear-Admiral Croft, C.B.E., a onetime Assistant Chief of Naval Staff, now retired, but very active as a fund-raiser on several national charities. Figgins noted—Dishy. Popular. Specializes in youth organizations. Sailed Atlantic single-handed. Stood for Parliament twice—no luck.

  Then came Alfred Stowe, a big-wig in one of the largest industrial unions, a prominent member of the Trades Union Congress, and a member of the Manpower Services Commission. Built like a bull—said Figgins—and acts like one when thwarted. Nest featherer. Would like to end up as a Life Peer—probably will. Skilled at running with hare and hunting with hounds. Clever bugger.

  After Stowe came a John Kingman, O.B.E., who was an Advertising and Public Relations executive. Figgins noted—Kingman you know—top firm in the advertising agency world, and holding the accounts of some of the biggest oil companies going. Loves nothing but horses, and would sell his soul to be owner of a Grand National winner.

  The next was a Sir Arthur Pinke, the Chairman of an international electronics firm, and a member of the Council of the Confederation of British Industries. Figgins was brief—Lives for his job and position, would like a thirty hour day.

  And last of all came a Mrs Delia Parmat, a wealthy widow with a large estate in Hampshire who, according to Figgins—Is fifty, looks years younger. Lives for causes. You name one she’s on it. Blood sports. Women’s rights. Conservation. Keep Britain Tidy. Save the Whale. Widowed at thirty-three. Stayed that way since. I wonder why?

  At the end of all this Figgins had added—The dirt—not much but thought provoking—comes from Helder who billed us a hundred which was ridiculous since he had it all on file. I sent him a cheque for fifty. He can sue for the rest if he feels like it. You won’t be able to win them all but, I hope, enough to get your vote. Put on a clean shirt and turn on the charm.

  After lunch he took Punch’s labrador for a walk along the river. Where a small brook ran into the main stream he came across Georgina Collet sitting on a log sketching. She half turned her head and with a nod and a smile greeted him. The far bank of the brook was heavily undercut by flood and overhung with a tangle of alders and hawthorns, the lattice work of their lower roots exposed.

  She said, “I’ve been watching a pair of dippers. They’re thinking of setting up house somewhere in the roots. But I think she’s being a bit choosy.”

  “Well, it’s a woman’s privilege.” He looked down at the open sketch pad on her knees and was again impressed by her talent. The page was alive with five or six vividly captured impressions of the dippers.

  Unable to see his face, more than normally aware of him, and equally so aware that here was an opportunity to lay perhaps the beginnings of some rapprochement which would serve her well with Birdcage, Georgina suddenly felt lost and momentarily angry with her role. Almost as though she were listening to some stranger speaking she heard herself say, “I wonder? Perhaps he just humours her for a while, but makes the final decision.”

  “Could be.”

  He was standing almost behind her, his face hidden, the labrador at his feet, and she knew that she was lost for she had no idea how to take the opportunity further. She felt suddenly like an embarrassed schoolgirl in the presence of someone for whom she had a secret yen. Snatching at straws she said, with, it seemed to her, little conviction in her voice, “May I say again, Mr Seyton, how grateful I am to you for being so kind to me?”

  “It was nothing. Anyway, there are plenty of places up and down the river free to the public where you could have gone. Though I suppose you’d have had people looking over your shoulder as I’m doing now.”

  Speaking quite truthfully, telling herself for God’s sake to be natural, she said, feelingly, without thinking, “It isn’t people looking over my shoulder that I mind. It’s the fact of their noisy coming and going and fidgeting around which gives trouble. They just scare my subjects . . .” And then, knowing she had put her foot in it, she added quickly, “Oh dear—that wasn’t a very tactful thing to say, was it? I apologize.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s true.” It was impossible for Seyton at that moment to keep curtness from his voice. This was his land and she was here on sufferance. Normally he knew that he would have been more than broadminded enough to have taken her gaffe with good humour, but today was different . . . all those bloody Governors waiting to sit like a jury to decide whether he got his own house back had got him into a state where his hackles rose easily. He went on almost sharply, “I’ll be on my way.”

  She turned and looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I was very clumsy in what I said. I feel awful when you have been so kind.” She indicated the sketches of the dippers. “Would you like these
as a peace offering?”

  “There’s no need for that.” He smiled thinly at her. “I apologize for my touchiness. Between ourselves I’m not quite with things at the moment.”

  He moved away with the labrador before she could reply. Watching him go, she thought—Oh Lord, what could have been more badly handled when she was supposed to be a bloody siren under instructions to captivate him? Still . . . she consoled herself with the thought that after such a bad beginning he could not possibly imagine that she was here for any other purpose than the one she had stated. She had acted like a self-centred artist . . . perhaps a bad beginning was the best kind to build on.

  * * * *

  Some time before he was due to go up to the Hall that evening Nancy called him. She had just arrived down to stay with her father.

  After a little talk she said, “This is the evening, isn’t it, Richard?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I hadn’t realized it, but I know one of the Governors—a General Stripert. I met him at a party yesterday, before I came down. He mentioned it. Asked some questions about you too.”

  “Did he? I hope you gave some nice answers so that he’ll vote for me.”