She laughed. “Not quite. There’s only one way I could get his vote for you—and I knew you wouldn’t approve of it. Anyway, I don’t go for scalp collectors. Though, Dicky, you know if I felt that his were going to be the vital vote I’d do it for you—and tell you about it, maybe, afterwards. But from, perhaps, his manner more than his words, I don’t think it will be a matter of one vital vote. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. I think you should be prepared for a No, and to say that, if it is that way and you feel you’d like company, I’ll come right over. Ma Shipley’s used to me turning up at all hours and there’s always a guest bedroom. Promise me that you’ll at least consider it.”
“I promise.”
Two hours later he walked up to the Hall. Not unexpectedly the main door opened as he went up the steps and he was greeted by Shanklin and the bizarre thought occurred to him that this over-extension of consideration could only be achieved by having some shivering wretch posted on one of the Tudor towers to signal important arrivals.
Shanklin, in evening dress—he himself was wearing a plain navy-blue suit since he had not been invited to dinner—took him into the first-floor main gallery where all the others were already assembled, and where Shanklin handed him over to Felbeck, who took him in tow—not, Seyton thought, inappropriately because the man fussed before him to the bar to get him a drink like a little tug and where, when he had a drink in his hand and had taken one sip, the man surprised him by taking the attention of the company and making a general introduction of him to the others present, a roll call clearly for his benefit alone. But if this was competent and considerate organization for his benefit, so was the stage-managing that followed, for although it would have been hard to detect any signs of the advance and then withdrawal of the others after a reasonable interval of conversation, he was soon aware of what was happening.
One by one he found himself alone, sometimes briefly and sometimes lengthily, with each of the Governors. The first was Sir Arthur Pinke, chalk-faced, thin and brittle looking, jockey weight and with a set to his mouth which made Seyton feel that whatever horse he rode in trade and commerce didn’t just have to give its best but was damned well going to have its all forced out by the rider. Their main talk was largely about the use of artificial and natural manures, their merits and demerits ecologically. Seyton, soon slightly resenting what he could see was a coming inquisition, polite but unavoidable all round, from the Governors, made himself remain affable and said, in effect, that there was a time and place for each and finished, “. . . so if you just think of crop values and nothing else, Mother Nature will soon land you a backhander from some unexpected quarter”. Which, to his surprise, made Sir Arthur chuckle and, unexpectedly, pat him approvingly on his arm. Whereupon—and he recognized Shanklin, working smoothly, and enjoying it, as the deus ex machina—he found himself in the company of the Right Reverend Oflapi of West Africa.
The Right Reverend was very fat and big and very black, and very soon talking about the Brazilian diamond industry of which Seyton knew more than he was prepared to make public but, knowing that the Bishop came by birth from Sierra Leone, he could well understand his past and present interest. The Bishop was given to laughter and before they were parted told Seyton a very funny, but decidedly risque story about mixed adult baptism in his native land.
The next visitant was Mrs Delia Parmat who surprised him, first by her appearance—a tall, handsomely figured blonde in a close-fitting, low-cut gown, wearing a diamond necklace which he quickly valued within a few hundred pounds either way of its worth, while his eye also appraised the sun-tanned shoulders and a generous exposure of the smooth upper slopes of her breasts—and then by her first words. “You look amused, Mr Seyton. That terrible Oflapi must have been telling you one of his wicked stories.” She then went on to fascinate him by the glib way in which she moved from one subject to another—the cruelty of keeping hens in batteries, women the first to suffer when men went on strike, the appalling failure of comprehensive school education and the even more appalling moral degeneration being caused by the exposure of the young and not so young to the exhibition of pornographic films, literature and sex shows. As she spoke of this last subject she stood before him the living symbol and dream-figure of all those timid adolescents and lonely mature males who went willingly to the brink, and sometimes beyond, of that immoral abyss which from time immemorial had attracted the lonely and the timid and the sick at heart. Her husband, he knew, had been a wealthy Persian and he wondered if he had found her in some Beirut night club—shipped there from where? Certainly from some part of this country, for she was clearly an English rose, a Peace, lusty and exuberant, a rich feeder and prolific bloomer. But no fool. She said, “Why waste your money buying us out? You have everything except the Hall itself, and we are ideal caretakers. Traditionalist you may be, but also, I know, a very successful business man. Just sit out the lease and make your money work for you elsewhere. No? No, I see not—you are a romantic as well then. But, whichever way it goes, may I say that I have been charmed to meet you and if you find yourself in Hampshire I shall be most disappointed if you don’t . . .” Her left hand just lightly squeezed his arm as she went on extending an invitation for him to visit her, and the touch sent a trickle current through him which, surprisingly, made him want to laugh. He liked her. She was, as Punch would have said, a great handful of a girl.
The Bishop Suffragan from the South of England, the Right Reverend Auguste Miller, took her place and watched her go over Seyton’s shoulder as he began to talk to him. When his eyes came back to Seyton he at once got the impression that there would be no vote for him from this man. The current of dislike was unmistakable. Seyton had met the phenomenon before in his business life. There was no rhyme or reason for it; just quick-born animosity and a display of threat mannerisms thinly masked which could have arisen from so simple a situation that at this moment the assembled company were all far more interested in himself than in Auguste Miller—and Mrs Delia Parmat particularly so.
“So the wanderer returns to take up his inheritance. A quiet life after the fleshpots. And for this you would have us turn out? Go a-wandering to find fresh lodgings?”
“That’s absolutely right. I want what’s mine—but I am offering adequate—perhaps rather more—compensation. That seems very reasonable and fair.”
“Your late brother entered freely into the lease. What would he have said about your now wanting to break it?”
“He would have been all for it. Necessity made him give you the lease. In my place he would be doing what I am doing.”
Suddenly the Bishop smiled, but there was no comfort in it, and said, “Well, let me say, I understand perfectly your attitude—but against it, as you will have appreciated, we have to think of the Foundation. No matter the compensation—leaving here would be a tremendous upheaval. But I am a fair man and I shall give your offer the most careful consideration, and in my prayers ask for true guidance.”
“I ask for no more, Bishop,” said Seyton, though it occurred to him that since the vote was to be taken after dinner which was imminent, the worthy divine was not leaving himself much time for prayer.
After a few more civilities—if they could be called such—the Bishop left him, and left him, too, wondering what maggot of discontent was eating him and guessing that perhaps it was one which ate at the flesh rather than the spirit, for he saw him make his way towards a little group at the centre of which was Mrs Parmat.
A voice at his side said broadly, with a Midlands accent, “I’ll bet you get no joy from him, lad.”
It was Alfred Stowe, short, plump, bull-necked and with a jolly face that was smooth, unlined and polished with a faint lick of perspiration. He wore a red velvet dinner jacket with a white carnation in his buttonhole. On seeing Seyton’s eyes run slowly over him, he smiled, and went on, “A bit eccentric, you think, lad? In this company? Maybe, but it’s my style. Probably springs from havin’ to wear my father’s cut downs
as a lad, all flap and no fit. And if I asked you confidentially whether you’d give me a couple of thousand for me vote—what would you say?”
“Make it fifteen hundred and you have a deal, Mr Stowe.” Alfred Stowe chuckled. “Good lad. Still—not that I’m going to pretend that I never took a bribe in my life—I got to keep my nose clean now. One thing I’d like to know is—no matter how much money you’ve got—what the hell do you want to take on the bother of all this place for? You’ve got the land and a good house to live in. Where’s the sense when we are looking after the Hall and paying you for the privilege?”
“Financially it’s a fair deal, yes. But Seytons have lived here ever since the first stones and timbers were raised. That’s how I want it to be again.”
“Aye, family an’ all. I understand that. My old father still lives in the Birmingham back street where I was born. Won’t move—though I’ve offered to set him up anywhere he chooses. Says he’d miss his mates. He’s damned near eighty now and his mates get thinner on the ground each winter. Now, I’ll surprise you—but you just keep it to yourself—I’ll give you my vote for free. You know why?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then you should. You want what my old man’s got. His place. So . . . there it is.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
“No need. And anyway, you’ll need every damned vote you can get.”
After Alfred Stowe, John Kingman came up to him, grinned and said, “Hullo, Richard—no need for us to waste time—unless you can guarantee me a dead cert for the Cheltenham Gold Cup this month—and then you get my vote. But anyway, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
General Stripert next approached him and no mention was made of his reason for being in this company. They talked of hunting and fishing and—soon discovered—of friends they had in common. Seyton soon felt—though at the moment he was counting no chickens—that he was on his side. And then, last of all, came Rear-Admiral Croft. He was in his early sixties, a quietly spoken wraith of a man, his pale, lined face seldom changing expression, and with a habit of nodding gently as he was spoken to so that a lock of his greying hair fell forward over his brow which he kept brushing back with a nervous flick of one hand. His eyes were extraordinary—dark and bright with a lemur-like roundness and seldom blinking as though in any moment of obscured vision he feared he might miss the first shadow of a threat. Although he made Seyton feel uncomfortable he took pleasure in the sound of his voice for it was full, controlled, and modulated itself with an actor’s skill to the content of everything he said.
He put out a long, thin hand and just lightly touched Seyton’s arm as he said, “Remarkable, truly remarkable, my dear Seyton. This house is full of the paintings of various Seytons and here you are so full of the family resemblance on the male side that—ignoring the change of period clothes—you might have just stepped down from one of the frames. I have in mind at this moment a particular one. Gould you guess which, I wonder?”
Seyton smiled. “Not very difficult—because I’ve been so often told. Would it be the one of George Seyton by Sir Peter Lely in the Great Chamber?”
“Exactly. Now tell me, why did your family never accept any honours? The offers must have been made and yet no Seyton was ever tempted?”
“I’m not sure. But maybe because in the early days they had no high opinion of those with them and this became slowly a point of family pride. It may not be logical—but it has held good. And, anyway, these days, the coinage has become debased.”
“You talk of family pride—that’s why you want this place back?”
“Pride and tradition, yes.”
“I don’t denigrate either. But we live in a bad season for their proper flowering. There is a sickness over this land of ours—and over the world—which unless checked will lead to the death of all virtues and ultimately to chaos or helotage. And between ourselves, I sometimes wonder if the charity and good works we cultivate and dispense from here are only hastening the black days of mourning to come for the moral death of mankind. Then, when the lights begin to flicker down, we shall need all the Seyton kinds we can find to take a stand against the misrules of disorder and slavery.” He smiled, flicked a lock of hair back and added with a charming smile, “Too pessimistic, you think?”
Touched by the man’s sincerity, while far from being entirely sympathetic towards his diagnosis of human ill, Seyton said, “God, I’m sure, created us for a better end and higher purposes so——” he grinned, “——we must put our trust in Him and keep our powder dry.”
“True, true. Well, we shall see. We shall see.” A hand lightly tapped Seyton’s arm, and he went on, “Do not take this little ordeal too personally. I may add I was against it. But we have much to forfeit in time and reorganization if we lose this place—no matter what compensation you offer.” With a friendly shake of his head, he left.
But a little later when Seyton was accompanied to the great door overlooking the drive by Felbeck, Rear-Admiral Croft went with them. As Seyton disappeared into the gloom of the driveway and the sound of the fall of his feet died away, Felbeck turned and said to him, “Well?”
Croft was silent for a while and then said, “He is what we want. He belongs with us.”
Felbeck nodded. “I think so. But Grandison says no. It is too late.”
From across the park a little owl screeched loudly and as the night swallowed the sound, Croft said, “Sometimes I wonder about Grandison. I, too, sometimes wonder that where there is a great mission and the disciples gather, whether it is not a law—of Nature if not God—that amongst them will be a Judas?”
CHAPTER FIVE
AFTER DINNER, WHEN Mrs Shipley had left, Seyton went into Punch’s study—his now, and knowing that he would never substantially change anything in it—and sat at the desk to write a letter to Roger to tell him that he had obtained permission for him to come down for Punch’s memorial service which was to be held on the Tuesday of the following week and that Figgins would pick him up on the Monday afternoon as she was driving down from London.
Before he had finished the front door bell rang. When he opened the door it was to find—without surprise—Charles Felbeck standing in the shelter of the porch, a light mackintosh over his evening clothes, and a thin drizzle falling.
He took him into the study, sat him down and offered him a drink.
“A whisky and soda, if I may.” Momentarily a rueful smile wrinkled the man’s battered face and he fingered his fair, well-trimmed moustache a little nervously. “Usually I’m almost teetotal—but tonight. . .” He shrugged his shoulders.
Although Seyton could guess what was coming, he felt an odd sympathy for the man for he sensed that there was something they shared in spirit. . . both of them came from the same kind of families and knew the meaning of old loyalties and their importance.
Handing the man his drink, Seyton said, “It was good of you to come down. You could have telephoned.”
Felbeck shook his head. “No, I couldn’t have done that.” He grinned with a sudden boyish ruefulness. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
Holding down his slight stir of emotion—the real impact would come later—Seyton said, “I think I have known since the day I first went to see you in London. So it’s a big, fat No.”
“Yes, sadly for you, it is No. But—no consolation, I presume —not a big fat one. I didn’t—I’m personally thankful to say—have to give a casting vote. The Governors voted five to three against accepting your offer.”
“No names, no pack drills?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Seyton. But there it is . . . the upheaval would have been just too much for us to take.” Felbeck ran a hand nervously over his thin, fair hair.
“Well, that’s the end of all that then.”
“It is. There’s one thing I can offer in . . . well, personal amelioration if it would be acceptable by you . . . to give you some—not consolation—but future involvement, a sense of re
gaining something of your own so far as the Hall is concerned.”
“Yes?”
“Every four years two Governors retire in rotation and new ones are appointed—appointed, not elected, and that dispensation is entirely in my hands. This happens next year. I wondered if you would be interested?”
“Did you ever make such an offer to Punch?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Four months before his accident.”
“And what did he say?”
Felbeck smiled. “No, thanks—but not quite as politely as that.”
“Well . . . as for me—I thank you for the offer. But—no, thanks.”
“I’m not surprised. All or nothing. That’s it, isn’t it?” Seyton nodded, and then on the spur of the moment, following a sudden impulse—rare for him—he asked, “Why did you make such an offer to Punch? I always felt that he was well content with the arrangement.”
“So did we all. But latterly he now and then showed resentment at our presence. I could never understand why. We have always been most punctilious in our obligations under the lease, and certainly there never seemed to be any cause for personal disturbances. As a matter of fact, if he ever gave you any hint of the dissatisfaction he clearly began to feel, I would—if it is not breaking any confidence—be glad to know about it.”
“No. He said nothing to me. But then neither of us was the kind to keep in touch much, and for almost five months before his death I was in South America.” Seyton smiled. “Punch was no letter-writer.”
“Well, there it is. Perhaps it was just his ancestral feeling. I could understand that. Having to have us here to keep the place going. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I begin to believe that it was as simple as that. He kept away from the Hall completely. Wouldn’t come up to dinner. I do hope, Seyton, it is not going to be like that with you.”
“Oh, no. Of course, I’m disappointed—very much so. I like getting my own way as much as the next man. But there’s nothing to be gained by rudeness or spiky resentment.”
The Satan Sampler Page 9