But another thought now struck Povey. That there were people actually gunning for him (or for Charles, as they imagined him to be) was an assertion for which he had only Butter’s word; mere exposure in his imposture was his only certain and assured danger, and it was at least less alarming than the thought of enemies pursuing some obscure and potentially lethal personal vendetta. But people had really been gunning for Butter, and with the most nakedly homicidal intent. Their joint seaside adventure authenticated that. So wasn’t this hastily contrived Fortress Brockholes effect perhaps more in aid of Butter than of himself?
Povey found himself not particularly keen to follow up this kind of thinking. Being an intelligent man, he had come to recognize the danger inherent in building up a resentful attitude towards his associate; just let that get out of hand and they would both be in the soup. And Butter, after all, was also one of God’s creatures (although not so important and deserving a specimen as Arthur Povey) and entitled to play for his own hand. Taking this enlightened and humane view of the matter now, Povey did his best to thrust hostile impulses out of his head, and sought distraction in taking a prowl through his new and contracted empire. So might Satan, cast from the empyrean, have prowled the sad variety of hell, or the Emperor Napoleon have perambulated bits and pieces of the forty-seven square miles of St Helena.
The various tradesmen presently employed in the house were clearly from reputable firms, accustomed to labour for the better ease and amenity of the gentry. Recognizing in Povey the lord of the manor, they comported themselves respectfully as he roamed around. This was soothing. So, in a way, was the lavishness of what was being done. The bills would be enormous, and Povey actually took a sardonic satisfaction in the thought that, if a sudden crash did come, none of them was likely to be paid. He was startled only when he reached the drawing-room, which was the principal apartment in the house. It was being decorated as if in the expectation that he would here entertain the remaining Crowned Heads of Europe or of the globe. Butter – it was all, of course, of Butter’s planning – had really gone to town. (The phrase momentarily vexed Povey, who had been pretty well told, after yesterday’s expedition, that he was not himself going to be allowed to go to town again.)
From floor to ceiling, there was clearly to be a grand and unifying design, and it was being achieved under the superintendence of a female, who was even now marching round the room in a commanding way. Povey saw at once that she was of what might be called the cordon bleu type. Her fees would be unblushingly on the scale of a top surgeon’s or portrait painter’s. And she would expect to be treated as one treats an artist or architect of the first eminence. Povey, a polite man, an English gentleman of the old school, realized that it was very improper in him not even to know her name.
This difficulty was in his head when the female turned to him with a brisk good morning. Of course she knew who he was. And suddenly a shocking thing happened. She was regarding him mischievously and in a manner to be characterized as wholly unprofessional. It was instantly and abundantly clear that she expected to be recognized.
It was a difficult situation, and by no means unprecedented. Here, in fact, was the recurrent crisis, the ever-threatening moment of truth. Povey understood this at once. What it took further seconds for him to grasp was the character of the relationship which this person had undoubtedly enjoyed with his brother. Her charms were mature, but they were still staggering. It was not mere dismay that was making Arthur Povey’s head swim.
‘Charles, darling, I could hardly wait. It was a most marvellous surprise!’
‘Yes,’ Povey said feebly. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Of course, I’d never been to Brockholes, and I don’t think you ever mentioned it. So when that nice man told me your name, and how you wanted me to accept the commission, I was struck all of a heap. I’d felt, you know, that you weren’t terribly interested in me any longer. After all, it’s been years and years.’
‘So it has. One does lose touch. I’ve travelled a good deal, you know. And business has been very absorbing.’
‘It has been flourishing, it seems.’ The female glanced round the splendours she was being required to summon into being. ‘You’ve been soaring, Charles. And how wonderful to be back in your old home! Mr Bread has explained it all to me.’
‘Not quite all, I expect. And you seem to have been doing rather well in your own profession yourself.’ He was about to add, ‘If it is your profession,’ but judged that the joke might not be well received. Here, certainly, was one of those top tarts with accounts of whom Charles had been accustomed to torment him. And he wasn’t quite sure of the conversational tone which gentlemen adopt to such ladies when according them protection. His own experience was limited. He’d had his day, of course; he’d had quite a lot of days during the all too brief period in which he had believed his imposture so secure that he could live a life of carefree indulgence in the hot spots of Europe. But he hadn’t quite the touch – if that was the word – of a man long habituated to that purple. Still, it shouldn’t be difficult to hit the right note. The urgent difficulty was that he hadn’t a notion what to call the woman. He looked wildly round as if for inspiration. Perhaps ‘darling’ would do once or twice – he was holding it in reserve – but if he couldn’t put a real name to her pretty soon he was sunk. Or was he? Perhaps she would merely conclude that he recognized her only as one of such a large crowd of houris whose favours he had enjoyed that her name simply wasn’t lodged in his head. In that case, she might be offended, change her line, fall back on being merely a professional adviser. That, indeed, would be the safest way to try to play it.
He became aware that he oughtn’t to be looking round at all; that it was ungallant to do other than let his gaze be riveted by the charms immediately before him. Being a man of address, he coped with this bad behaviour at once.
‘It’s perfectly gorgeous,’ he said, with a wave at the transformed drawing-room. ‘But not nearly as gorgeous as you, my darling.’
These were fateful words; they represented a kind of burning of boats. The woman was a houri, and Povey’s impulse to play safe had deserted him. He had been, after all, on what might coarsely be called sexual short-commons for some time. And now he noticed that they were standing close to a writing table at which it appeared this dangerous charmer had set up her working quarters. It was covered with a litter of papers and sketches.
‘Are those your designs?’ he asked with a great appearance of eagerness. ‘May I look at them?’
‘Of course, Charles darling. They’re all yours, aren’t they?’
At this, Povey went up to the table, and immediately saw that his genius had been vindicated. There was, among the rest of the stuff, a little pile of writing paper, and it bore a printed letterhead. He squinted at this and read:
PERPETUA PORTER
Interior Decoration and Design
‘And is that going to be the carpet?’ Povey pointed more or less at random at one drawing. ‘I can hardly wait to see it. Your taste is as marvellous as ever, Perpetua my love.’
‘Perpetua?’ Miss (or Mrs) Porter pouted. ‘Isn’t that rather formal, Charles? You always called me Pops.’
‘Pops, of course.’ Povey judged this a revolting pet name for any woman, but managed to articulate it fondly and (what wasn’t easy) on a kind of amorous dying fall.
‘Sweet, sweet Charles – it’s fabulous to have found you again.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Me to have found you, I mean.’ There being no workmen close by, Povey took Pops’ hand familiarly and gave it a little squeeze. There had come to him the amazing fact that this stunning woman had not only been infatuated with Charles at some unknown past time; she was infatuated with the person she supposed to be Charles now. Agnosco – she might have been saying with poor old Dido or whoever – veteris vestigia flammae. He had only to put out his hand again – in a more definitive manner,
this time – and the thing was in the bag. ‘Pops, darling,’ he said, ‘it’s a lovely morning. Shall we go out into the park?’
‘Yes, Charles my sweet, do let’s. And we can have a splendid chat about old times.’
‘So we can.’ Povey’s enthusiasm was not immediate. ‘You can tell me all about yourself,’ he added. ‘Everything you’ve been doing all this time. I’d love to hear it.’
‘So you shall. And you’ll tell me everything too. I’ve ever so many things to ask you.’
‘Or perhaps all that can keep, Pops darling. There are times – aren’t there ? – when deeds are sweeter than words.’
‘Darling, that’s just the kind of thing you used to say.’
‘Well, then – now for the kind of thing I used to do.’
Thus, with incredible rashness, the commonly so wary Arthur Povey – fondly overcome with female charm.
10
He was to wonder afterwards whether she had known all the time; whether she hadn’t in the very moment of first glimpsing him in the drawing-room seen who he wasn’t and who he must be. If this were so, she was a thoroughly malicious as well as vicious woman, since she had hoarded her knowledge in order to deploy it in a strikingly wounding way. For she had simply sat up on the grass (he had found a sunny but secluded little glade), stretched, yawned, smoothed her hair with the prescriptive automatic hand, and pronounced lazily certain ingeniously lacerating words.
‘That was quite nice, my dear man. But not nearly so nice as with Charles Povey.’
He had stared at her blankly. Seconds before, he had been conscious only of appropriately languorous ease, and now he hadn’t ceased staring at her in a stupid incomprehension when she spoke again.
‘So you must be Charles’ wet brother.’ (She certainly had the air of having arrived at this conclusion only within the last few minutes.) ‘Is that right?’
‘What do you mean – Charles’ wet brother?’ As he uttered these words Povey was aware of them as singularly futile and feeble. He was going to do even worse than when first unmasked by Butter.
‘It’s what he always called you. He didn’t seem to like you very much.’
‘I didn’t like him.’ Povey had decided that deception was useless. Perhaps he could presently strangle Perpetua Porter, and put the blame on somebody like Mrs Corp’s imbecile son. But for the moment frankness was the thing – frankness and playing it cool.
‘Neither did I, as a matter of fact.’ Pops spoke as if her new lover had gained considerable ground with her. ‘Of course I could put on a turn for him. A girl has to be able to do that. You saw me at it.’
‘I certainly did, Pops.’ Povey had been rather struck by Miss Porter’s ‘girl’. It somehow suggested quite humble beginnings in the less socially esteemed of her professions. He wondered about the other one. She had clearly achieved some standing in this decorating and designing nonsense; even if some benevolent admirer had set her up in it she must be pretty smart to hold her own in a crowded field. And Butter must have heard well of her before taking her on. It must be a precarious living, all the same. For a moment Povey felt almost sympathetically disposed towards the lady. When he spoke, however, it was with an air of greater friendliness than he actually felt. Those first words he had spoken after what had seemed to him a creditable performance were still rankling a good deal.
‘Look here!’ he said urgently. ‘Aren’t you kidding? Didn’t you spot I wasn’t Charles at once – just as soon, I mean, as we met in that drawing-room?’
‘Really and truly not, darling. I may still call you darling? But I do know your real name. Charles mentioned it several times. It’s Arthur.’
‘Yes, it’s Arthur.’
‘I must say you’re terribly like Charles. You speak like him, and move like him. So I don’t think you’ll do badly at whatever little game you’re up to.’ Miss Porter offered all these observations in a commendatory tone. Then she laughed – robustly and not particularly kindly. ‘Only I think you must be careful about going to bed – or into this very nice park – with any of Charles’ old lady friends. In fact, and to be quite frank, I’d strongly advise going to work elsewhere.’ Miss Porter paused thoughtfully. ‘Do you know? It’s been just like something in the Bible.’
‘What the devil do you mean by that?’
‘Don’t you remember? “The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau.” And it’s about stealing a birthright, or something.’
Povey ought perhaps to have been edified by this evidence of his companion’s unexpected command of Holy Writ. But in fact he was extremely shocked, and his flicker of kindly feeling for her faded. He found himself, indeed, grinding his teeth and much inclined to take an immediate swipe at her. Folk tales, he was recalling, have frequent recourse to what literary historians call the Bed Trick, and he seemed rather to remember that Shakespeare himself makes use of it at least twice. You get into bed with a woman in the dark, and she quite fails to tumble to the fact that you aren’t somebody else. Of course with Pops there hadn’t been a bed, and it hadn’t been dark either. His vanity was quite acutely injured, all the same. Pops hadn’t ceased to be extremely desirable. But he was absolutely certain he was never going to like her again. As he was now in her power, this seemed an unfortunate thing.
‘And I wonder what you are up to,’ Pops said thoughtfully. She was gazing out over the park as she spoke – but it was absently, and as if she were surveying a prospect she couldn’t yet clearly define. ‘Does Mr Bread know?’ she asked.
‘His name isn’t Bread. That’s just one of his silly jokes. It’s Butter. He says he knows which side his bread’s buttered on. Butter’s always making idiotic cracks. And yes – he does know.’
‘Does anybody else know?’
‘No, nobody.’ Povey weighed his words. ‘It’s just us three,’ he said. ‘We might be described as in it together.’
‘What fun! I suppose you murdered Charles? He was rather a pig.’
‘I did nothing of the kind!’ Arthur Povey was horrified. He was also frightened. Strangely enough, it had never occurred to him that, if he were one day exposed, this calm assumption of Miss Porter’s might well become the conclusion of the law.
‘But he is dead?’
‘Yes, he is dead.’ Povey persevered in his resolution to be candid. He had to face it: he was back on Square One. His next move, he supposed, must be to suggest that suitcase stuffed with ten-pound notes.
‘There’s an awful lot of money?’
‘Quite a lot.’
‘And is your friend Bread in on the thing for his health?’
‘Butter. And you might say he’s in on it for the jam.’ Povey thought a tone of mild gamesomeness might suggest he was effortlessly keeping his end up. He was badly in need of time in which to plan a course of action in facing this hideous new threat. ‘It’s a long story,’ he added lightly and vaguely.
‘You’ll have to tell it to me.’
Povey didn’t at all like the way Miss Porter said this. There was a hint of command in it. In Butter he already had one master; it looked as if here was another. Or rather it looked as if here was a mistress in both senses of the word. He much doubted whether his possession of her in the one sense (even if it continued) would make up for her possession of him in the other.
‘I’ll be delighted to tell you the whole thing,’ he said. ‘But, oddly enough, it mayn’t be easy. You see, it’s largely lost through something queer that’s happened to my memory. What the doctors call amnesia.’
‘Arthur, darling, don’t make me laugh.’ Pops uttered this demotic formula for incredulity with considerable force.
‘Well, now, that’s just it.’ Povey took one of his rash intuitive plunges. ‘You’re certain that I’m Arthur Povey. So am I – just at the moment. But not always. Sometimes I’m not p
retending to be Charles. I am Charles.’
‘That’s absolute rubbish.’ Miss Porter was plainly shaken. ‘Such a thing just couldn’t happen.’
‘There, I assure you, you’re quite wrong, Pops. I’ve read it all up.’
‘Trust you for that. You’re cunning, Arthur Povey. It makes me feel I might do worse than come in on the act.’
‘You’d have to be invited, my dear.’ Povey spoke with a robustness he didn’t feel. ‘But as I was saying. I’ve read all about the psychology of imposture. Butter talks a lot about psychology, but hardly has a notion of what the word means, the low bastard.’ Povey checked himself in this irrelevant expression of feeling. ‘Impostors do sometimes come to believe in their own imposture. Lambert Simnel, Perkin Warbeck: people of that sort.’
‘I’ve never heard of them. But that must be when there’s some real mystery about their birth or origins.’
‘Yes, in a way.’ Povey realized that Pops, although not perhaps extensively educated, owned a strong natural intelligence. ‘But, in that case, they’re not strictly impostors. They’re claimants or pretenders, on the strength of evidence that can be read one way or another. And I repeat the plain fact that sometimes I am Charles. I find myself – although usually not for more than minutes at a time – puzzled by what Butter is saying to me. You see, it all began, or all but began, in a very confused way.’
‘When you believe you’re Charles what do you believe about Arthur?’
Povey blinked and hesitated. He found this question – which again testified to the sharpness of Miss Porter’s wits – obscure and difficult.
‘I think I believe he died at sea.’
Gay Phoenix Page 13