Fitz, however, had ceased asking to be introduced to Lady Slane, much to Kay’s relief. He had been sure that his mother would not at all welcome the advent of a stranger in her retirement at Hampstead. He flattered himself, indeed, on his perception in this matter and on the skill he had shown in staving old Fitz off. Yet from time to time he felt a qualm: had he perhaps been rather unkindly firm in discouraging Fitz’s one attempt at a new friendship? It must have cost Fitz a great effort to make the suggestion; an even greater effort to renew it. Still, his first duty was to his mother. Neither Carrie, nor Herbert, nor Charles could understand their mother’s desire for retirement; but he, Kay, could understand it. It was, therefore, his duty to protect his mother in her desire. He had protected her – though he was usually overawed by Fitz – and thanks to his evasiveness Fitz had apparently forgotten all about his whim. Kay thought that he must go and see his mother one of these days and tell her how clever he had been.
He kept on putting off the expedition, however, for the January weather was bitterly cold, and Kay, who loved warmth and snugness as much as a cat, easily persuaded himself that draughty Underground stations were no place for a coddled person of his advancing years. Well wrapped up in overcoat and muffler, he could just undertake the walk from his rooms in the Temple across Fountain Court, through pigeons too fat to get out of his way, down the steps to the Embankment, up Northumberland Avenue and then through the Park to St James’s Street, his daily constitutional, but farther abroad than that he would not venture. He walked, not only for the sake of exercise, but because he had a lively sense of the presence of microbes in all public conveyances; a microbe to him was a horror even greater than a reptile; he seldom got through the day without imagining himself the victim of at least one deadly disease, and never drank a cup of tea without remembering thankfully that the water had been boiled into immunity. As it was, he welcomed a day of rain or sleet which gave him a pretext for remaining indoors. He quieted his conscience by writing little friendly notes to his mother, saying that he had had a cold, that he understood a great deal of influenza was about, and that he hoped Genoux was taking proper care of her. All the same, he thought, on the first fine day he must go to Hampstead and tell his mother about FitzGeorge. She would be amused. She would be grateful.
But Kay, like many a wiser man, deferred his plan just a little too long. He had forgotten Mr FitzGeorge’s twenty-five years of seniority. Eighty-one was not an age which permitted the playing of tricks with time. At twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, one might reasonably say, I will put that off until next summer – though, to be sure, even at twenty, the unexpected perils of life were always present – but at eighty-one such deferments became a mere taunt in the face of Fate. That which had been an unexpected and improbable peril in earlier years, swelled to a certainty after eighty. Kay’s standards were perhaps distorted by the longevity of his own family. Certainly FitzGeorge’s death came to him as a shock which he received with incredulity and resentment.
The first indication he had of it appeared on the posters: DEATH OF WEST-END CLUB-MAN. He registered this piece of news unconsciously as he walked down the Embankment and turned up Northumberland Avenue on his way to luncheon; it meant no more to him than the news of an omnibus mounting the pavement in Brixton. A little farther on he saw other posters, lunch edition: LONELY MILLIONAIRE DIES IN WEST-END. If the thought of FitzGeorge crossed his mind, he dismissed it; for Bernard Street, even by a journalist, could scarcely be described as West End. Kay had no experience of Fleet Street. Still, he bought a paper. He crossed the Park, noticing that the crocuses were beginning to show green noses above the ground. Thus had he walked a thousand times. Serene, he turned into Boodle’s and ordered his bottle of Vichy water, unfolded his napkin, propped the Evening Standard before him, and started on his lunch – a cut from the joint, and pickles. He had no need to tell the waiter what he wanted, so regular and recurrent was daily life. There it was, in the second column on the front page: WEST-END CLUB-MAN FOUND DEAD: STRANGE LIFE-STORY OF WEALTHY RECLUSE REVEALED. (Even then, it occurred to Kay to wonder how one could be both a club-man and a recluse.) Then the name hit him: Mr FitzGeorge …
He put down his knife and fork with a clatter on his plate so that the other lunchers, who had wondered at Kay Holland’s impassivity, raised their heads and whispered: ‘Ah, he’s heard!’ Heard, when they meant read. But indeed with some justice they might say heard, since the printed name had screamed at Kay loud enough to deafen him. He felt as though someone had fetched him a box on the ear. ‘Fitz dead?’ he said to the man at the next table – a man he did not know, except by sight for the last twenty years, and to whom he had been accustomed to nod.
Then without knowing how he got there, except for some dim recollection of plunging into his pockets to pay the taxi, he found himself in Bernard Street, climbing the stairs to Fitz’s rooms. The door into Fitz’s rooms was broken in – smashed – splintered – and the police were there, two large young men, pompous and apologetic, very civil and accommodating to Kay when they learnt his name. Fitz was there too, lying on his bed in his Jaeger dressing-gown, curiously stiff. On the table were a sardine and a half, and a half-eaten piece of toast and the remains of a boiled egg, as unappetising as only the cold remains of a boiled egg can be. Fitz wore a night-cap, which was a surprise to Kay, a night-cap with a sideways tassel. He looked much the same as he had looked in life, except that he looked completely different. It was hard to say where the difference came in; the rigidity could scarcely account for it; perhaps it might be attributed to the guilty sense of eaves-dropping on old Fitz, of catching him transfixed in a moment hitherto unseen by all eyes, the slippered moment, the nightcap moment, the moment when the three last sardines had been taken from the cupboard. ‘We mustn’t remove him, sir,’ said one of the young policemen, on the watch lest Kay should go too near and touch his friend, ‘before the doctors is entirely satisfied.’
Kay shrank towards the window, contrasting this death with that of his own father. They had indeed chosen very different paths in life. Fitz had scorned the world, he had lived secretly and privately, finding his pleasures within himself, betraying himself to none. Only once had Kay seen him roused, when some newspaper published an article on the eccentrics of London. ‘God!’ he had said, ‘is it eccentric to keep oneself apart?’ He had been enraged by the inclusion of his own name. He could see no reason for the curiosity commonly displayed by people over other people; it seemed to him vulgar, boring, and unnecessary. All he asked was to be let alone; he had no desire to interfere in the workings of the world; he simply wanted to live withdrawn into his chosen world, absorbed in his possessions and their beauty. That was his form of spirituality, his form of contemplation. Thus the loneliness of his death held no pathos, since it was in accordance with what he had chosen.
But it worried the agents of the law and the State. They invaded his room, while Kay stood wretchedly by the window fingering the grimy curtains. This gentleman, they said, looking at the stiff and silent figure, had been extremely wealthy; in fact, it was reported that his fortune had run into seven numbers. And although they were accustomed to deal with the lonely death of paupers, no precedent told them how to deal with the lonely death of a millionaire. He must have had some relatives, they said, looking at Kay as though Kay were to blame. But Kay said no; so far as he knew, Mr FitzGeorge had no relatives at all; no link with anyone on earth. ‘Stay,’ he added, ‘the South Kensington Museum might be able to tell you something about him.’
At that the Inspector guffawed, and then put his hand over his mouth, remembering that he was in a death-chamber. A museum! he said; well, that was a pretty dreary source of information to go to about a man after he was dead. The Inspector doubtless had a comfortable wife, rows of rowdy children, and pots of red geranium on the window-sill. As a matter of fact, he said, Mr Holland wasn’t so far off the mark when he mentioned the Museum. But for the Museum, he, the Inspector, and his subordinate
s wouldn’t be there at all. The presence of the police was most irregular, where there was no suggestion of murder or suicide. Only, thanks to the Museum ringing up Scotland Yard in what the Inspector described as a ‘state,’ had Scotland Yard sent police to Bernard Street to keep watch over valuable objects which might turn out to be a legacy to the nation. Much as the Inspector manifestly despised the objects, he responded with instant appreciation to the word valuable. But couldn’t Mr Holland suggest anything a bit more human than a museum? Mr Holland couldn’t. He suggested feebly that they might look Mr FitzGeorge up in Who’s Who.
Well, said the Inspector, getting out a notebook and settling down to business, who was his father, anyway? Keep those reporters out, he added angrily to his two subordinates. He never had a father, said Kay, feeling like a netted rabbit and wishing that he had never come near Bernard Street to be bullied by the officials of the law. He had, moreover, a suspicion that the Inspector was exceeding his duties in the interest of his curiosity by thus inquiring into the antecedents of the dead millionaire.
The Inspector stared, and a joke dawned in his eyes, but because of his self-importance he suppressed it. ‘His mother, then?’ he said, implying that although a man might have dispensed with a father he could scarcely dispense with a mother. But Kay had passed beyond the region of such implications; he could see FitzGeorge only as an isolated figure, fighting to maintain its independence. ‘He never had a mother either,’ he replied.
‘Then what did he have?’ asked the Inspector, glancing at his subordinates with an expression that summed Kay up in the sole word, Balmy.
Kay was tempted to reply, A private life; for he felt a little light-headed, and the discrepancy between FitzGeorge and the Inspector, with all that the Inspector stood for, was almost too much for him; but he compromised, and pointing to the jumble of works of art cluttering the room, said, ‘These.’
‘That’s not enough,’ said the Inspector.
‘It was enough for him,’ said Kay.
‘That junk?’ said the Inspector. Kay was silent.
One of the policemen came forward and whispered, showing the Inspector a card. ‘All right,’ said the Inspector after looking at the card; ‘let him in.’
‘There’s a lot of reporters on the landing, sir, as well.’
‘Keep them out, I told you.’
‘They say they only want a peep at the room, sir.’
‘Well, they can’t have it. Tell them there’s nothing to see.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Only a lot of junk.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Show in the gentleman from the Museum. Nobody else. It seems,’ said the Inspector, turning to Kay, ‘that we were right about this here Museum. Here it is, turning up as it might be an uncle of the corpse. Prompt.’ He passed the card over to Kay, who read: ‘Mr Christopher Foljambe, Victoria and Albert Museum.’
A young man in a bowler-hat, a blue overcoat, kid-gloves, and horn-rimmed spectacles came in. He cast one glance at Mr FitzGeorge and then averted his eyes, which roamed instead over the litter in the room, appraising, while he talked to the Inspector. His attitude, however, differed from the Inspector’s, for every now and then his eye would light up and his hand would start out in an involuntary predatory movement towards some dusty but invaluable pile on chair or table. He had, moreover, greeted Kay Holland with deference, thereby increasing Kay’s prestige in the Inspector’s estimation. A museum, after all, was a public institution, authorised in a very practical (although meagre) way by Government subsidy; and that was the kind of thing which commanded, one might almost say bought, the Inspector’s respect. He treated Mr Foljambe with more deference than he had shown to Kay Holland. For in Kay Holland he had not recognised an ex-Prime Minister’s son, whereas Mr Foljambe had sent in a card definitely stating: ‘Victoria and Albert Museum.’
Mr Foljambe, to do him justice, was ill-at-ease. He had been dispatched by his superiors in a hurry to see that old Fitz’s things were duly safeguarded. The Museum, thanks to hints thrown out by old Fitz during the past forty years, considered that they might reasonably expect to have a claim on his possible legacies. Kay Holland, again retreating to the window and again fingering the grimy curtains, gave to both the Inspector and to Mr Foljambe the credit due to them. The Inspector had a duty to fulfil; and Mr Foljambe had been dispatched by his museum on an uncongenial job. Old Fitz’s delight in a new discovery, old Fitz’s grumpy and restrained rapture over some lovely object, belonged to a different world than this practical protection of a dead man, than this interest in the dead man’s dispositions. Kay knew just enough of the world to realise that it must be so. Even on behalf of his friend, he could feel no real irony. The Inspector and Mr Foljambe were both acting according to their lights. And Mr Foljambe, especially, was being very decent about it.
‘Of course, I know we have no right to interfere,’ he was saying, ‘but considering the immense value of the collection, and considering the fact that Mr FitzGeorge always gave us to understand that he would bequeath the majority of his possessions to the nation, my museum felt that some adequate steps should be taken for the safeguarding of the property. I was instructed to say that if you would like one of our men to take charge, he would be at your disposal.’
‘Did I understand you to say, sir, that the collection was of immense value?’
‘It runs into millions, I should say,’ replied Mr Foljambe with relish.
‘Well …’ said the Inspector. ‘I don’t know anything about such things myself. The room looks to me like a pawnbroker’s shop. But if you say so, sir, I must take your word for it. The gentleman,’ he jerked his thumb at Mr FitzGeorge, ‘appears to have had no family?’
‘None that I ever heard of.’
‘Very unusual, sir. Very unusual for such a wealthy man.’
‘Solicitors?’ suggested Mr Foljambe.
‘No firm has come forward as yet, sir. Yet the news was in the lunch edition of the papers; true, there’s no telephone here,’ said the Inspector, looking round in disgust. ‘They’d have to come in person.’
‘Mr FitzGeorge was a retiring sort of man.’
‘So I understand, sir – a real solitary, you might say. Can’t understand it myself; I like a bit of company. All right up here, sir?’ asked the Inspector, tapping his forehead.
‘A bit eccentric perhaps; nothing more.’
‘You would expect a gentleman of his sort to be a J.P., or something, wouldn’t you, sir? To have some public work, I mean – hospital committees, or something.’
‘I don’t think Mr FitzGeorge was very publicly minded,’ said Mr Foljambe in such a tone that Kay could not decide whether he was being sympathetic or censorious. ‘And yet,’ he added, ‘I oughtn’t to say that about a man who can leave such a priceless collection to the nation.’
‘You don’t know for sure that he has,’ said the Inspector.
Mr Foljambe shrugged. ‘His hints were pretty clear. And if he hasn’t left it to the nation, who could he leave it to? Unless he’s left it all to you, Mr Holland,’ he said, turning to Kay, pleased by his own joke.
But Mr FitzGeorge had left his collection neither to the nation nor to Kay Holland. He had left it all, including the whole of his fortune, to Lady Slane. The will was written on a half-sheet of paper, but it was perfectly lucid, perfectly in order, duly witnessed, and left no loophole for other interpretation. It revoked a previous will, by which the fortune went to charity and the collection to be divided between various museums and the National and Tate Galleries. It stated expressly that Lady Slane’s possession was to be absolute, and that no obligation was imposed on her as to the ultimate disposal.
This news was made public amid general consternation. The rage and dismay of the museums were equalled only by the astonishment and delight of Lady Slane’s own family, which gathered at once and in force round Carrie’s tea-table. Carrie was in the strong and enviable position of having seen her mother
that very afternoon; she had, in fact, rushed straight up to Hampstead. ‘Dear Mother,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t leave her alone with that great responsibility thrust upon her. You know how little fitted she is to deal with that kind of thing.’ ‘But how on earth,’ said Herbert, particularly explosive that day, ‘how on earth did it all come about? How did she know this man FitzGeorge? And what had Kay to do with it? We know Kay and FitzGeorge were friends; we never knew that Mother knew him so much as by sight. I never heard her mention his name.’ Herbert’s explosiveness crackled like a heath fire.
‘It was a plot, that’s what it was; and Kay was at the bottom of it. Kay wanted the old man’s things for himself. Well, Kay at any rate has been nicely sold.’
‘But has he?’ said Charles. ‘How do we know that Kay hasn’t got some private arrangement with Mother? Kay always kept himself apart from us; I always felt that Kay might be a little unscrupulous.’
‘Oh, surely,’ began Mabel.
‘Be quiet, Mabel,’ said Herbert. ‘I agree with Charles; certainly Kay has always been a bit of a dark horse. And Mother has never said anything to any of us about her will.’
‘Up to now,’ said Edith, who had joined her relations, though she despised herself for doing so, ‘she has never had anything to leave.’
Edith’s remark passed unnoticed as usual.
‘I disagree with all of you,’ said William, who was respected in his family for having the best grasp of practical considerations; ‘if Kay and Mother had had an understanding between them, they would not have arranged for this FitzGeorge’s fortune to go first to Mother. Think of the duties.’
‘Death-duties?’ said Edith, tactless as usual, uttering the unpleasant word.
‘Half a million at least,’ said William. ‘No. Much better that it should all have gone straight to Kay.’
All Passion Spent Page 14