Thirteen Guests

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  “I don’t ask even little children twice,” observed Bultin, removing one of Pratt’s coats from a hook so that he could use the hook for one of his own.

  “You’d ask this child twice, if it were necessary,” retorted Pratt. “You see, I have the advantage of not being a sentimentalist. You’ve grown so fond of life that you will woo it with any weapon. I dislike life so much that I’m without fear. Once life begins bargaining for my heart, I’ve done with the jade! Yes, and here’s an interesting thing,” he added. “You couldn’t commit suicide if you tried. If ever I decide to, I won’t hesitate. Posthumous opinion can find me out, if it’s amused—I shan’t be here.”

  “The little child is objectionably precocious,” commented Bultin, quite unmoved. He rather enjoyed being thought a sentimentalist. “Get on with it.”

  “I understood you never asked twice!” jeered Pratt. “‘Get on with it,’ is your second ‘Well?’ camouflaged. All right. Here goes. News from the advance guard, for Bultin’s column, ‘How the Wind Blows,’ preferred by ninety-nine per cent. of the population to Hamlet, the Bible, and Omar Khayyám. Paragraph One. ‘Miss Zena Wilding, age thirty-two by the kindness of her friends, forty-two by the unkindness of her enemies, and thirty-eight by the justice of God—’’’

  “Thirty-seven,” interposed Bultin.

  “‘—is an interesting visitor at Bragley Court this week-end. She has long awaited the really big theatrical chance she so thoroughly does not deserve. My little leopard informs me that, if she is very good, but perhaps not too good, she may receive the promise of the necessary backing by Monday next.’’’

  “I already knew that,” said Bultin.

  “Your comment was inevitable,” replied Pratt.

  “She first met the backing on the Riviera,” said Bultin, “where she went to recuperate after a serious illness. Cause and nature of illness not known.”

  “And possibly not for publication when known,” added Pratt. “Paragraph Two. ‘The celebrated artist, Leicester Pratt, who has the world of portraiture temporarily at his feet, who calls a scarcely less celebrated journalist by his Christian name, and whose bow ties become increasingly flowing, has been at Bragley Court for several days, and is now completing a portrait designed for next year’s Royal Academy of Lord Aveling’s only daughter, the Honourable Anne Aveling.’ Kindly turn that paragraph into a column.”

  “Does this window look out on the back?” said Bultin.

  “It looks out on the studio,” answered Pratt, “where the aforementioned masterpiece is in process. Paragraph Three. I think you’ll like this one better. ‘It is interesting to find Sir James Earnshaw among the guests at Bragley Court. It is well known that he does not hunt stags for the pleasure of it. Is he hunting anything else? My little leopard informs me that, if Sir James is to survive politically, he must turn Labour or Conservative, and he would be given the hand of the Honourable Anne Aveling if he decided to survive as a Conservative. This would not outrage Sir James’s private political convictions, because he hasn’t any, and then Lord Aveling might himself survive as a Marquis instead of a mere Baron, in virtue of the additional vote he brought to the Conservative Party.’’’

  Bultin condescended to turn away from a wardrobe he had been examining, and fix Pratt with a rather fish-like eye.

  “Really?” he said.

  “Really,” nodded Pratt. “Thank you for your passionate interest. I charge 3/10 for that one. But you can have the next paragraph for nothing. ‘Miss Edyth Fermoy-Jones is studying Nobility at first-hand. This is a pity, because we shall now lose those delicate flights of fancy that have illuminated so many of her previous volumes on High Life, and which once caused a Countess to bathe regularly in expensive hock. My little leopard tells me that her next novel will open with an accident to a young man at a railway station. A very beautiful widow will convey the young man to an ancestral home, will fall in love with him, and will discover that he is really a necklace thief. When a celebrated artist is murdered for painting a mole on the neck of a débutante, the young man will be arrested for the crime, and only the beautiful widow will know that his heart was too pure to devise anything worse than stealing necklaces.”

  “Will it come out that the real murderer of the artist was a famous journalist?” inquired Bultin.

  Leicester Pratt laughed, and ran on:

  “But the next paragraph is worth another 3/10. I might even work you up to four bob. ‘If Lord Aveling, already secretly harassed for funds, becomes a Marquis, how will he meet enhanced expenses? Perhaps—my little leopard tells me—Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Rowe, who have made a fortune from pork and who are anxious to emerge from the sausage-skin that has encased them so long, could supply the answer. They and their charming daughter, Ruth, have been staying for some days at Bragley Court, and if Ruth were launched into Society with a Capital S, it is possible that Lord Aveling would be able to support a marquisate. And, incidentally, to justify the expense of backing a show, while waiting.’’’

  Bultin refused to register any gratitude.

  “Who is the attractive widow?” he asked.

  “Nadine Leveridge,” sighed Pratt, in mock disappointment. “Well, if I can’t interest you above-stairs, let me try below-stairs. Leopards also prowl in basements. Do not be surprised if you are given bamboo-shoots for dinner to-night. We have a Chinese cook. No good? I’ll try again. We have something in the domestic line more attractive than a Chinese cook—a very pretty maid. Name, Bessie. Delightful figure. Make a good model. But when this was suggested to her, she was filled with charming confusion.” He rose and stretched himself. “I shall waste no more time over you, Lionel. You’re not worth it. I shall take a stroll before dressing.”

  “Do,” said Bultin. “Since you can’t tell me anything about the most interesting people here.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Chater.”

  “Ah, the Chaters,” answered Pratt. “Yes, there I’m beaten. The little leopard knows nothing about the Chaters.”

  “Nor does Lord Aveling,” replied Bultin. “But James Earnshaw does. And, unless I am reaching my dotage, the Chaters know something about James Earnshaw. Which is my bed?”

  “That one over there.”

  “Good. I’ll have the other one.”

  Pratt laughed and left the room. Outside he paused. Harold Taverley, the one man he had not mentioned, was entering his room opposite, and threw him a smile.

  “Why does that man always make me see red?” wondered Pratt.

  He went downstairs thoughtfully.

  Chapter VII

  Whitewash and Paint

  A narrow passage led from the back of the lounge-hall into the grounds, and as Leicester Pratt passed out into a sheltered lawn, its dark surface streaked with slits of light from upper windows—one window being that of his bedroom—he noticed a thin coil of smoke spiralling upwards. Then Nadine Leveridge gleamed at him out of a shadow.

  She was a creature of dazzling white, softened by the deep green of her dress. Her shoulders were perfectly formed and perfectly revealed. One was tempted to envy the narrow green strips curving with such apparent insecurity over them. A double rope of pearls made a loop in front of the simple green bodice. A silk wrap, also of green, but deeper and more brilliant in hue, partially covered one shoulder.

  “Nadine Leveridge is Life’s relentless weapon,” thought Pratt. “A woman for fools to fear.”

  Pratt did not fear her. He could even stand and regard her, deliberately studying her subtle challenges with the impertinent privilege of an artist.

  “You’ve dressed early,” he said. She nodded. “Not afraid of the cold?”

  “Not a bit.”

  He felt for his cigarette-case, and found he had left it in his room.

  “I’m sorry I can’t oblige,” remarked Nadine. “Mr. Taverley gave me this.”
/>   She held up her cigarette. Pratt noticed that it was a State Express 555.

  “Don’t move for a moment,” he said. She stood motionless, her eyebrows raised a little. Only the cigarette smoke continued its movement. “The lady with the cigarette. The lady in green. Modern Eve. Woman. Anything you damn like. When do I paint her?”

  “She’d have to pawn her pearls to pay your price,” smiled Nadine, puffing the cigarette again.

  “That’s terribly material.”

  “Goes against the grain?”

  Now Pratt smiled.

  “You must hate meeting pieces of wood like Bultin and me,” he observed.

  “Nonsense—nobody’s wood!” retorted Nadine. “Some people build wooden walls around themselves, that’s all. Bultin does, certainly.”

  “Yes, I agree. He’s chained himself inside in case he should get out and collapse. But—me?”

  “Something could move you.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve no idea. But I couldn’t. That’s why I don’t think I’ll pawn my pearls, thank you. Any one who paints me must be an out-and-out idealist.”

  “An idealist is merely another sort of man who builds a wall round his passions.”

  “And whose passions are the most ardent when the wall goes?” replied Nadine. “Yes, I know all about that! But he begins with a kind heart, and I only allow artists with kind hearts to paint me. I’ve seen your Twentieth-Century Madonna!”

  “I should never have thought you feared the truth, Nadine,” reproved Pratt.

  “I don’t. But no artist can paint the whole truth. He just paints his half—and the other half can’t answer back from the canvas. The half I fear is your half—all by its little lonesome!”

  “Touché,” murmured Pratt, “although I am not admitting there is any other half.”

  “Didn’t you paint the other half when you were twenty? I remember a picture called ‘Song of Youth.’’’

  “My God, spare me!” he winced. “Must that ghastly song follow me to the grave? And anyway,” he added, “how on earth do you remember that ancient atrocity? From your appearance, your memory shouldn’t take you back so far.”

  “I’m in shadow.”

  “Kindly step out of it.”

  She hesitated, then did so.

  “I repeat my astonishment,” said Pratt, staring at her. “You look twenty yourself! And now, I suppose, you will charge me with gallantry? No, I couldn’t stand that! Not immediately after the resuscitation of my ‘Song of Youth!’ Excuse me, before I become utterly whitewashed!”

  “I’ll excuse you,” answered Nadine, throwing her cigarette away, “but I don’t think I’m exactly the kind of person to whitewash anybody.”

  “Thank God!” said Pratt devoutly.

  He watched her pass back to the house, then stepped on to the dark lawn. It was thirty strides across. Beyond, a flagged path led between bushes to the studio.

  As he reached the building he felt in his pocket for the key. There had been no afternoon sitting that day, for horses had supplanted canvas; and there was not much chance of a sitting on the morrow, either. A stag was to be routed out of Flensham Forest, to perform its entertaining death-run. Well, he could add a few touches to the picture by himself, and finish the thing on Sunday. He’d have to get it out of the way by then, if Ruth Rowe’s was to follow.

  “Where the devil—?” he murmured.

  Then he saw the key in the door, and recalled that he must have left it there after his visit with Mr. Rowe before tea. It was then that the picture of Ruth had been decided on.

  He turned the key and entered the large room. Ruth’s picture would be dull compared with Anne’s. There was little to paint about Ruth. There were fathomless depths to reveal in Anne. He knew them. He could pierce through right down to the bed. Yes, he liked this picture—there was something definitely challenging in it. “No whitewashing, my child—we’ll show ’em—a bit of real collaboration. As a rule, I’m the only one that understands, but you understand, too. That’s what makes it!”

  And Earnshaw’s presence here this week-end added its touch of ironic justification. Anne could sell her soul, like the rest of them—or the mythical thing that was called a soul!

  He switched on the light, and turned to the picture of the Honourable Anne Aveling.

  It was almost obliterated by a long, broad smudge of paint. The smudge, crimson lake, began at Anne’s right ear, and descended diagonally across the dark-green riding habit.

  “Something could move you!” Nadine’s words screamed through his ears, as though repeated by an invisible loud speaker turned full on. He found himself trembling. He fought against vulnerable emotion.

  “Somebody’s gone mad here,” he thought. “All in a moment.”

  He recalled the moment when he had seen red in the passage outside his bedroom. Yes…it could happen.

  He turned away from the canvas, to control himself. He stared round the studio. On another easel was a large painting of a stag, done by Anne herself. It was not good, saving for the terrible, dull fear she had somehow planted in the stag’s eyes—a fear she should not have known about, since she hunted. He concentrated on the stag’s eyes for a few seconds, then turned his own eyes back to the ruined canvas. The fit of trembling had passed.

  “Queer game,” he said aloud. “I wonder whether I shall ever have the pleasure of painting the person who did this?”

  He glanced at his watch. Five minute to seven. He left the studio abruptly, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. A spent cigarette-end loomed dully from the ground. He picked it up.

  Some one was moving in the path. He dashed forward and grabbed. Sheer instinct had caused the sudden action. A hand banged him in the chest, and he staggered. When he had recovered, he was alone.

  As he came to the end of the flagged path a figure met him off the edge of the lawn.

  “Good-evening,” said the figure.

  Pratt regarded the face that rose abruptly before his, and smiled.

  “Good-evening, Mr. Chater,” he answered.

  “That’s a good guess,” replied Chater. “We’ve not met.”

  “No, that’s how I guessed,” responded Pratt. “Process of elimination. You came on the 5.56, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve not been here before?”

  “No, my first visit. Rather a nice place, isn’t it? I’m just having a stroll round.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t see much in this darkness.”

  “Enough to get one’s bearings. Where does this lead? Is that building over there the stables?”

  He was gazing along the flagged path.

  “No, that’s a studio,” answered Pratt.

  “Oh, yes, there’s an artist here, isn’t there?”

  “Well—he calls himself an artist. Are you interested in art, by any chance?”

  “Me? Not particularly. Who’s the fellow?”

  “What fellow?”

  “The artist?”

  “Leicester Pratt.”

  “Oh, Leicester Pratt! He’s rather the craze just now, isn’t he?”

  “Some people like his work.”

  “And some don’t?”

  “They all pay big prices for it.”

  “Then I don’t suppose he worries! Is he painting anybody here?”

  Pratt paused for a second before replying.

  “I have just been looking at a picture he is painting of somebody here.”

  “Good?”

  “He thinks so.”

  “Who’s it of?”

  “Lord Aveling’s daughter.”

  “Oh, not his wife.”

  The remark was made carelessly, but Pratt realised that his face was being watched, and he took great pains th
at it should convey nothing as he answered dryly:

  “I said his daughter.”

  “So you did,” smiled Chater. “Rather an attractive girl, though I’ve only seen her for a moment. Isn’t she just going to be engaged or something?”

  “Do I follow you?”

  “Eh?”

  “The ‘something?’’’

  Chater’s smile augmented to a laugh, and his teeth gleamed in the dusk.

  “Don’t mean to insinuate anything,” he said. “It’s Earnshaw, isn’t it?” As Pratt did not respond, he added, “Hope I’m not asking too many questions; but when you’re a sort of stranger—well, it’s helpful to know things. Often saves you from making a faux pas. Curiosity’s not one of my natural vices.”

  “That idea would never occur to me, Mr. Chater,” observed Pratt ironically.

  The irony made no impression.

  “I admit I would rather like to see that picture, though,” Chater went on. “Is one allowed in the studio?”

  “I’m afraid it’s locked,” replied Pratt.

  “Locked? Then how did you get in?” inquired Chater.

  “I have the key,” said Pratt, “and I locked it.”

  “That sounds as if you’re Leicester Pratt.”

  “I am.”

  “You might have warned me. Now I shall spend the rest of the evening trying to recall our conversation to see if I’ve put my foot in it! Or p’r’aps you’ll save me the trouble? Have I?”

  There was something cheap, almost insulting, in Chater’s coolness, which appeared to have been deliberately acquired, whereas the sang froid of Pratt was a natural inheritance. The artist answered:

  “You have not even put your foot in my studio. Or—have you?”

  “What, put my foot in your studio?” exclaimed Chater. “How could I have, if it’s locked?”

  “It wasn’t locked ten minutes ago.”

  Chater’s expression changed slightly. It was still cool, but a watchful quality entered into it.