by Tom Holt
The aristocratic woman was not long in coming. ‘Paddy!’ she commanded, and the dog reluctantly left its trophy and submitted to the lead.
‘There’s a coincidence!’ whispered Diva.
‘I am most fearfully sorry,’ said the aristocratic woman in a rather beautiful voice. ‘Do let me pay for the damage my wicked Paddy may have done.’
Mr. Wyse bowed from the waist and then signalled to the chauffeur to retrieve the coat. Paddy growled, causing the chauffeur to hesitate, and it was Susan Wyse who darted fearlessly forth to retrieve her beloved sables. Once reunited with them, she became calmer.
‘There appears to be no damage,’ said Mr. Wyse without looking. The borzoi is a soft-mouthed breed, is it not? Pray do not concern yourself over such a trifling incident.’
‘Most kind of you,’ said the aristocrat. ‘But please do let me give you my card. Should there turn out to be any mark, you will of course notify me. Come along, Paddy.’
The woman departed up West Street, and Diva and Irene hurried over to the victim of the attack. She was staring with evident fascination at the card; but when she became aware of Diva and Irene she thrust it swiftly under the palm of her glove. Clearly the identity of that superior person was not to be disclosed.
‘Susan dear, what a horrible adventure!’ exclaimed Diva, her eyes riveted on the glove. ‘Step across to Wasters and have a cup of tea. Or,’ she added, for expense was unimportant at a time like this, ‘a glass of sherry.’
‘It was nothing, really,’ said Susan. ‘And it’s not every day one meets—’ she checked herself and then said, ‘meets such a charming woman. So insistent that she should pay for any damage.’
‘Who was she?’ demanded Irene shamelessly. ‘She looked a real toff to me. That’s just like the ruling classes, setting their dogs on the proletariat.’
Both Wyses directed at Irene a glance of such pure ice that even she was cowed for a moment and mumbled, ‘All right then, don’t tell me.’
‘Come Susan,’ said Mr. Wyse stiffly. ‘Good morning, Mrs. Plaistow. We meet at Mallards for Monopoly tomorrow, do we not?’
And with this alliterative dismissal, the Wyses ascended the Royce and were gone. Diva turned and shot a glance up West Street. The aristocratic woman was standing outside the garden-room inspecting the new curtains with obvious interest. Diva nudged Irene and, as they watched, the noblewoman seemed to come to a decision. She walked up to the front-door and rang the bell. Soon Grosvenor answered it and they spoke together for a while.
‘Lucia’s out and Georgie too,’ whispered Irene. ‘Will she leave a card?’
Even as she spoke, the woman took a card from her card-case and presented it to Grosvenor; then she turned and was lost to sight.
‘She’ll need to get some more engraved at this rate,’ concluded Irene. ‘Still, what fascination!’
‘Our curtains,’ said Diva. ‘Perhaps she’s a collector.’
‘What’s she collecting for then, the Red Cross? Or the Lifeboats? Look, there’s the Padre. Hoots, mon, ye’ll never guess what we’ve seen.’
And they scurried across to tell him.
Chapter 6
Lucia made several tours of inspection in her search for houses worthy of recommendation to the editor of County Life; for although she knew every stick and stone of the town by now, this new responsibility seemed to demand a fresh assessment. Although only she and Georgie knew about the forthcoming visit to the town by the photographer and the journalist of that respected publication, she found to her surprise that a wave of interest in all things architectural had broken over Tilling. All her friends were able (and ready, on every possible occasion) to point out with great authority and command of really quite difficult technical terms all the many and varied peculiarities and fascinations of their respective houses. This was especially flattering for Lucia, to whom everyone brought their architectural discoveries (for how could they be aware of her brief authority in this field?) and it was clear that a hitherto undisclosed respect for her taste and judgement in matters of aesthetics was being manifested.
‘As an example of the very best half-timbering,’ declared Susan Wyse with a degree of passion that the subject hardly seemed to merit, ‘Starling Cottage is unrivalled in Tilling. My dear Algernon and I have endeavoured to restore it to its authentic splendour by removing the blacking from the external beams—that is a West Country tradition and quite alien to the southeast coast—but in every other respect we have been the most cautious guardians of our treasured heritage.’
Lucia regarded her judicially over the rim of her coffee-cup.
‘But surely,’ she interposed while Susan was taking a breath, ‘the old, low Tudor houses in Church Square are every bit as characteristic of the style and the period, and such delightful windows!’
Susan Wyse sniffed impatiently at this irrelevance, for the Tudor houses in Church Square belonged to no one of any importance; a dentist and a retired stockbroker, neither of them in Society. It would be a scandal if Lucia had their houses pictured in County Life.
‘Chocolate-box houses!’ she declared. ‘Why, you could find their exact doubles in any town in England. But Starling Cottage has line, form, grace; it is virtually unique—’
‘If you ask me,’ interrupted Diva, ‘all these Tudor houses are much of a muchness. Boxes with bits of wood stuck on them, and sometimes the walls aren’t even straight. If I were writing—well, a book, say, on Tilling architecture—I’d want to mention the late seventeenth-century brick, such as Wasters, for example.’
‘Or Taormina,’ broke in Irene. ‘Magnificent example of late seventeenth-century artisan’s dwelling. That’s real Volkskunst, and completely unspoilt.’
‘I know dear,’ snapped Diva. ‘You’re always saying you’re going to have it done up properly when you’ve got the money, but you’ve never got around to it. Very fortunate, considering your latest ideas for improvements.’
Irene had planned to knock down all the internal walls and half the downstairs ceiling, replacing the stairs with a knotted rope. She made a face at Diva.
‘While we’re on the subject of the late seventeenth century,’ said Evie quickly (for who could say when she might next be able to speak?), ‘the Vicarage is of tremendous architectural interest. The chimneys, you know, and the miniature Greek metope over the doorway.’
‘What’s so special about your chimneys?’ demanded Diva, but Lucia, observing that the debate was growing rather acrimonious, interrupted her.
‘How fortunate we all are in living in such a picturesque town,’ she said regally, ‘and how fortunate am I to be the owner of what, in all honesty, I must confess to be the chief ornament of its domestic architecture. I feel I can say that without being condemned as a vain, boastful woman. I did not build Mallards—I only bought it. Its splendours, then, reflect not on me but upon the original builder whose name, alas, is lost to us. Ah, here they are at last. How you men love to tarry over your port, leaving us all alone.’
Georgie would gladly have swallowed his half-glass at a gulp, for the Padre had been giving him a lecture on the Vicarage windows and he felt that he had escaped only just in time to avoid the written test afterwards. To Georgie, a house was a simply a structure for going to tea in. His own passion was for furniture and porcelain, and County Life had expressed no interest in them.
‘The Padre and I have been having such an interesting chat,’ he nevertheless announced, for he had given his word that he would. ‘All about windows. Did you know that the Vicarage—’
He was not allowed to redeem his pledge to the Padre, for the debate broke out again, all the more fiercely since windows had not been discussed before. Diva’s windows, it transpired, had a discreet charm (so discreet that Diva felt compelled to spend quite five minutes pointing it out), while the windows of Taormina were the epitome of simple, functional elegance, or, as Susan Wyse rather unkindly said, square holes in the wall filled with glass. She was eloquent about the anci
ent leaded windows of Starling Cottage, which were not functional (little if any light ever managed to force its way through those opaque panes) but undeniably attractive. The windows of the Vicarage, however, spoke for themselves, which was just as well, for Evie, despite her best endeavours, did not get a chance to speak for them.
From windows the debate turned to roofs, about which Mr. Wyse was so exquisitely elegant that the careful listener could hear the semi-colons as he spoke them, and from roofs to doors. On this subject, too, feelings ran high, and Susan and Evie nearly came to blows before Lucia was able to restore order and change the subject.
‘So disappointed that dear Elizabeth could not manage to join us this evening’, she said. ‘But it seems that Major Benjy was showing signs of a severe cold this morning and Elizabeth felt it would not be wise for him to venture out of doors for a day or so.’
Lucia knew, and so did everyone else, that Major Benjy’s cold had not stopped him from playing golf that morning, or spending the afternoon at his historical researches, which had left him apparently incoherent with fascination, for his speech had been distinctly blurred as he greeted them all on their way to Mallards.
‘Ho!’ exclaimed Diva. ‘I’m not so sure. Expect it’s beneath her Norman dignity to dine with us. Well, we Saxons will just have to do the best we can without her.’
‘Nay, Mistress Plaistow,’ said the Padre severely, ‘you canna honestly say that Mistress Mapp-Flint’s sudden revelation o’ her exalted ancestry has made any difference to her demeanour. She doesna hold hersen aloof. She hasna abandoned her auld friends. She is as pleasant among us as ever she was before.’
‘She wasn’t particularly pleasant before,’ muttered Irene. ‘I’d hoped that noblesse might have obliged, but it hasn’t. She got worse—why, she cut me dead in the street the other day when I went over to congratulate her on her news. And I won’t believe in those de Maps of hers until I see some solid evidence.’
‘Och awa’ wi’ ye, Mistress Coles!’ exclaimed the Padre. ‘Do ye no ken that Mistress Mapp-Flint’s ane deportment, her carriage, her air are evidence enough? When a body’s frae the Upper Crust’—here he looked pointedly at the Wyses—‘ye dinna need documents and certificates o’ birth to prove their innate nobility. Blood will out, ’tes said, and Mistress Mapp-Flint’s noble blood is plain to see. ’Tes as plain as the nose on her face. ’
‘Or the rest of her face for that matter,’ growled Irene, who was being insufferably quaint this evening.
‘What do you think, Lucia?’ enquired Evie, who was largely neutral on the issue. ‘Do you think Elizabeth’s really descended from William the Conqueror or is it just some fairy story she’s concocted?’
‘Nothing would be simpler than to verify or refute the suggestion,’ replied Lucia gravely. ‘A little research in the Cartulary at Bodiam Castle would surely turn up the history of the de Map family. If only I could spare the time!’
‘Well, one of us could go and look,’ said Diva. ‘It’s about time that we sorted this thing out, before Elizabeth declares herself Marchioness of Tilling and starts coining money with her head on it.’
This numismatic fantasy silenced the company for some time, as they tried to picture the issues that would result. Georgie, for instance, saw Elizabeth as Britannia on the penny, with Benjy instead of a lion at her feet (or should it be a tiger-skin?); while Lucia, as befitted an antiquary, was irresistibly reminded of a Roman Victory. She pulled herself together with an effort.
‘Oh, I don’t think that the Cartulary is open to the general public,’ she said, ‘only to serious researchers who can justify their use of the facilities. I, as Mayor, could of course consult the records at any time, but I am so busy what with one thing and another. Again, Elizabeth could always go and look, since it is her own family that she is researching. In fact, I wonder why she has not already done so. There is, of course, the problem of getting to Bodiam—but I was forgetting, she has a motor now, does she not? I wonder what has become of Elizabeth’s car? We do not seem to have heard very much of it of late.’
Having thus sown the seeds of doubt in everybody’s mind, Lucia suggested a game of Monopoly. But the craze was already waning; not surprisingly, given that it had lasted longer than virtually any of its predecessors, and that the games themselves were always dominated by Lucia and Elizabeth. Someone—it may have been Georgie—suggested that they play Bridge instead, just for a change. Lucia smiled and agreed. The threat of Elizabethan domination through Monopoly had been well and truly defeated, and the weapon itself could now be laid aside.
After a joyfully acrimonious rubber, the guests thanked Lucia for a delightful evening and ventured out into the clear, cold night. Lucia paused for a while on the doorstep, as the Royce arrived to transport the Wyses round the corner to that apotheosis of the Elizabethan house, Starling Cottage, and wondered how she could best exploit her position. The danger was that the editor of County Life, and his representatives too, for that matter, had eyes of their own; they could see for themselves that Starling Cottage, with its beautiful windows and unrivalled coal-cellar, was worthy of a photograph, but that Taormina, the Vicarage and Wasters were not. It would therefore be advisable to make a virtue of necessity and recommend Starling Cottage. On the other hand, she could use the editor’s decision to cover her own, and proclaim to the disappointed householders, when the Tilling edition came out and their houses were not in it, that she could not understand why Mr. Cuthbertson had seen fit to reject her suggestions and instead devote precious space to those little Tudor slums in Church Square. After all, no one could refute such a claim.
‘I hope I am not being short-sighted,’ she said to the stars, ‘but I can’t see any risks in that.’
A cloud passed over the moon as she spoke, and she paused to debate the significance of this augury. It might be an unfavourable omen; but she preferred to think that Heaven was amused by her plan and was winking its silvery eye in approbation. She nodded her head, curtsied prettily to the moon and closed the door.
Elizabeth had avoided Lucia’s dinner party for two reasons. First, she knew that Grebe, for all its functional charm, would not be acceptable to the editor of County Life and she had no desire to witness the petty squabbles of those whose houses were more likely to recommend themselves to the vulgar taste. Secondly, she feared that Lucia might corner her with awkward questions about the three-wheeler. This difficulty would be resolved by the following noon, for the vehicle was due to be returned then by the Southampton garage, and although she did not relish the thought of writing the cheque that would complete the transaction, nevertheless she was happy at the thought of abstracting from Lucia’s quiver at least one arrow of malicious enquiry.
To while away the time until mid-day, when she would once more be able to drive triumphantly into Tilling, she sat and studied a history of the town with an eye to references to Norman families. The town had been given to a French monastery by Edward the Confessor—evidently a person almost as high-handed and imperious as Lucia herself. After the Conquest, King William had granted land nearby to some of his captains, and although the name de Map was not among those listed, she drew confidence from the statement. She closed her eyes and tried to picture in her mind her warrior ancestor, but the image did not form clearly in her imagination; for if he had the distinctive Mapp ears, they would not fit inside his helmet.
It had not been her intention to make an issue of her noble descent. Others had drawn inferences from Major Benjy’s rather indiscreet disclosures. But since she had been drawn into conflict, she must bear her part bravely and assemble evidence on her side. Admittedly, it was not fear of letting down the family name that troubled her; if anything, it was fear that the family name might in some way let her down. Still, there was a lot to be said for being of noble blood, and as she sat and read, and occasionally lifted her head to gaze out of the window at the marshes beyond, she felt a vague sense of unjustified loss. No one could be more liberal in her vi
ews than she; she was a firm believer in democracy, and honest worth must always count for more than noble blood. But the fact that Lucia—a lawyer’s widow, born a Smythe and transformed by second marriage into the wife of a mere Bartlett (on his mother’s side)—occupied the fine old house, the jewel of Tilling, that had been in the Mapp family for who knew how many generations (she certainly did not, which was probably just as well) pained her deeply. She had never quite forgiven Lucia, despite several attempts, for encouraging her to indulge in the Stock Market speculations that had come close to ruining her, with the result that she had been compelled to exchange her beloved Mallards for two thousand pounds and this modern and unphotogenic house on the very outskirts of town. The sudden discovery of her ancestry made this wound that had never properly healed open yet again. And now, she reflected angrily, Lucia would be photographed standing outside the de Map family home, or in the window of the Mapp garden-room and would generally take credit for a house that had been built when the Smythes, Lucia’s family, were doubtless still hewers of wood and drawers of water.
Outside the window, Diva was hurrying by on her daily walk. The road that led out from Tilling towards the little village on the coast near the golf-course was one of her favourite excursions, but there was always the awkward problem of getting past Grebe. If Elizabeth were at home she would be watching at the window and would insist on her coming in for tea and a little chat. Since Elizabeth’s chat, unless concerned with some object of immediate interest such as the eccentric or reprehensible behaviour of a mutual friend, tended to turn very quickly into veiled personal criticism, Diva did not relish the thought of being waylaid, and had therefore of late taken other walks, far less attractive but relatively safe. But she wanted to walk along the Military Road again and see what colour curtains people who lived along there were putting up to greet the spring, and so had resolved to take her daily exercise during the marketing hour, when Elizabeth would be sure to be in town. This meant missing the day’s news, which was most unfortunate, but today, since the weather was so fine, she felt ready to make that sacrifice.