by Tom Holt
She had taken her researches further, therefore, and obtained books from distant libraries, on which she had expended many hours of uncomfortable and fruitless labour. As if to mock her, the sun had shone brightly while she ground her way through the scholars’ impassable prose. Some promising clues had been revealed. She read, for instance, that a large number of Huguenots had settled in the area, and the thought that she might be a descendant of one of those romantic refugees had crossed her mind. But Huguenots were poor things to one who had been promised Normans; and besides, they had been in Trade, which would never do. There had been a certain Robert de Map, in the time of the first Henry, who was not strictly accounted for; he had supposedly been eaten by a wolf, but his head was never found. It was a possibility, but only a remote one. If only she could uncover some stronger link ....
As they ate breakfast together, Major Benjy, if he was in a good mood, would read out snippets from the newspapers that might amuse his wife. On that particular morning, he was in a very cheerful frame of mind, for his wife’s sudden immersion in historical study had meant that she had little time to spare in which she could persecute him. Therefore he was studying the Hastings Chronicle for something of interest.
‘Here, listen to this,’ he said. ‘There’s going to be a house-sale at Breakspear Hall, near Tilling, Sussex, on Tuesday, the twelfth of April. The entire contents, too, not just the expensive stuff. D’you fancy going to that, old girl?’
Elizabeth considered the idea for a moment. She enjoyed house-sales, with their unique licence for poking round other people’s houses and disparaging their possessions in a loud voice. And there was no need to buy anything. Besides, it would be a rather distinguished occasion, with all the county families (the phrase, with its unpleasant associations, made her shudder) present in full strength. Breakspear Hall was not very far away; they could drive out in the motor without overtaxing that unreliable vehicle and, on the whole, she was inclined to favour the idea. On the other hand, Major Benjy had been too much at liberty of late and there was the risk that, grown overconfident because of this, he might seek to elude her and start bidding for things: golf-clubs; tiger-skins, perhaps even cases of wine. Auction sales brought out the very worst in her husband; there had been a most awkward moment at the last sale they had been to. She had been compelled to inform the auctioneer (fortunately a most understanding man) that her husband, as a result of a wound received in the service of his country, suffered from a nervous tic that some might interpret as attempts at bidding. This slight untruth had saved the Mapp-Flint family exchequer nearly forty pounds and spared the attic of Grebe from housing still more relics of colonial life. On that occasion, however, the Major’s excessive recklessness had been directly due to the agent, who had mistaken him for someone else and given him four large glasses of whisky before Elizabeth could undeceive him. She was certain that she could ensure that there would be no repetition of that sort of thing, and for herself she knew that her own iron will-power would be proof against even the heady temptations of sale by auction.
‘I think it might be rather fun,’ she therefore replied. ‘Morning or afternoon?’
‘Eleven-o’clock sharp. Catalogues from Woolgar and Pipstow, two shillings.’
‘Oh, we shan’t need a catalogue,’ said Elizabeth firmly. ‘We’re only going to have a look. Now then, dear, what are you going to do today? Off to the golf-course again, you idle one?’
Major Benjy had found it politic to abandon his own local historical research, yielding place to his wife. Since then, the Major had returned to his first love, golf, and endured even the most inclement weather in the pursuit of excellence and exercise, either on the course or (more frequently) in the club-house. Thus it was that, despite a sharp wind and the threat of April showers, Benjy caught the eleven-o’clock tram to the links.
The Padre was his companion today, for he devoted every Monday morning to the national sport of his adopted country. They shared the first hole and, on the second, simple faith was worth more than Norman blood (or the lack of it). The third was marred by an unseemly quarrel about a supposedly lost ball in which the Padre’s cloth did not protect him from aspersions on his complete honesty; and the fact that the ball was found, after a long search, under the Padre’s foot did not strike the Major as the modern miracle that the Padre immediately proclaimed. The hole was ultimately shared and this dispute seemed to inspire both men, so that the game took on the appearance of a mediaeval ordeal by combat. At the half-way stage, however, Heaven had not made up its mind who should have had the third hole, for the match was all square and the two combatants, exhausted by their own unwonted virtuosity, decided to rest for a while.
They sought shelter from the wind in the large bunker and the Major spent a frustrating five minutes trying to light an oily Indian cheroot. When all his matches were used up and still Prometheus’ gift had not been imparted to the recalcitrant tobacco, he gave it up.
‘After all,’ said the Padre, ‘ ’tes an Indian weed, not used to our wintry climate. ’Tes no wonder it willna burn.’
The Major did not take this comment kindly; perhaps he thought it savoured somewhat of irony. Therefore he resumed the debate on the third hole.
‘I still find it remarkable that you didn’t feel the ball through the sole of your boot. A golf-ball is not so small, after all.’
‘Och, man, I tell ye I took it for a stone, and I’ll swear that it was stone when I put my foot on it. These things are not for us to rationalize; if the Lord wishes to replace a stone with a golf-ball—’
‘Nevertheless—’ Benjy checked himself, for it was unseemly to wrangle with a man of God about what might be a spiritual manifestation, especially within earshot of the President of the Club and two members of the Committee. ‘Oh well, never mind, then,’ he declared magnanimously. ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, especially Heaven. And if you can’t believe a clergyman, who can you believe?’
‘That’s very sporting o’ ye, Major, and also very pious. And since the hole was shared, let us say no more about it.’
‘But if it was a miracle —’
‘Then we were fortunate indeed to be the observers of it and we should keep it to ourselves. Can I no offer you a match for your cheroot?’
The wind abated as he spoke—surely another miracle—and the Major succeeded in lighting his tobacco. A mood of reconciliation fell over the two men and they sat a while in silence.
‘So ye’ve discontinued your researches for the time being?’ said the Padre. ‘ ’Tes a pity to be sure.’
‘Well, after that de Map business ....’
‘Och, it was a mistake that anyone could have made. No, ye should continue with it. Scholarship is a service to the community. Indeed, it is God’s work. The ancient monks of Iona kept Learning alive in the dark days o’ the heathen. The Christian Church—’
Major Benjy had heard the Padre’s excellent summary of the subject only yesterday, in church, and had taken the opportunity to rest his eyes. He had no desire to hear it all again.
‘Yes, yes, Padre, just as you said. Excellent sermon that was. But my Liz has taken against me doing any more research now that she’s started, and she’s far better at it than me.’
‘Well, I’m sorry tae hear it, Major. Can ye no continue the work without her knowing?’
‘Difficult. My wife is a fine woman, Padre. Takes an interest in everything I do. In fact, that can be rather wearing at times, though I dare say it’s with the best of intentions. Never mind.’
A golf-ball came sailing into the bunker and landed at the Padre’s feet. It was followed a moment later by Mr. Phillipson, the President of the Club.
‘Good morning, Major,’ he said. ‘Didn’t see you there.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied the Major. ‘I say, that’s fearfully bad luck. Dreadfully difficult to get out of, this bunker.’
‘I know,’ said Mr. Phillipson ruefully. ‘Good morning, Vicar. Fine Sermon, that
, all about the Picts and so on. Oh, by the way, did you hear? Braithwaite’s leaving us at the end of the month. Being transferred back to Ullapool.’
Mr. Phillipson gave his ball a mighty blow, which sent it vertically up in the air. It landed on the edge of the bunker, wobbled indecisively and fell back to its original position.
‘Is that so?’ said the Major, casually. ‘So there’ll be a vacancy on the—ah—Committee?’
‘That’s right,’ said Mr. Phillipson, rather red in the face. ‘You didn’t see that last shot of mine, did you?’
‘Me? Of course not,’ said the Major sympathetically.
Mr. Phillipson leant on his club and studied the ball as a cat studies a distant sparrow. ‘Were you thinking of putting your name forward for that vacant place on the Committee?’ he asked.
‘I might,’ said Benjy nonchalantly. ‘Don’t know if I can spare the time. Other commitments, you know. Still, if you think the Committee might look favourably ....’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr. Phillipson. ‘I heard you had taken up local history or something of the sort. Well, if you want us to consider you for that seat, let me know. No other applicants as yet. Apathy, I call it.’ He hit the ball again: again it soared up into the air, but this time cleared the lip of the bunker by a good four inches. ‘That’s better. Well, cheerio for now.’
Major Benjy had often yearned to be on the Committee of the club he had for so long graced with his membership; he had once gone so far as to stand for election, but had received only one vote (his own). Now here was another opportunity and a better one; he did not wish to expose himself to the humiliation of another ballot, but co-option might well prove a feasible course. He felt reluctant to let this opportunity slip by. But how to manage it?
‘Well then, Padre,’ he said, ‘shall we continue our match?’
His mind was not on the game as they flailed their way round the remaining holes, with the result that he beat the Padre easily and separated him from two shillings. That was a good omen in itself. He was silent in the tram back to Tilling, giving the Padre another chance to air his views on scholarship in early Christian Britain. Benjy wanted to find some tactic, some ploy that would guarantee him that longed-for seat on the Committee, and, as they drew into the Tilling terminus, an idea came to him. For the tram came in sight of the Cricket Club pavilion, which was being roused from its hibernation by the flannelled fools of the town. Lucia, he recalled, had secured for herself the presidency of that unlikely organization simply by presenting them with a new pavilion and a new roller. Could he use such a scheme to win himself the far nobler prize of a Golf Club Committee seat? He could not, of course, afford to equip the club with a new club-house, and besides, the old one had just been renovated. But a small, unostentatious gift might cause the membership to think more highly of him. A trophy of some sort; the Flint Shield for mixed foursomes, perhaps, might be competed for and the competitors must inevitably think kindly of the man who had instituted the noble prize. Instead of walking straight home, therefore, he stopped off at the jeweller’s and made enquiries about the price of a presentation silver tray. The jeweller told him.
‘How much?’ he exclaimed, horrified. ‘Oh well, forget it.’
Then he walked home.
Lucia thought it advisable not to release the news of her encounter with the Black Spaniard. Anything that savoured of a stunt would be hazardous at present and even at the best of times a reputation for seeing things could be a mixed blessing, if not a positive handicap. On the other hand, it was perfectly safe to pass on the various stories recounted in Legends of Old Sussex, and she found that the topic was of interest to all her friends. Susan Wyse was by nature inclined towards Spiritualism and firmly believed that the departed could return. She preferred to contact them through séance or Ouija-board, rather than have them drop in on her uninvited and was in two minds whether she liked the thought of living in a street haunted by the shades of smugglers and such disreputable persons; nevertheless, she did not allow her reservations about the suitability of such ghosts as her neighbours to disturb her belief in the existence of the Spirit World. Diva, who had lived in the High Street for many years without ever seeing or hearing a phantom coach, suddenly became terribly aware of any noises after dark and had extra shutters put on all her windows. Irene, who was a neighbour of the Grey Lady, set about the secret construction of a shapeless grey garment in which to imitate the spectre under Mr. Hopkins’s window (for that blameless tradesman had complained about her playing of the ukelele late into the night); while the Padre refreshed his memory of the Service of Exorcism and sent to a specialist ecclesiastical supplier in London for a selection of exorcising bells on approval. The Black Spaniard was, of course, the best of all the ghosts in Tilling and it seemed only fitting that Lucia should have the use of it, so to speak. When asked if she had ever seen it herself, she would shudder, smile a brittle smile and change the subject, so that everyone was left in no doubt that she had.
Elizabeth, not unnaturally, resented this and set about quizzing her neighbours and their servants and gardeners for any mythological reminiscences concerning Grebe. When she had almost given up hope of ever finding anything, she happened to fall into conversation with a gnarled old man who delivered the coal. He was not prepared to commit himself on the subject, but he seemed to remember that his grandfather, who had been one of the men who had worked on the construction of Grebe, had spoken of rumours of a French sea-captain who might have haunted the area before the house was built. Elizabeth toyed with this legend for a while and practised shuddering and changing the subject; but the connection was too tenuous and her recent immersion in the habits of scholars caused her to place no reliance on an unsupported oral tradition, especially since Lucia might be irritated by her French sea-captain and start her own researches into the story. So Elizabeth decided to outflank Lucia and annex the Black Spaniard. She declared, therefore, that she had known about that distinguished ghost since her childhood; Aunt Caroline had seen him so often that she stopped noticing him, and she herself was virtually on first-name terms. Certainly, she could not understand what all the fuss was about; a ghost was only a ghost after all.
Supernatural visitations apart, Elizabeth had other things on her mind. For a start, there was the matter of ensuring that Major Benjy was co-opted on to the Committee of the Golf Club. Her canvassing had been discreet at first. She had taken a sprained wrist to Dr. Dobbie, as prominent in golfing circles as in medicine, and had done her best to drop hints; but that grim man had resolutely failed to notice them. She had called at Woolgar and Pipstow to enquire whether it would be worthwhile letting Grebe for the summer; but Mr. Woolgar, the Secretary of the Club, was out and Mr. Pipstow had nearly turned her out of her own house before she was able to escape. Finally, she had gone to see the dentist in his pretty little cottage in Church Square, for he was a highly respected golfer. But she made the tactical error of allowing him to remove her plate for examination, with the result that she could not make herself understood.
Having suffered all these reverses, Elizabeth was thrown back upon Benjy’s original idea of a Challenge Trophy. She quickly overcame the major obstacle, that of expense, by suggesting that they look out for some reasonably priced article of silverware at the sale at Breakspear Hall. A relatively cheap piece could be bought and engraved for a fraction of the cost of a new one. Not that expense was an overriding consideration in this case; she was prepared to go as high as six pounds for a suitable specimen, since she had long felt that it was high time that the Major’s golf should be put to some sort of social use. Further urgency was added by the rumour that Dr. Dobbie and Mr. Phillipson were considering asking the dentist whether he might be interested in the vacant seat, Major Benjy being as yet the only candidate.
On the appointed day, therefore, Elizabeth and the Major set off in the motor for Breakspear Hall. Their journey was uneventful (except that a herd of cows delayed them for quite ten minutes and one beast
tried to eat the spare wheel) and they arrived with three-quarters of an hour in hand. Elizabeth spent the time in making a rigorous examination of the property, pointing out numerous patches of damp to her husband and detecting several areas of quite deep dust on some pieces of furniture. She also formed a very low opinion of the taste of the late owner, taking especial exception to a rather gaudy painting of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian on the ceiling of the dining-room, which her guide-book later informed her was by Angelica Kauffmann. Major Benjy expressed an interest in a set of steel-shafted drivers and some split-cane fishing-rods, which Elizabeth was quick to discourage. She pointed out that he already had more than enough golf-clubs and he never went fishing—to which he replied that he could hardly go fishing without any rods.
The discussion that ensued filled up most of the remaining time, so that there were only a few minutes to go when Elizabeth noticed a small, flat, tarnished silver tray which, together with a huge, drab urn and a rather ugly oil-painting, comprised the thirtieth lot.
‘There!’ she exclaimed. ‘That would do splendidly for your Challenge Trophy. Look, no dents or scratches to speak of. All it needs is a good polish.’
She bent over the tray and examined it closely as the auctioneer, young Mr. Pipstow, entered the room. There was a rather florid coat of arms (but that was of no consequence) and a name inscribed on the bottom, just to the left of the gummed label showing the lot number. She peered at the name and the shock of recognition nearly made her lose her balance. As young Mr. Pipstow requested everyone to take their seats for the beginning of the sale, Elizabeth distinctly made out, in small but clear-cut letters, her own surname.
Chapter 10
The sight of the three-wheeler returning, heavily laden, from Breakspear Hall was witnessed only by the lamp-lighter, and, since he was a naturally morose and untalkative man, he held his peace on the subject. This was probably just as well, for the spectacle of Major Benjy with a tarnished silver tray under one arm, a dull-framed portrait on his knees and an enormous porcelain urn clasped to his bosom would have provided men and women of ill-will with great scope for sardonic comment.