Lucia Triumphant

by Tom Holt

  ‘I suppose it might be something to do with Benjy and the Golf Club,’ she said.

  ‘Hadn’t you heard?’ cried Evie, delighted to find that she was not, as she had previously thought, the last to hear the news. ‘Benjy didn’t get on to the Committee after all and his offer of a prize for a mixed-doubles tournament was rejected.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Diva, Schism completely forgotten. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, Kenneth told me that he and Benjy were playing a round of golf together and Benjy hit a most glorious drive, much further than he’s ever hit one before, right on to the green.’

  ‘That’s the bit where the hole is, isn’t it?’ asked Diva. ‘I think so. But Benjy hadn’t expected it to go that far—usually his shots go right up in the air and land a few yards away—and he hadn’t bothered to call out—what is that word they use?’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ said Diva, who could easily imagine the sort of word the Major might use, if provoked.

  ‘Fore! That’s it. The Major hadn’t called out “Fore” and the ball went down very fast and hit Mr. Phillipson—he’s the Chairman or the President or something—right on the nose, just when he was putting to win the match. Of course, he missed his putt and that made him absolutely furious. Kenneth suspects he had a wager on it. Meanwhile, Benjy was angry too because it was the best stroke he’s ever played and he kept saying that, if Mr. Phillipson hadn’t been in the way, the ball would have gone down the hole and been a starling, or whatever it is they call it.’

  ‘I know that one,’ said Diva. ‘It’s a birdie. Go on.’

  ‘And then the Major accused Mr. Phillipson of sabotage and Mr. Phillipson did the same and then they had words. And the Major had already bought the plate he was going to present as a prize. It’s very sad.’

  This epic tale seemed to deprive both of them of speech for a while.

  ‘He could still present the plate,’ said Diva.

  ‘I think he offered, but Mr. Phillipson was very rude to him and so he said he would report Mr. Phillipson to the Committee. I don’t think that was very tactful of him in the circumstances.’

  Evie finished her seed-cake and took her leave, for it would soon be time to dress, and set off for Grebe. The Wyses and Lucia had offered to provide transport, but Diva began to feel rather concerned about whether she should accept or not, in the light of Elizabeth’s pronouncement. What if the passage of the Royce along the High Street, with her and the Wyses in it, should cause Wasters to collapse? As a householder, she felt that she ought to refuse the offer. On the other hand, it was a long way to Grebe and it looked as if it might rain. Diva sat worrying about this for some minutes, until it was nearly too late to dress and walk to Grebe (that is, if she was going to walk). She got up and then sat down again.

  ‘Oh, why is everything so difficult?’ she wailed.

  Lucia and Georgie (it went without saying) were the last to arrive at Grebe.

  ‘So sorry,’ trilled Lucia, as they were shown into the morning-room, ‘but official business held me up. One is hardly able to call one’s evenings one’s own. But my police inspector had some warrants for me to sign.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Elizabeth, ‘you’re here now.’

  ‘One of them—a most unfortunate case—Mr. Archer’s son. You know Mr. Archer, don’t you, Major?’

  Mr. Archer was the man to whom the Major had sold the three-wheeler. For a moment, the Major felt a little uncomfortable, but Lucia had said that it was his son that was in trouble, not Mr. Archer himself. He steadied himself with a sip of sherry from Georgie’s glass.

  ‘The prosecution alleges,’ Lucia continued, ‘that young Archer borrowed his father’s car—a new one he had bought only recently—to drive into Hastings with some friends. He was stopped on the main road and his headlights and back tyre were found to be in an unfit condition. There was only one—the vehicle was a three-wheeler. As if that were not bad enough, the prosecution also alleges that the young man had no licence to drive the aforesaid vehicle. If the case is proven I shall have no alternative but to fine the young man heavily. Such a shame—the boy is about to go back to Cambridge for his final examinations. I do hope the college authorities will not be too hard on him’.

  ‘A most shocking case,’ said Elizabeth firmly. ‘Such people are a menace to society. Another glass of sherry, Mr. Georgie?’

  Mr. Wyse had knitted his eyebrows during this narration and something was plainly troubling him. ‘Mrs. Pillson,’ he said at length, ‘you spoke of a licence to drive. Pray enlighten me as to the nature of this licence.’

  Lucia did so and Mr. Wyse thanked her. ‘Remind me, Susan dear,’ he said to his wife, ‘to ascertain whether our chauffeur has one of these licences. If not, we must insist that he obtain one as quickly as possible.

  Elizabeth, who had gone a strange colour, interrupted Mr. Wyse at this moment and began to praise the rather magnificent cummerbund he was wearing, which it seemed she had only just noticed (although she had been sitting opposite him for quite some time). Such a beautiful shade of purple, or should she say claret? And such material!

  ‘A present from my dear wife,’ said Mr. Wyse, rather indistinctly.

  ‘And this is, so to speak, its début?’ enquired Elizabeth sweetly.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ replied Mr. Wyse, whose normally impassive face was turning almost the same colour as his cummerbund. The significance of this was wasted on nobody; a present, at this unseasonable time of the year, must mark the anniversary either of a birth or of a marriage, and everyone knew when Mr. Wyse had been married. What they had never been able to ascertain, however, despite their very best endeavours, was when Mr. Wyse’s birthday was, let alone how many birthdays he had celebrated. This evidence of the cummerbund had narrowed the search down to April. Was this, Diva wondered, the interesting item of news for which they had been assembled? It was certainly interesting enough.

  ‘Charming,’ said Elizabeth, ‘quite charming.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Lucia persisted, ‘what has become of your motor? I did not see it outside in its usual place when I arrived just now. No trouble with it, I hope?’

  Elizabeth laughed gaily. ‘Trouble? It was trouble incarnate. Such a bore, Lucia dear, quite like a little child with all its tiresome requirements. No, I think I shall be much better off without it. Benjy-boy and I were beginning to miss our lovely walk into town—quite stout we were both becoming, I dare say. And so antisocial, with its fearful noise and its awful fumes. And all the damage it must have been doing to our beautiful town.’

  ‘Damage?’ asked Lucia, unwittingly.

  ‘Did you know that motor-vehicles are threatening to undermine our oldest and most historic buildings? Their incessant vibrations and the noxious chemicals in their exhaust emissions. A study has recently been published. You ought to get a copy.’

  ‘How terrible,’ observed Lucia calmly. ‘I must look into this. We cannot have our buildings put at risk.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Elizabeth, ‘for a start—’

  ‘In fact,’ continued Lucia, ‘as Mayor I should say I had a duty to take official notice of this study. I must obtain a copy, as you suggest.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Elizabeth. ‘If I were you —’

  ‘Depending on what the study had to say,’ Lucia said, her voice rising serenely over Elizabeth’s interruptions, ‘I think I might recommend that the Council take some action .... A ban on motor traffic, let us say, through the old town, except for vehicles collecting or delivering goods. That ought to alleviate the problem to some extent, although it would of course cause some considerable hardship to some members of the community.’

  The Wyses were nodding their heads; it would cause them more than mere hardship. But Elizabeth had not noticed them. She therefore said:

  ‘My dear, you should not concern yourself with the worries of a few selfish individuals. Let them walk. What really matters is the preservation of our wonderful heritage.’

 
At these words, a strangled cry burst from Mr. Wyse’s lips, and Elizabeth, turning round, was confronted by a fierce scowl of rage from Susan and a look of great sadness from her husband. At once, Elizabeth realised that she had been led into a trap. Before she could say anything, however, Lucia had started again.

  ‘Of course,’ she drawled, in her most infuriating tone, ‘some of these studies are based on the flimsiest of evidence. Should this study turn out to be of such a nature, no action will be required. I wonder if that will be the case. It really doesn’t do, I always find, to make up one’s mind before one has had a chance to examine all the evidence and to take every factor and viewpoint into consideration. What new evidence did you say was contained in this particular study, Elizabeth?’

  Elizabeth was forced to confess that she had not actually read the study, only a brief summary of it in the newspaper. Mr. Wyse seemed visibly relieved, while Susan, who had been clutching his arm as if in need of protection, released it and gave Elizabeth a look of concentrated hatred.

  ‘I see,’ said Lucia judicially, ‘you have not actually read the study, yet the brief account of its findings in the paper was enough to make you sell your car at once. That was most public-spirited, dear, but perhaps a trifle hasty.’

  Elizabeth felt herself concerned and for a moment knew not which way to turn. Then inspiration came to her and she turned, without replying to Lucia, and addressed the Padre.

  ‘So sorry to hear that the Bishop is being so difficult about the exorcism,’ she said. ‘So foolish and uncooperative, too. What possible harm could it do? Not to mention all the benefits. Now I confess that, while I lived at Mallards, I found the ghost was no trouble at all—company for me, in fact—but to those of a nervous disposition—’

  ‘ ’Tes enough to make one despair o’ the Kirk of England,’ muttered the Padre ferociously. ‘Why, the service is there in the prayer-book. How dare they say I canna perform it in my own parish.’

  Georgie stirred uncomfortably in his chair. He had been secretly glad when he heard that the service had been forbidden, for he was dreadfully afraid that, as the object of the exorcism, he would be affected in some way. He had no wish to be exorcised.

  ‘But it’s such a tar’some business,’ he burst out, ‘and so unkind to the poor ghost. And besides, it sounds awfully messy—all that water being splashed about and candle-wax dripping on to the furniture. And suppose my bibelots got wet?’

  ‘You wouldna like it if a poltergeist got into your collection,’ said the Padre angrily. ‘Just think of the harm that it might do. It would hurl your snuff-boxes about the room and shatter your Venetian glass!’

  Georgie was struck dumb at this horrible thought. Could one do anything to prevent a poltergeist getting into the house? He had an idea that garlic was supposed to keep them away (or was that only for vampires?).

  ‘For my part,’ said Susan Wyse, ‘I am quite relieved that this proposed ceremony will not be taking place. Not,’ she added hastily, ‘for the quite absurd reasons put forward by the Bishop’s chaplain, which I am sure are not the views of the Bishop himself. It is, however, my firm belief that genuine ghosts are rare enough as it is. Why, it would be comparable to pulling down an historic building, or killing some endangered species of animal. It takes hundreds of years to build up the psychic energy required to manifest an apparition.’

  The debate could have raged further, for all had their own contribution to make on this topic. Major Benjy could have spoken about devil-worship in the East, while Diva was convinced that she had once seen a friend’s gardener coming out of a public-house in Hastings when he should have been at work in Tilling, although when questioned later he gave his word that he had been in Tilling all day—clearly a case of a psychic phenomenon. However, this valuable evidence was not heard, for Withers announced that dinner was ready, and everyone went into the dining-room. Conversation during the meal was confined to more or less neutral topics, for it is hard to participate fully in a discussion if one’s mouth is full of lemon sole, especially if the lemon sole is unusually palatable. Even Lucia was forced to admit to herself that Elizabeth’s cook had produced edible food on this occasion: and since the shortcomings of Elizabeth’s table were generally to be attributed not to the cook’s incompetence but to Elizabeth’s excessive frugality in the obtaining of the ingredients, Lucia wondered why Elizabeth had chosen on this occasion to spend money on ingredients of reasonable quality. Indeed, Diva was moved to describe the sherry trifle as ‘luxurious’.

  ‘I quite agree with you, Diva dear,’ said Lucia. ‘Congratulations to cook, Elizabeth, and tell her how well she’s mastered my recipe.’

  ‘Your recipe?’ cried Elizabeth, nearly choking. She would have developed this theme further had she not recalled, in a sudden access of memory, that the recipe was indeed one of Lucia’s, sent as a peace-offering after a long-forgotten period of civil war. So she was forced to smile and say, ‘Of course, I remember now. But I think that cook has found a way to improve on your perfection, dear friend. A little less cream, so as not to mask the flavour.’

  ‘I thought I detected a slight—how shall I put it? Not blandness exactly, but a mildness to which I am not accustomed. But I agree with you, an improvement. No great loss of flavour; and cream is so expensive nowadays, isn’t it?’

  Elizabeth could not help but admire, purely as one craftswoman admires the work of another, the skill with which Lucia made it seem as if she had interfered with the recipe simply in order to save a few pennies. She made no reply, but instead resolved to make Lucia’s forthcoming humiliation all the more severe. Hitherto she had not planned to make it sound as if Lucia had deliberately concealed evidence of the survival of the de Maps. After this latest sally, however, she began to compose the form of words that she would use to cast the aspersion. As soon as it was feasible to do so, she proposed that the men be abandoned to the mercy of the port and ushered her female guests into the drawing-room.

  It was Diva, quick of eye and incurably inquisitive, who first took notice of Miss Lydia Mapp, glorious in her shrine of pot-plants.

  ‘That’s new,’ she cried, and, scuttling across the room like a circular Jack Russell chasing a rabbit down a hole, she thrust her head through the surrounding foliage. ‘Who’s it meant to be?’

  Elizabeth did not reply; indeed, she averted her head and chattered gaily to Susan Wyse. It would be only a matter of time before Diva’s investigative powers answered her question for her.

  ‘Miss Lydia Mapp,’ Diva spelled out. ‘Any relation?’

  ‘What was that, Diva dear? Oh, you’ve found my little discovery, have you?’

  Diva’s eyes were glued to the canvas, for she had seen the date and was making rapid mathematical calculations in her head.

  ‘Benjy and I went to the sale at Breakspear Hall. So sad, all those lovely things being sold off. Those terrible death-duties—so morbid, don’t you think? And there it was.’

  ‘But the date says 1768,’ said Diva, in an awed voice.

  ‘That is my interpretation, certainly.’

  ‘So what was it doing at Breakspear Hall?’ demanded Evie, manners wholly forgotten.

  ‘How I racked my brains, dear Evie! I can only conclude that this Miss Mapp later became a Mrs. Perowne—the family at the Hall, you know—and that her future husband requested her portrait as a token of love. So romantic, don’t you think?’

  Susan Wyse, though not by nature easily manoeuvrable, had gained her feet and almost jostled Diva out of the way.

  ‘But my dear, this is most thrilling!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such a find!’

  ‘Why dear?’ asked Elizabeth innocently. Far better to have the explanation given by an independent source.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ said Susan impatiently. ‘It means that your distinguished ancestors, the de Maps, could not have died out in the seventeenth century, as some people’, and she gave Lucia a pointed look, ‘have led us to believe. They were obviously a family of great presti
ge in the eighteenth century, if a Miss Mapp was a suitable match for one of the Perownes.’

  Elizabeth’s expression, one of pleasant unconcern, did not change at these words, although in her heart she was deeply relieved. It had suddenly struck her that she ought perhaps to have restored away the second ‘p’ of Mapp, to ensure that the link might be easily made. But Susan Wyse had grasped it at once—she who was not, perhaps, the most brilliant mind in Tilling. It had worked.

  ‘Why, that seems logical enough,’ said Evie. ‘Fancy! But Lucia said ....’ She fell silent and gave Lucia a suspicious glance. Why had that account of the de Maps been so categorical, she wondered? Either Lucia’s scholarship or her veracity was at fault, it seemed. To put it bluntly, had Lucia told a deliberate untruth? Evie did not appear to be alone in her doubts, for Diva and Susan were quiet also.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be pleasant if it were so!’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘And mine is not a common name. But of course there is no way of proving it. I’m afraid the Perowne papers were all dispersed at the sale, some to a private collector, some, I recall, to an American university. So now we will never know the truth.’

  ‘The portrait is evidence enough, surely,’ said Susan, her eyes fixed on the canvas.

  ‘Kenneth will be fascinated when he sees it,’ said Evie, and who could fail to detect the significance of the words? Susan nodded her agreement, for Kenneth would not be nearly as interested as Algernon would be, except perhaps in his professional rôle as guardian of truth and enemy of falsehoods.

  Lucia recognised their mood and a sick feeling of panic surged briefly inside her. ‘May I?’ she asked, and stepped in front of the painting. Style, date and signature were all above suspicion and despite (or perhaps because of) Signor Pedretti’s lack of skill, she was certain that she could detect a likeness; look thou upon this picture and on this, as it were. The ears, in particular, were most distinctive.

  ‘There is a strong resemblance, don’t you think?’ said Evie to Lucia, acidly (for already in her mind she had convicted Lucia of suppressio veri).