by Muriel Spark
The women scream.
‘Take the girls away,’ says the Inspector to a plain-clothes man. ‘Put them in the kitchen and make them calm down.’
Clovis leads the way to the servants’ quarters while the Inspector says to Lister, ‘Didn’t you hear anything during the night? No shots? No shouting or screaming?’
The wind encircles the house and the shutters bang. From the attic comes a loud clatter. ‘No, Inspector. It was a wild night,’ says Lister.
Up the drive comes a caravan of cars.
The doctor has scrutinised the bodies, the police have taken their statements, they have examined and photographed the room. They have confiscated a letter written by the Baron, to the effect that he has just shot his wife and his secretary and is about to shoot himself, that this is the only solution and that he has no ill feelings against anyone. The Inspector has permitted Lister to read it but has refused it to the reporters who now swarm in the great hall and make a considerable hubbub.
The women have been released from the kitchen, having given their shaken and brief testimony, and again join the household group at the door of the library.
‘I must have a last look,’ says Eleanor. Heloise casts a doleful eye at a television camera which does not fail to register it. The noise from the reporters swells as, one by one, the covered bodies on their stretchers are borne out of the room. ‘Here they come,’ says Lister to his troop, ‘Klopstock and barrel.’
The bodies are stowed away in the ambulance. The police seal off the main quarters of the house, pushing the reporters out into the subsiding storm and requesting the servants to retire to their wing.
The doctor then suggests he takes away the ladies to be treated for shock, but they bravely resist. ‘The porter’s wife,’ says the Inspector, ‘could do with a bit of treatment. Better take her.’
‘I should take them both, sir,’ says Lister.
The reporters now crowd in the back door. ‘Inspector,’ says Lister, ‘I shall deal with them briefly then turn them out. We’re all rather shaken. If you want any further information we are here.’
‘Very helpful,’ says the Inspector. ‘I’ll leave a couple of my men to guard the house. Don’t let anyone into the library or upstairs, any of you.’
Heloise says, ‘They won’t go upstairs, you can be sure of that. My Monet and my Goya are upstairs. One can’t be too careful.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ says the Inspector.
‘She is overwrought,’ says Lister and says a word or two in the Inspector’s ear.
‘Yes, yes,’ says the Inspector, eyeing Heloise.
Lister murmurs another few words, gesturing towards the ceiling.
‘Oh yes,’ says the Inspector, looking up. ‘We know about him. Relative of the Baroness.’
‘No, the Baron.’
‘Really? — Oh, well. An unfortunate family.’
Lister adds a further piece of information in an undertone.
‘Yes, well, if he’s the father, you did the right thing,’ says the Inspector, anxious to join his men in the police car which is now waiting at the back door. He shoves his way through the crowd, refusing comment, and drives off.
•
Very soon Lister’s four friendly journalists go to their car with their brief-cases under their arms, and drive away.
‘Now for the riff-raff,’ Lister says to his clan, ‘Eleanor and Clovis can take one bunch in the sitting-room. Heloise and I will hold our press conference in the pantry. Hadrian and Irene can sit round the kitchen table with Pablo, representing the young approach. Mr Samuel and Mr McGuire — you can go the rounds.’
They settle themselves accordingly. The cameras flash. Microphones are thrust forward to their mouths like hot-dogs being offered to hungry pilgrims.
The voices drown the hectic howl which descends from the breakfasting bridegroom.
Eleanor is saying, ‘Like a runaway horse, not going anywhere and without a rider.’
Hadrian is saying, ‘The flight of the homosexuals . . . ’ to which his questioner, not having caught this comment through the noise, responds ‘. . . the flight of the bumble-bee?’ ‘No,’ says Hadrian.
Lister is saying, ‘. . . and at one time in my youth I was a professional claque. I applauded for some of the most famous singers in the world. It was quite well paid, but of course, hand-clapping is an art, it’s a question of timing. . . . ’
‘Togetherness . . . ’ says Irene.
Hadrian is saying, ‘Death is that sort of thing that you can’t sleep off. . . . ’
Pablo’s voice cuts in, ‘. . . putting things in boxes. Squares, open cubes. It’s a mentality. Framing them. . . . ’
Eleanor says, ‘Like children playing at weddings and funerals. I have piped and ye have not danced, I have mourned and ye have not wept.’
Lister, turning in his chair to a prober behind him, is saying, ‘He didn’t do his own cooking or press his own trousers. Why should he have consorted, excuse my language, with his own wife?’
Clovis says, ‘. . . not on the typewriter — you wake the whole household, don’t you? What I call midnight oil literature is only done by hand. It’s an art. Yes, oh no, thanks, I intend to make other arrangements for publication.’
Irene is saying, ‘No, he wanted it that way, I guess, until she did a Lady Chatterley on him . . . A Victorian novel, don’t you know it? She was really quite typical at heart when it came to Victor.’
Lister is heard to recite, ‘For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come upon me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet.’
Eleanor is saying, ‘No. No living relatives on her side.’
Pablo says, ‘Ghosts and fantasies rising from sex-repression.
Clovis says, ‘Descendant of the Crusaders.’
‘. . . somewhat like the war horse,’ says Lister, ‘in the Book of Job: He saith among the trumpets Ha! Ha! and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains and the shouting. . . . ’
‘. . . hardly ever seen,’ Eleanor is saying. ‘He wears a one-piece suit zipped and locked. The Swiss invented the zip-fastener. . . . ’
‘Well it’s like this,’ says Pablo, ‘if you put friendship out to usury and draw the interest. . . . ’
The Reverend has now come down for his breakfast and stands bewildered in the doorway of the servants’ sitting-room where Eleanor and Clovis are holding their crowded conference. He has his press-cutting in hand.
‘Reverend!’ says Eleanor, pushing over to him.
‘There’s a man on the landing outside my room. He made me come down the back stairs. Where’s Cecil Klopstock? I want to show him this.’
Eleanor is swept away and replaced by five reporters. ‘Reverend would you care to elaborate on your statement about the sex-drug . . . ? Did the Baron . . . ?’
Eleanor, herself surrounded once more, is saying, ‘. . . frothing and churning inside like a washing machine in full programme.’
Lister, beside her, addresses another microphone, ‘The glories,’ he says, ‘of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.’<
br />
‘Could you repeat that, sir?’ says a voice. Clovis pushes his way through the mass of shoulders and reaches Lister. ‘Phone call from Brazil,’ he says. ‘The butler won’t fetch Count Klopstock to the phone. Absolutely refuses. He’s locked in the study with some friends and he’s on no account to be disturbed.’
‘Leave word with the butler,’ says Lister, ‘that we have grave news and that we hope against hope to hear from the Count when morning dawns in Rio.’
Hadrian is saying, ‘When my brother had the flower-stall at the Piazza del Popolo and Iolanda had a little pitch for the newspapers a few steps away . . . It was a windy corner.’
The Reverend, though trembling, is eating his breakfast in bed. The storm has passed and the sun begins to show itself on the wet bushes, the wide green lawns and the sodden rose-garden. The reporters with their microphones and cameras have trickled away. Lister is looking at the cigarette-stubs on the floor. Clovis opens the kitchen window. A homely howl comes down from the attic.
A car approaches up the drive.
‘No more,’ says Lister. ‘Send them away.’
‘It’s Prince Eugene,’ says Eleanor. ‘He’s gone round the front.’
‘Well, he’ll be sent round the back,’ says Lister, kicking a few cigarette stubs under the sideboard. ‘Let us all go to bed.’
Footsteps can he heard squelching round the back of the house, and the top half of Prince Eugene’s face appears at the open window.
‘Have they all gone?’ he says.
‘It’s our rest-hour, your Excellency.’
‘I’m a Highness.’
Eleanor says, ‘Was there something we can do for you, your Highness?’
‘A word. Let me in.’
‘Let his Highness in,’ says Lister.
Prince Eugene enters timidly. He says, ‘The neighbours have been parked out on the road all morning. They didn’t have the courage to come. Admiral Meleager, the Baronne de Ventadour, Mrs Dix Silver, Emil de Vega, and all the rest. Anyway, I got here first. Can I have one word with you, Lister, my good man?’
‘Come into the office,’ says Lister, leading the way into the pantry office. Mr Samuel’s camera flicks imperceptibly, just in case.
Prince Eugene takes the chair indicated by Lister. ‘Any of you like to come over to my place? Have you thought it over? It’s very comfortable. I can offer —’
‘At the moment, sir,’ says Lister, ‘we want to go to sleep and we don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Oh, quite,’ says the Prince, rising. ‘It’s only that I wanted to get here before the others.’
‘It’s very understandable,’ says Lister, rising, too. ‘But in fact we’ve made our plans.’
‘Miss Barton? — Would she consider a few light household duties? Surely the poor fellow can’t go on living here?’
‘Miss Barton will be needed. Heloise desires her to stay. Heloise was a parlour maid but she married the new Baron early this morning.’
‘You don’t say! They got married.’
Lister whispers in his ear.
‘Oh, I understand. Quite drastic, though, isn’t it?’
‘They can marry or not marry, as they please, these days, sir.’ says Lister. ‘Times have changed. Take Irene, for instance.’
‘Which one is Irene?’
‘The very charming one. Quite the most attractive. A very good little cook, too.’
‘I can offer her a very good wage.’
‘These days,’ says Lister, ‘they want more.’ He again murmurs a few words in the Prince’s ear.
‘I’m not the marrying type,’ whispers the Prince shyly.
‘It’s the best I can offer, your Highness. She’s happy enough with her evening off at the airport.’
‘Well, I’d better be going,’ says the Prince.
‘Thank you for calling, sir.’
Lister leads the way to the back door, where Prince Eugene hesitates and says, ‘Are you sure we can’t make some alternative arrangement with Irene?’
‘Yes,’ says Lister. ‘I have others in mind for her in this part of the world who would be grateful to have her seated at their table. She’s a very capable young housekeeper. The Marquis of —’
‘Very well, Lister. Arrange the details as soon as possible. Accept no other offers.’
The Prince tramples round once more to the front of the house, gets into his car and is seen to be driven off, sunk in the back seat, pondering.
The plain-clothes man in the hall is dozing on a chair, waiting for the relief man to come, as is also the plain-clothes man on the upstairs landing. The household is straggling up the back stairs to their beds. By noon they will be covered in the profound sleep of those who have kept faithful vigil all night, while outside the house the sunlight is laughing on the walls.
Copyright © 1971 Muriel Spark
All rights reserved. Except for a brief passage quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Manufactured in the United States of America
New Directions Books are printed on acid-free paper.
First published as New Directions Paperbook 1180 in 2010
Design by Michael Barron
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data
Spark, Muriel.
Not to disturb / Muriel Spark.
p. cm. -- (New Directions paperbook ; NDP1180)
eISBN 978-0-8112-1977-8
1. Nobility--Crimes against--Fiction. 2. Murder--Fiction. 3.Master and servant--Fiction. 4. Geneva, Lake (Switzerland and France)--Fiction. I. Title.
pr6037.p29n6 2010
823'.914--dc22
2009051816
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
New Directions books are published for James Laughlin
by New Directions Publishing Corporation
80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011
ALSO BY MURIEL SPARK
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A Far Cry from Kensington
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