by Q. Patrick
“I wonder if you can help us with something that puzzles us rather. It’s about that empty cup. Dr. Hoskins tells me you couldn’t account for it’s being as it is. But I wondered if perhaps you’d remembered anything since that time.”
A muttered exclamation broke from the man’s lips. “How did you know? I have remembered. But didn’t she tell you herself?”
“Who?” asked the Archdeacon, surprised in his turn.
“Miss Lucy, sir.”
“Yes?” said Lucy, hearing her name; “did you want me?”
“It was Miss Lucy, sir,” said Will Cockett, staring solemnly at the Archdeacon, and avoiding looking in Lucy’s direction. “Miss Lucy rinsed it out after tea when Bella was took bad. Miss Lucy went to fetch water and picked up Bella’s cup to fetch it in. I remember now, though it had clean gone out of my head last night.”
The Archdeacon wheeled round to confront Lucy, who had half risen out of her chair.
“That’s true, Will,” she said in a wan voice. “I’d forgotten, too. That is what happened.”
“There now, don’t trouble yourself,” said the Archdeacon, in his smoothest, silkiest tones. “Sit down again, Miss Lubbock. It’s easy to forget these little things. Quite—extraordinarily—easy.”
IV
While the Archdeacon was getting his first general impressions of Crosby-Stourton, Lady Crosby settled herself into the recesses of the great black Daimler and stared at the back of her chauffeur’s impeccable uniform. She might have been considering critically the cut of his coat, or she might have been revolving in her mind the incongruity of sudden and unexplicable death in this her own quiet village, or she might have been thinking of nothing at all. Fields and cottages flew past. The capable Briggs swerved suddenly to avoid a dog. The great car lurched, righting itself by a narrow margin. Lady Crosby merely continued to observe the back of her chauffeur’s neck with a brooding impassivity.
Crosby Hall loomed large and mellow in the late afternoon sunlight as Lady Crosby trotted up the steps. Sir Howard met her at the door. The Daimler’s noiseless approach, and Sir Howard’s immediate appearance, might have led a casual observer to believe that he had been waiting with impatience for his wife’s arrival. Yet he greeted her brusquely, and pecked at her cheek in rather the manner of a sea-gull who has discovered a doubtful piece of fish on the beach. She gave him a hurried glance, in which appeal and timidity were blended, and asked at once after his own and Christopher’s health.
“Humph,” grunted Sir Howard. “I’m all right. And so’s that blasted boy, if you’re talking about his lungs and his digestion and his sleeping at night. But his head’s all wrong. It’s my belief he’s a little mad, and that’s what comes of all your notions about democracy and women and educating people above their stations and all the rest of it.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Lady Crosby. “Surely you don’t think Christopher over-educated? I thought you were always regretting that he wasted his time at the Varsity by reading natural sciences.”
“Christopher! ” broke in Sir Howard. “He’s illiterate’! He doesn’t know the difference between the Quorn and the Cottesmore, and he thinks a Brush is simply something for sweeping up cobwebs. No. It’s the Lubbock girl I’m talking about. He’s infatuated with her. And not only is she entirely beneath him in class (in spite of the way you’ve pampered her and taught her to give herself airs), but look at the scandal in her family. You’ve heard about it, I suppose (and I’ve sent for Scotland Yard, too, because Archer’s as nonplussed as a hen with a duckling). You mark my words. That’s what comes of all these high-falluting ideas. Perhaps you can do something with Christopher, but God knows I can’t.”
Sir Howard shook his head violently and made off towards the billiard-room, muttering as he went, “morganatic, positively morganatic.” He paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. “Vivien Darcy’s coming to dinner tonight. Now there’s a fine girl….”
With curiously expressionless eyes Lady Crosby watched him go. Then she turned and mounted the age-old stair-case with the lagging step of an old, old woman. Once in her room she rang the bell for Carrie, her maid. Carrie bustled in, round and cheerful. She had bright, dark eyes like shoe-buttons, and a quantity of greying hair piled haphazard on the top of her head. She was devoted to her mistress, and indeed with good reason, for few grand ladies in search of a maid would have put up for long with Carrie’s untidiness. It was even whispered in the servant’s hall that she never combed her hair, merely stirring it once a week with a spoon. But the second butler was notoriously malicious.
“How do you do, Carrie; will you bring me a cup of tea, please,” said Lady Crosby, laying aside her tweed coat.
Carrie bobbed and smiled like a complete welcoming committee.
“Yes, my lady. We’re all so glad to see you back. But I’m sorry to see you looking tired, my lady. I hope nothing’s troubling you.”
“Those poor Lubbock girls,” said Lady Crosby. “I’ve just heard.”
“Ah yes, my lady. And they do say all sorts of awful things in the village.”
“I’ye no doubt, Carrie. That will do now.”
“Very good, my lady,” and she bustled off to fetch the tea.
Lady Crosby removed her hat and considered it for a moment, absently. It was one of those hats which seem to have rather more style in the hand than on the head, and perhaps she herself reached the conclusion, for she flung it onto the window-sill with a petulant gesture. Then, after smoothing her own short, wispy hair with a pocket-comb, she lit a cigarette and dropped into the huge arm-chair by the window.
Carrie, returning with the tea, roused her mistress from a deep reverie which had carried her far away, in time and space, from the Crosby Hall of June 1930. She thought of her girlhood, made awkward and unhappy by a mother’s tyranny; of the rapturous escape to Girton; of the death of her father, and the consequent advent of wealth and Sir Howard; of her passion for Sir Howard, a passion at once romantic and genuine; of the long tale of snubbing and reserve which had finally convinced her that Sir Howard’s love for his wife was merely a matter of form; and of her occasional lavish excursions into the social and intellectual worlds (excursions during which she usually felt like a dull hostess who has given a brilliant party and is left in the corner with no one to speak to). And now, as a last straw, this unfortunate attachment of Christopher’s, which Sir Howard would inevitably blame upon her. But she must see Christopher and find out how far the thing had gone. He was reserved, too, but he was kind … Carrie came in with the tea.
Dinner at Crosby Hall that evening was a sombre affair. Christopher did not arrive until just in time for dashing to his room to change. When he came down his mother and father were waiting for him in the drawing room. He greeted his mother affectionately, asked her about her stay in London, related some bits of local gossip for her amusement, and told her of his growing admiration for Dr. Hoskins (who had settled in Crosby-Stourton since Christopher’s last long holiday).
“Capital fellow, Mother. Couldn’t wish to leave you and Father in better hands when I go away again—in case you develop housemaid’s knee or anything like that. Eh, sir?”
Sir Howard stood by the window, gloomy and taciturn, listening to the conversation, and watching the tired eyes of mother and son meet on an unspoken question. Lady’s Bower was not mentioned.
When Vivien Darcy was announced even Sir Howard, generally unresponsive to an atmosphere, went to meet his guest with visible relief. But if he hoped for gaiety and aplomb he was doomed to disappointment. Vivien came into the room with her usual assurance, but the pallor of her face contrasted oddly with the vermilion of her lips, and the handsome eyes that he admired were deeply troubled. She greeted Lady Crosby politely, gave Christopher a smile and a “hullo Chris,” and shook Sir Howard’s hand with friendly warmth.
“Gad,” said Sir Howard, “it’s good to see you, and yet all the same this place still feels like a morgue. I think we�
�d better have cocktails. Best American invention since tobacco, don’t you know.”
“Divine,” said Vivien with unaccustomed limpness.
Cocktails were served, and a livelier, if not a happier party made its way to the dining-room. But Lady Crosby was still, on the whole, subdued, save for an occasional rush of words to the head. Sir Howard was inclined to be glum, despite his obvious pleasure in Vivien’s company; and Christopher, doing his best to be natural, produced a sort of strained facetiousness about as convincing as the grief of a hired mourner. It was Vivien Darcy who kept the conversation going, who chatted with Lady Crosby about London; discussed hunting with Sir Howard, growing confidentially “man to man” over the subject of the shortcomings of the Somerset and North Devon Park; and chaffed Christopher about opeerations, skeletons, and the proverbial callousness of the young sawbones.
“First,” she explained, “you think you’ve got all the diseases in the book, and then the next stage is that anyone else who’s really in a bad way is no more and no less to you than an interesting guinea pig.”
“Hear, hear,” said Sir Howard.
“Well,” said Christopher, “if you were to shed tears over every old woman with a cold, you wouldn’t have much energy left if cholera were to break out in Crosby-Stourton.”
“God,” said Vivien, “something worse than cholera seems to have broken out already, if you come to sudden death….” There was an immediate silence.
“About these hounds, my dear,” said Sir Howard at length, with an obvious distaste for the turn the conversation was taking. And so the dinner dragged on.
By the time coffee was served in the drawing-room even Vivien seemed to have come to the end of her resources. She stood stirring the sugar in her demi-tasse with elaborate care. Then she put the cup down untouched and spoke to Lady Crosby with an unaccustomed hesitation:
“I’m terribly sorry, and I know it seems dreadfully rude to cut and run the minute I’ve tucked away your dinner, but I’ll have to do it because I’ve an appointment to keep in twenty minutes’ time. I told Sir Howard about it when he asked me to come, and he very kindly insisted that I come anyway….
She flashed a look of apology and appeal at Lady Crosby as Sir Howard broke in at her elbow:
“That’s so, my dear, but I hoped you’d change your mind. Still, if you haven’t, we have no right to keep you. Can we—er—can Christopher be any help—drive you anywhere in his car? It’s getting awfully dark—”
Vivien turned swiftly on Christopher, who was muttering politely “delighted, of course.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’ve Father’s two-seater here, and he’d die of the shock if it weren’t eating its head off in its usual little stall tomorrow morning. I’ll just buzz off by myself.”
“All right,” said Christopher cheerfully.
Sir Howard glared at his son with a belligerent look which he intended for one of subtle reproach. In reply, while Lady Crosby was saying good-bye to Vivien and affectionately urging her to come soon again, Christopher’s shoulders performed the faint suggestion of a shrug, and one eyebrow wandered quizzically toward the roots of his hair.
“Good night, Chris.”
“Good night, Vivien. Good hunting.”
“Good hunting, Chris.”
Christopher poured himself a second cup of coffee, and Sir Howard, spluttering with all the suppressed indigation of the frustrated match-maker, followed the girl into the hall. As he helped her with her light summer coat he was struck afresh by the nervousness of her manner, so different from her usual self-possession.
“Bless my soul, Vivien,” he suddenly blurted out. “What’s up?”
Vivien gave him a friendly smile and glanced at the clock. “I’ve five minutes to spare,” she said. “Give me a gasper if you’ve got one, and I’ll tell you.” She perched herself on the edge of the carved oak table, took the proffered cigarette, puffed once or twice in silence, and gave him a rueful grin.
“Same old story,” she said at length.
“Same as what?” said Sir Howard anxiously.
“‘Coming by goods train,’” said Vivien. “Never mind. You’ll arrive. Love, man, love. Has it ever hit you?”
“Dear me,” said Sir Howard. “Dear me. Bless my soul.”
“Bless mine, too, if you like,” said Vivien. “Or damn it forever if you prefer. It’s all the same to me. This business isn’t the pretty little fairy story they tell you. It’s real. Too—damn—real.”
She blew a series of smoke rings, and watched them floating gradually upward, growing larger and frailer until they vanished in the dim shadows of the great hall. Sir Howard watched them too, with an exaggerated care, while his lips framed the words “most distressing—what can be done—?”
Vivien smiled and laid a hand on his arm.
“You’re a first-class dear to mind,” she said. “But you mustn’t mind too much, you know, because it has happened before.”
“Not to you, has it?” said Sir Howard.
“No,” said Vivien. “It’s funny but you’re right. Perhaps that’s the trouble. If only I’d had a little practice….”
“Tell me,” broke in Sir Howard. “Is your—is this—I mean—is he not totally unconnected with the medical profession?” Vivien laughed. “Not totally,” she said, “but I didn’t know you knew. You’re coming right along by aeroplane this time. Yes, that’s his line, and God knows it’s a queer one, though anything he does is all right with me. If I could pull it off I’d even willingly sell Trixie—yes, I would—or let him have her to pickle in alcohol and put away on his shelf in little bottles. Funny chaps, these medicos, don’t you think?” “Yes,” said Sir Howard grimly. “Most amusing.”
Vivien got off the table, abandoned her cigarette, and took Sir Howard’s hand.
“Don’t tell on me, will you?” she said. “I don’t know quite why I spilled over tonight. And I must say I don’t think I drew you a very taking picture—the form divine, the flashing eye—but, of course, the poor fellow’s as blind as a bat. Anyway, he’s a good egg.”
“My dear,” said Sir Howard, and choked on a mixture of embarrassment, sympathy and indignation.
Vivien, giving him a gay smile to offset the little gasp in her voice as she said good-night, walked out through the great door and down the steps. Sir Howard stood in the doorway until he heard the hum of the two-seater diminishing into the park, then sighed and retraced his steps to the drawing room muttering as he went, “blind as a bat, the idiot, blind as a bat.”
At the drawing-room door he paused, hearing-the sound of his wife’s voice and Christopher’s from within. “Better leave those two together,” he thought. “She’s an idiot too, but the two of them may thrash out some sense between them. Lubbock, Lubbock, oh, Lubbock; idiots all.” With which gracious reflection he made his way to the billiard room.
In the meantime Lady Crosby and Christopher had reached at last the subject that was most in their thoughts that evening. As soon as Sir Howard and Vivien had left the room, Lady Crosby settled herself in a comfortable chair, and reached for a cigarette. Christopher lit it for her, took one himself, and flung himself into the big chair opposite. For a minute they smoked in silence. Then Lady Crosby spoke:
“It’s a terrible thing that’s happened, Christopher. I can still hardly believe it.”
“It’s true enough,” said Christopher wearily. “I’ve seen the bodies.”
Lady Crosby shuddered and puffed hard at her cigarette.
“Of course,” she went on, “I didn’t realize till just now that you had any special—er—interest in the family outside a friendly or professional one.”
“Has Father been telling you lies?” asked Christopher hotly.
“No, dear. He said very little.”
“What did he say?”
“Only that he thought you weren’t entirely indifferent….”
Christopher grinned. “Oh well; if he put it like that …” He left-his sent
ence unfinished.
“Then it is true, dear, isn’t it? And I must say I don’t know of a finer, sweeter girl than Lucy Lubbock. Only, and you must remember this, she isn’t quite—well, I know you don’t like anything that sounds snobbish and neither do I—but she isn’t quite …”
Lady Crosby stopped and spread her hands in a helpless little gesture.
“Quite a lady?” suggested Christopher. Lady Crosby nodded, and Christopher shrugged his shoulders.
“Can’t say I know just what the word means, but I thought that might be it. Now look here, Mother, Lucy’s always been your special protégée. You’re playing the role of a Pygmalion who makes a fuss when he finds someone else falling for his Galatea. You ought to be glad. Especially after all the things you’ve taught me, too. Why, this is just the culmination of what I learned at your knee. You know—votes for women with my earliest porridge, education for all with my first cigarette, and the rights of the proletariat with my one and only motor car. It’s inevitable, given a sweet, docile nature like mine.”
“Just what your father will say,” said Lady Crosby mournfully.
“Oh, I say, Mother, that’s too bad. I’ll admit I hadn’t thought of how it was going to hit you that way. But I won’t give him this line of talk, you know.”
“You won’t need to,” said Lady Crosby. “He’ll think of it himself. But look here, Christopher, there’s one thing I’d like awfully to know. That is, if you’re willing to tell me. How far has this thing gone? Is there any pledge or engagement, or is it just a young man’s fancy, with no reference so far to a girl’s?”
“The latter,” said Christopher. “Most decidely the latter. And this isn’t just the time to go prancing round with a guitar singing sweet songs under her window. Might seem a little heartless, don’t you think?”