‘Congratulations, Mr Clout.’ It was possible that Miss Harlock had escaped without anything so positive as a fractured toe, for she appeared to bear Clout no malice. ‘I have just heard about your appointment. Most interesting. It has always been my own ambition to write a biography, but of course it is something that doesn’t come an entomologist’s way. The ephemera are fascinating, but they would afford very little scope. Other forms of insect life – our friends in the Department of Education come to mind – have possibilities. Unfortunately I take the old-fashioned view that biography should conduce to edification, which entirely rules them out. What a large number of new students! The heart quite sinks. But happily students are a sort of mayfly too. Except those that hang on or drift back.’ Having thus avenged herself, Miss Harlock gave Clout a kind smile and moved away.
Clout seized the opportunity of taking another peep at his papers. There was something about a Sir Joscelyn Jory. He knew that the name ought to convey something, but he couldn’t remember what it was. And now Gingrass was waving to him. Gingrass had clearly got in early in order to set up his little pen cosily close to a steam radiator. On a trestle table in front of him were tidily disposed piles of syllabuses and entrance forms. Gingrass, although out to peddle these commodities to all comers, preserved an air of tolerant detachment, like a person of the largest cultivation who has taken a temporary job among high-class antiques. All round the sides of the hall similar pens, pounds, or booths had been set up for the several Faculties and Departments, and the professors and their dependent hierarchies were settling in to do business. The centre of the floor was occupied by the new students, who were expected to take on the role of peripatetic scholars, and move hither and thither in the endeavour to provide themselves with the ground-plan of a coherent education. Their efforts were somewhat impeded by the fact that, for their future teachers, this was a social as well as a learned occasion. The Staff was now united – if it was ever quite that – for the first time in months, and the peculiar arrangement of the Pig Market encouraged visiting. One or two enterprising ladies were making preparations to brew tea on primus-stoves, and thus establish themselves as centres of attraction when weariness descended half-way through the morning. Junior lecturers hailed each other with inquiries about sports-cars, Greek papyri, allusively designated girls, forthcoming scientific papers, or with proposals for meals, drinks, shared lodgings, or precipitate flight to one or another of the better remunerated forms of manual labour. It was all very familiar to Clout. Only he was seeing it from a new angle.
Jory, of course, was the family name of the former owners of Old Hall. Clout was relieved that he had remembered this in time, and not made a fool of himself by asking Gingrass. Sir Joscelyn was presumably a Jory who had attained to some celebrity, and the next most appropriate person after Alderman Shufflebotham himself for the purpose of biographical commemoration. His name suggested a romantic – conceivably, indeed, a heroic – ambience; one might come across such a one in the list of those who had sailed with Drake or ridden with Charles. But of course names were deceptive, and Sir Joscelyn might be quite a modern worthy – a manufacturer, say, of humble objects of domestic utility, knighted by Mr Stanley Baldwin for political and public services in the north of England. No doubt there would be some preliminary hint of the truth in the communication that had arrived from the Registrar.
Clout squeezed into a corner from which he could be summoned to assist his chief at need. But Gingrass had several henchmen of greater seniority, both male and female; and they were all having a wonderful time determining the destinies of the queue of young people applying to them. Clout was able to settle down with his papers. They didn’t tell him much. Sir Joscelyn had flourished in the first half of the nineteenth century; and the Shufflebotham Student was to write a definitive biography in which there should be included a critical excursus upon Sir Joscelyn’s scientific attainments. Some attention should be given to Sir Joscelyn’s near relations and family circle. But his younger brother, Edward Jory, might with advantage be virtually excluded from consideration, since it was possible that his life might later lend itself to independent study. The Council of the University had ascertained that the writing of a life of Sir Joscelyn Jory would meet with the approval of his great-grandson, Sir John Jory of New Hall. Sir John had further intimated that he would give proper facilities for research to the University’s nominee.
It didn’t sound very exciting, but on the whole Clout was disposed to take a cheerful view. Probably Sir Joscelyn had been a bit of a bore, and his scientific attainments might well prove to have been in some field that was both dreary and incomprehensible. But he had owned Old Hall, the subsequent short history of which as a place of higher education Clout regarded with decent piety; and his descendants now owned New Hall, which was a substantial mansion about three miles away. It would be interesting to push in on that. With luck Clout might be able to fill several notebooks with observations on the habits of the landed gentry – a class of society to which his access had hitherto been frankly restricted. Clout’s spirits rose. He was grateful to Gingrass for having himself weighed in and got Alderman Shufflebotham out of the way. Clout could already do Shufflebothams on his head, since their kind had sat immediately and obviously above his kind for generations. But Jorys would be something new. It occurred to Clout that his current literary venture was perhaps a trifle narrowly conceived (The Examination had, in fact, only one character, called C) and that after all there was something to be said for a panoramic fiction, confidently ranging over the several classes of English society. And to this a way was unexpectedly opening up before him. Excited by this discovery, he now turned and waved his papers at Gingrass. ‘I say, Professor,’ he called out cheerfully, ‘what was the science my man went in for?’
‘Aha!’ Gingrass broke off his labours by simply waving away a seriously inquiring but heavily pustular youth whom he judged unattractive. ‘So the news has broken, my dear boy, and the Jorys are all around you? I’m not sure whether Sir Joscelyn should be called a scientist or a scholar. However, I’m certain you’ll find him interesting – although, mind you, it might be better fun to do Edward.’
‘The one who’s to be left out, because he may be written about by somebody else?’
‘Just that.’ Gingrass laughed – and his laugh was at once so robust and so benevolent that a girl waiting to enroll for French visibly lost her heart to it and immediately changed queues. ‘But it’s no more, you’ll have recognized, than a form of words. I suggested it to Sir John myself. The truth is that Edward Jory was a bit of a black sheep, and even after a century the family isn’t keen on throwing a limelight on him.’
‘I see.’ Being without old Miss Harlock’s conviction that biography ought infallibly to conduce to edification, Clout at once felt rather defrauded by this imposed exclusion of Edward Jory from his purview. But he could, of course, find out about him even if it wasn’t for the purpose of publication. ‘But Sir Joscelyn’, he asked, ‘was entirely respectable?’
‘Well, he was eccentric. He was a very considerable eccentric.’ Gingrass turned away for a moment, grabbed several forms from waiting students, and initialled them without a glance. ‘I don’t mind telling you that’s why I felt it wise to turn down Lumb. On sheer ability, of course, he’d have had to have the Shufflebotham, without a doubt.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Clout didn’t find his feelings for the unknown Lumb growing any fonder. ‘You mean–?’
‘That creative itch. If he set it loose on Joscelyn Jory – well, we might be in difficulty. A writer with a real sense of comedy, and a feeling for character, and a graceful and attractive style, would be too dangerous altogether.’
‘So you decided on me.’ Clout took some comfort in the fact that he didn’t seem to be experiencing what is called deep mortification before these confidences; he simply had a wholesome wish to get behind Gingrass and kick. ‘Were Sir Joscelyn’s scientific interests eccentric?’
‘Joscelyn loved tombs?’ Clout was rather startled, and even wondered for a moment whether the whole project in which he was becoming involved was a product of Gingrass’ ghastly notion of the humorous. ‘You mean he used to go out and scrabble at them?’
‘In a sense, yes. But a sublimated sense, as the jargon is. I don’t think he was positively necrophilous. But he was an amateur archaeologist, and tombs were his great line. That’s why he built the mausoleum, out there in the park.’
‘Yes, of course – I’ve read about it. But it didn’t stick in my head.’
‘Go and have a look at the mausoleum now, my dear Clout. It has something of the stamp of your man’s character, I dare say.’
‘If you can spare me, I think I will.’ Clout was quite glad to get away both from Gingrass and from the Pig Market. ‘But what do I do then? I mean, how do I start?’
‘Do some background reading in published sources, and read up about the family where you can. Then, when you’ve ceased being an absolute ignoramus, I’ll give you an introduction to Sir John. He’s not a bad fellow.’
‘Thank you very much.’ Clout got to his feet. ‘Are there any other Jorys left, apart from this Sir John at New Hall?’
Gingrass shook his head. ‘Not many, I believe. But Edward Jory has some descendants – legitimate descendants, that is – about the country.’
6
At a table near the door Sadie Sackett and two companions were issuing library tickets to such of the new students as thought to apply for them. Clout stopped on his way out. He had hardly seen Sadie during the past few days, and rather suspected that she had been avoiding him. But he was too full of his fresh information to stand on his dignity at the moment. ‘Trade brisk?’ he asked.
Sadie shook her head so that her dark hair circled her shoulders. ‘Rotten. It hasn’t come to them yet that they may need books. They think getting a degree is a matter of attending lectures and writing down as much of them as they can remember afterwards.’
‘So it is.’
‘Well, yes. But we can’t admit it in the Library, or we’d all lose our jobs. How’s Shufflebotham?’
‘Come out and I’ll tell you about him.’
Sadie hesitated, and took a circumspect glance round the Pig Market. There seemed to be nobody about who would take the slightest exception to her abandoning her unfrequented post for a while. ‘Where to?’ she asked.
‘The mausoleum.’
Sadie stared. ‘Why ever do you want to go there?’
‘Because of the Shufflebotham. It seems my man was a tapheimaphil.’
‘I never heard of such a thing.’
‘I dare say. My guess is Gingrass invented the word on the spot. But think of Sir Thomas Browne, and what not. Some hang above the tombs.’
‘Some weep in empty rooms.’
‘I, when the iris blooms, remember.’ Clout took Sadie by the arm as she came from behind the table – it was fun that she remembered bits of verse they used to chant at each other – and led her out to the terrace. ‘Sir Joscelyn Jory,’ he said. ‘That’s my man. He owned Old Hall. And built the mausoleum. And had a bad-hat brother I’m to ignore.’
‘Are they the Jorys that live at New Hall nowadays?’
‘Yes. The chap there is Joscelyn’s great-grandson. I’m to delve into his family papers.’
‘But surely that’s what George is doing!’ Sadie was perplexed. ‘How very odd.’
‘George?’ They were walking down the broad avenue that led to the east side of the park, and they had already left the rows of labs behind them. But Clout now came to a halt. ‘George?’ he repeated suspiciously. ‘Who’s George?’
‘George Lumb, of course. He’s working at New Hall now. Not actually on family papers, perhaps – but cataloging the library.’
‘But it’s absurd. He nearly got the Shufflebotham, and didn’t. But there he is – in on the Jorys, all the same. It must be one of Gingrass’ idiotic tricks.’
Sadie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I believe it’s just a coincidence. George was fed up with Gingrass, and went out and got this job on his own. Anyway, I’m glad.’ Sadie spoke with less than her usual conviction. ‘You’ll like George. You’ll be able to talk about–’
‘Yes, I know.’ The interruption came from Clout brusquely. ‘We’ll be able to jabber about D H Lawrence. What utter rot. And I’m quite sure Lumb’s horrible.’
They walked in silence. ‘I think I’ll go back now,’ Sadie presently said.
‘Don’t do that.’ His tone was decently penitent. ‘We’re almost there. Let’s just look inside.’
‘Very well. But I think it’s locked up. There was some fooling in it one night last term, and the V-C took a dark view. But we can try. I seem to remember it’s not much more than a shell.’
‘I’ve never had a look. And I don’t know that there’s much sense in poking about now.’ Clout was suddenly depressed. Starting in to examine Sir Joscelyn’s architectural folly seemed to typify the probable futility of the whole job that had been shovelled at him. And Sadie wasn’t inspiring either. He rather wished he hadn’t brought her. She only reminded him that his girl hadn’t turned up again, and that he might stop here indefinitely, writing the lives of all the Jorys that ever were, without having the slightest rational ground for supposing that it would ever be otherwise. ‘What a stupid affair!’ he said. ‘And it must have cost thousands.’
They had climbed a small hill, and the mausoleum was now in front of them. It had probably been modelled, Clout thought, on the celebrated affair at West Wycombe, but it had very little of the crazy impressiveness that Sir Francis Dashwood had achieved. It was a circular building, with half-hearted Ionic pillars engaged in the stone all the way round, and a dilapidated frieze of monotonously festooned urns on top. There was a single entrance closed by rusty iron gates, and here and there a few empty window-spaces, set very high up. These seemed to have no function at all, as the whole affair was without a roof, and one simply peered through them at the sky. Grasses and wild-flowers were sprouting everywhere between stone and stone, but this didn’t lend anything that could be called a pleasing picturesqueness to the scene. Sadie studied it for some moments in silence. ‘Stupid?’ she said. ‘Well, I suppose so. An enlightened landowner would have sunk the money in better cottages for the farm-labourers, or a row of alms-houses for the aged and deserving poor. But there’s something to be said for a period in which rich men had the self-confidence to do queer things.’
‘Nonsense – and, anyway, it’s third-rate of its sort. Too late by nearly a hundred years. Not like the Hall.’ Clout spoke rather roughly – perhaps because he found it obscurely tiresome that Sadie Sackett had no longer the large ingenuousness that he remembered in her. Then he walked up to the gates and rattled them. ‘But you’re right about it being locked up. Let’s go back. I don’t think we’d get much kick out of a lot of mouldering Jorys.’
‘But that wasn’t the idea. Don’t you remember? There’s a bit about your Sir Joscelyn and his mausoleum in the University Handbook. I ought to have recalled it as soon as you said he was a thingummy.’
‘A tapheimaphil?’
‘Yes. He didn’t intend the mausoleum for himself and all the future Jorys. It was to be a sort of museum of entombment upon historical principles. I suppose he was a collector as well as a student.’
‘Of tombs and sarcophagi and grave-stones and things?’ Clout looked at Sadie doubtfully. If she wasn’t romancing, then he’d either entirely forgotten this odd bit of local lore or had never happened to acquire it.
‘Yes, of course – and of canopic urns, and family vaults and baby mausoleums as well.’
‘And, I suppose, a pyramid or two?’
Sadie nodded. ‘That was probably in his plans. But it all didn’t come to much. If it had, this would be a muc
h more interesting place than it is.’
‘Let’s walk round it, and then clear out.’
They walked in silence. This corner of the park was very quiet. Nobody seemed to come near it. Suddenly Sadie stopped. ‘I thought I heard something – from inside.’
‘That’s doves.’
Doves in considerable number were certainly cooing in the mausoleum. But Sadie didn’t receive Clout’s remark kindly. ‘I know that’s doves, you idiot. I think there’s somebody moving about as well.’
‘Impossible. You saw the gate’s locked. Rabbits, I expect.’
‘Look!’ They had walked on again, and what had come into view was a ladder, its topmost rung resting against the sill of one of the window-like apertures high in the face of the building.
Clout judged Sadie’s gesture unnecessarily dramatic. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘Left by workmen, I suppose.’
‘Look where it’s been picked up from the grass. Clearly no time ago. Somebody’s climbed in.’
‘I don’t see how they could – unless there’s another ladder on the inside. And if they did, it’s just some idiotic students. Come on, Sadie, for goodness sake.’ Clout heard, with distaste, the quite unreasonable impatience in his own voice.
But Sadie didn’t seem to mind. ‘I’m going up,’ she said. Before he could dissuade her, she had run to the ladder and was scaling it. Reaching the top, she swung her legs over the sill, sat down, and then turned to wave at him challengingly. ‘Coming?’ she called.
She was quite high up. He realized that if it was his lost girl who was behaving in this way he would be enchanted; indeed he was rather reminded of the way she had sat on the parapet of the Hall and dropped crumbs of mortar on the terrace below. Sadie now got to her feet and stood hazardously on the sill – apparently to get a better view of the interior. Clout ran forward to the ladder and climbed up beside her. At least there was no ladder on the other side. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Nobody could get down.’
Old Hall, New Hall Page 5