by Ngaio Marsh
There was nothing very remarkable, Troy thought, about his appearance. He had a beard, close cropped, revealing a full, vaguely sensual but indeterminate mouth. His hair was of a medium length and looked clean. He wore a sweater over jeans. Indeed, all that remained of the Syd Jones Ricky had described was his huge silly-sinister pair of black spectacles. He carried a suitcase and a newspaper parcel.
“Hullo,” Troy said, offering her hand. “You’re Sydney Jones, aren’t you? Ricky rang up and told us you were coming. Do sit down, won’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, and sniffed loudly. He was sweating.
Troy sat on the arm of a chair. “Do you smoke?” she said. “I’m sorry I haven’t got any cigarettes but do if you’d like to.”
He put his suitcase and the newspaper parcel down and lit a cigarette. He then picked up his parcel.
“I gather it’s about Jerome et Cie’s paints, isn’t it?” Troy suggested. “I’d better say that I wouldn’t want to change to them and I can’t honestly give you a blurb. Anyway I don’t do that sort of thing. Sorry.” She waited for a response but he said nothing. “Rick tells us,” she said, “that you paint.”
With a gesture so abrupt that it made her jump, he thrust his parcel at her. The newspaper fell away and three canvases tied together with string were exposed.
“Is that,” Troy asked, “some of your work?”
He nodded.
“Do you want me to look at it?”
He muttered.
Made cross by having been startled, Troy said: “My dear boy, do for pity’s sake speak out. You make me feel as if I were giving an imitation of a woman talking to herself. Stick them up there where I can see them.”
With unsteady hands he put them up, one by one, changing them when she nodded. The first was the large painting Ricky had decided was an abstraction of Leda and the swan. The second was a kaleidoscopic arrangement of shapes in hot browns and raucous blues. The third was a landscape, more nearly representational than the others. Rows of perceptible houses with black, staring windows stood above dark water. There was some suggestion of tactile awareness but no real respect, Troy thought, for the medium.
She said: “I think I know where we are with this one. Is it Saint Pierre-des-Roches on the coast of Normandy?”
“Yar,” he said.
“It’s the nearest French port to your island, isn’t it? Do you often go across?”
“Aw — yar,” he said, fidgeting. “It turns me on. Or did. I’ve worked that vein out, as a matter of fact.”
“Really,” said Troy. There was a longish pause. “Do you mind putting up the first one again. The Leda.”
He did so. Another silence. “Well,” she said, “do you want me to say what I think? Or not?”
“I don’t mind,” he mumbled and yawned extensively.
“Here goes, then. I find it impossible to say whether I think you’ll develop into a good painter or not. These three things are all derivative. That doesn’t matter while you’re young: if you’ve got something of your own, with great pain and infinite determination you will finally prove it. I don’t think you’ve done that so far. I do get something from the Leda thing — a suggestion that you’ve got a strong sense of rhythm but it’s no more than a suggestion. I don’t think you’re very self-critical.” She looked hard at him. “You don’t fool about with drugs do you?” asked Troy.
There was a very long pause before he answered quite loudly, “No.”
“Good. I only asked because your hands are unsteady and your behavior erratic, and—” She broke off. “Look here,” she said, “you’re not well, are you? Sit down. No, don’t be silly, sit down.”
He did sit down. He was shaking, sweat had started out under the line of his hair, and he was the color of a peeled banana. He gaped and ran a dreadful tongue round his mouth. She fetched him a glass of water. The dark glasses were askew. He put up his trembling hand to them and they fell off, disclosing a pair of pale ineffectual eyes. Gone was the mysterious Mr. Jones.
“I’m all right,” he said.
“I don’t think you are.”
“Party. Last night.”
“What sort of party?”
“Aw. A fun thing.”
“I see.”
“I’ll be OK.”
Troy made some black coffee and left him to drink it while she returned to her work. The spirit trees began to enclose their absolute inner tree more firmly.
When, at a quarter-past one, Alleyn walked into the studio, it was to find his wife at work and an enfeebled young man avidly watching her from an armchair.
“Oh,” said Troy, grandly waving her brush and staring fixedly at Alleyn. “Hullo, darling. Syd, this is my husband. This is Rick’s friend Syd Jones, Rory. He’s shown me some of his work and he’s going to stay for luncheon.”
“Well!” Alleyn said, shaking hands, “this is an unexpected pleasure. How are you?”
ii
Three days after Ricky’s jaunt to Montjoy Julia Pharamond rang him up at lunchtime. He had some difficulty in pulling himself together and attending to what she said.
“You do ride, don’t you?” she asked.
“Not at all well.”
“At least you don’t fall off?”
“Not very often.”
“There you are, then. Super. All settled.”
“What,” he asked, “is settled?”
“My plan for tomorrow. We get some Harkness hacks and ride to Bon Accord.”
“I haven’t any riding things.”
“No problem. Jasper will lend you any amount. I’m ringing you up while he’s out because he’d say I was seducing you away from your book. But I’m not, am I?”
“Yes,” said Ricky, “you are, and it’s lovely,” and heard her splutter.
“Well, anyway,” she said, “it’s all settled. You must leap on your bicyclette and pedal up to L’Espérance for breakfast and then we’ll all sweep up to the stables. Such fun.”
“Is Miss Harkness coming?”
“No. How can you ask! Before we knew where we were she’d miscarry.”
“If horse exercise was going to make her do that it would have done so already, I fancy,” said Ricky and told her about the mishap on the road to Montjoy. Julia was full of exclamations and excitement. “How,” she said, “you dared not to ring up and tell us immediately!”
“I thought you’d said she was beginning to be a bore.”
“She’s suddenly got interesting again. So she’s back at Leathers and reconciled to Mr. Harkness?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“But couldn’t you tell? Couldn’t you sense it?”
“How?”
“Well, from her conversation.”
“It consisted exclusively of oaths.”
“I can’t wait to survey the scene at Leathers. Will Mr. Jones be there, mucking out?”
“He was in London, quite recently.”
“In London! Doing what?”
“Lunching with my parents among other things.”
“You really are too provoking. I can see that all sorts of curious things are happening and you’re being furtive and sly about them.”
“I promise to disclose all. I’m not even fully persuaded, by the way, that she and Syd Jones are lovers.”
“I shall be the judge of that. Here comes Jasper; I’ll have to tell him I’ve seduced you. Goodbye.”
“Which is no more than God’s truth,” Ricky shouted fervently. He heard her laugh and hang up the receiver.
The next morning dawned brilliantly and at half-past nine Ricky, dressed in Jasper’s spare jodhpurs and boots and his own Ferrant sweater, proposed to take a photograph of the Pharamonds, including the two little girls produced for the purpose. They assembled in a group on the patio. The Pharamonds evidently adored being photographed, especially Louis who looked almost embarrassingly smooth in breeches, boots, sharp hacking jacket, and gloves.
“Louis, dar
ling,” Julia said, surveying him, “Très snob — presque cad! You lack only the polo stick!”
“I don’t understand how it is,” Carlotta said, “but nothing Louis wears ever looks even a day old.”
Ricky thought that this assessment didn’t work if applied to Louis’s face. His very slight tan looked almost as if it had been laid on, imposing a spurious air of health over a rather dissipated foundation.
“I bought this lot in Acapulco eight years ago,” said Louis.
“I remember. From a dethroned prince who’d lost his all at the green baize tables,” said Julia.
“My recollection,” Carlotta said, “is of a déclassé gangster, but I may be wrong.”
Selina, who had been going through a short repertoire of exhibitionist antics ignored by her seniors, suddenly flung herself at Louis and hung from his wrist, doubling up her legs and shrieking affectedly.
“You little monster,” he said, “you’ve nearly torn off a button,” and examined his sleeve.
Selina walked away with a blank face.
Bruno said, “Do let’s get posed-up for Ricky and then take off for the stables.”
“Let’s be ultramondains,” Julia decided. She sank into a swinging chaise longue, dangled an elegantly breeched leg, and raised a drooping hand above her head.
Jasper raised it to his lips. “Madame is enchanting — nay irresistible—ce matin,” he said.
Selina stuck out her tongue.
Bruno, looking impatient, merely stood.
“Thank you,” said Ricky.
They piled into Louis’s car and drove to Leathers.
The avenue, a longish one, led to an ugly Victorian house and continued around the back into the stable yard, and beyond this to a barn at some distance from the other buildings. They followed the extension.
“Hush!” Julia said dramatically. “Listen! Louis, stop.”
“Why?” asked Louis, but stopped nevertheless.
Somewhere around the corner of the house a man was shouting.
“My dears!” said Julia. “Mr. Harkness in a rage again. How too awkward.”
“What should we do about it?” Carlotta asked. “Slink away or what?”
“Oh, nonsense,” Jasper said. “He may be ticking off a horse or even Mr. Jones for all we know.”
“Ricky says Mr. Jones is in London.”
“Was,” Ricky amended.
“Anyway, I refuse to be done out of our riding treat,” said Bruno. “Press on, Louis.”
“Be quiet, Bruno. Listen.”
Louis wound down the window. A female voice could be clearly heard.
“And if I want to bloody jump the bloody hedge, by God I’ll bloody jump it, I’ll jump it on Mungo, by God.”
“Anathema! Blasphemy!”
“Don’t you lay a hand on me: I’m pregnant,” bellowed Miss Harkness.
“Harlot!”
“Shut up.”
“Strumpet!”
“Stuff it.”
“Oh, do drive on, Louis,” said Carlotta crossly. “They’ll stop when they see us. It’s so boring, all this.”
Louis said, “It would be nice if people made up their minds.”
“We have. Press on.”
He drove into the stable yard.
The picture that presented itself was of a row of six loose-boxes, each with a horse’s bridled head looking out of the upper half, and flanked at one end by a tack room and at the other by an open coach house containing a small car, coils of old wire, discarded gear, tools, and empty sacks — all forming a background for a large red man with profuse whiskers towering over Miss Harkness, who faced him with a scowl of defiance.
“Lay a hand on me and I’ll call the police,” she threatened.
Mr. Harkness, for undoubtedly it was he, had his back to the car. Arrested, no doubt, by a sudden glaze that overspread his niece’s face, he turned and was transfixed.
His recovery was almost instantaneous. He strode toward them, all smiles.
“Morning, morning. All ready for you. Six of the best,” shouted Mr. Harkness. He opened car doors, offered a large freckled hand with ginger bristles, helped out the ladies, and, laughing merrily, piloted them across the yard.
“Dulcie’s got ’em lined up,” he said.
Julia beamed upon Mr. Harkness and, to his obvious bewilderment, gaily chided Miss Harkness for deserting them. He shouted: “Jones!”
Syd Jones slid out of the tack-room door and, with a sidelong scowl at Ricky, approached the loose-boxes.
Julia advanced upon him with extended hand. She explained to Mr. Harkness that she and Syd were old friends. It would be difficult to say which of the two men was the more embarrassed.
Syd led out the first horse, a sixteen-hand bay, and Mr. Harkness said he would give Jasper a handsome ride. Jasper mounted, collecting the bay and walking it around the yard. The others followed, Julia on a nice-looking gray mare. It was clear to Ricky that the Pharamonds were accomplished horse people. He himself was given an aged chestnut gelding who, Mr. Harkness said, still had plenty of go in him if handled sympathetically. Ricky walked and then jogged him around the yard in what he trusted was a sympathetic manner.
Bruno was mounted on a lively, fidgeting sorrel mare and was told she would carry twelve stone very prettily over the sticks. “You asked for a lively ride,” Mr. Harkness said to Bruno, “and you’ll get it. Think you’ll be up to her?”
Bruno said with dignity that he did think so. Clearly not averse to showing off a little, he rode out into the horse paddock where three hurdles had been set up. He put the sorrel at them and flew over very elegantly. Ricky, with misgivings, felt his mount tittupping under him. “You shut up,” he muttered to it. Julia, who had come alongside, leaned toward him, her face alive with entertainment.
“Ricky!” she said, “are you feeling precarious?”
“Precarious!” he shouted, “I’m terror-stricken. And now you’re going to laugh at me,” he added, hearing the preliminary splutter.
“If you fall off, I’ll try not to. But you’re sitting him like a rock.”
“Not true, alas.”
“Nearly true. Good God! He’s at it again!”
Mr. Harkness had broken out into the familiar roar, but this time his target was Bruno. The horse paddock sloped downhill toward a field from which it was separated by a dense and pretty high blackthorn hedge. Bruno had turned the sorrel to face a gap in the hedge and the creature, Ricky saw, was going through the mettlesome antics that manifest an equine desire to jump over something.
“No, stop! You can’t! Here! Come back!” Mr. Harkness roared. And to Jasper: “Call that kid back. He’ll break his neck. He’ll ruin the mare. Stop him!”
The Pharamonds shouted but Bruno dug in his heels and put the sorrel at the gap. It rose, its quarters flashed up, it was gone and there was no time, or a lifetime, before they heard an earthy thump and a diminishing thud of hooves.
Mr. Harkness was running down the horse paddock. Jasper had ridden past him when, on the slope beyond the hedge, Bruno appeared, checking his dancing mount. Farther away, on the hillside, a solitary horse reared, plunged, and galloped idiotically up and down a distant hedge. Ricky thought he recognized the wall-eyed Mungo.
Bruno waved, vaingloriously.
Julia had ridden alongside Ricky. “Horrid, showing-off little brute,” said Julia. “Wait till I get at him.” And she began shakily to laugh.
Mr. Harkness bawled infuriated directions to Bruno about how to rejoin them by way of gates and a lane. The Pharamonds collected round Julia and Ricky.
“I am ashamed of Bruno,” said Jasper.
“What’s it like,” Carlotta asked, “on the other side?”
“A sheer drop to an extremely deep and impossibly wide ditch. The mare’s all Harkness said she was to clear it.”
“Bruno’s good, though,” said Julia.
“He’s given you a fright and he’s shown like a mountebank.”
Jul
ia said: “Never mind!” and leaned along her horse’s neck to touch her husband’s hand. Ricky suddenly felt quite desolate.
The Pharamonds waited ominously for the return of the errant Bruno while Mr. Harkness enlarged upon the prowess of Sorrel Lass, which was the stable name of the talented mare. He also issued a number of dark hints as to what steps he would have taken if she had broken a leg and had to be destroyed.
In the middle of all this, and just as Bruno, smiling uneasily, rode his mount into the stable yard, Miss Harkness, forgotten by all, burst into eloquence.
She was “discovered” leering over the lower half-door of an empty loose-box. With the riding crop, from which she appeared never to be parted, she beat on the half-door and screamed in triumph.
“Yar! Yar! Yar!” Miss Harkness screamed, “Old Bloody Unk! She’s bloody done it, so sucks boo to rotten old you.”
Her uncle glared at her but made no reply. Jasper, Carlotta, and Louis were administering a severe if inaudible wigging to Bruno, who had unwillingly dismounted. Syd Jones had disappeared.
Julia said to Ricky: “We ought to bring Bruno and Dulcie together, they seem to have something in common, don’t you feel? What have you lot been saying to him?” she asked her husband who had come across to her.
“I’ve asked for another mount for him.”
“Darling!”
“He’s got to learn, sweetie. And in any case Harkness doesn’t like the idea of him riding her. After that performance.”
“But he rode her beautifully. We must admit.”
“He was told not to put her at the hedge.”
Syd Jones came out and led away the sorrel. Presently he reappeared with something that looked like an elderly polo pony upon which Bruno gazed with eyident disgust.
The scene petered out. Miss Harkness emerged from the loose-box, strode past her uncle, shook hands violently with the sulking Bruno, and continued into the house, banging the door behind her.
Mr. Harkness said: “Dulcie gets a bit excitable.”
Julia said: “She’s a high-spirited girl, isn’t she? Carlotta, darling, don’t you think we ought to hit the trail? Come along, boys. We’re off.”
There was, however, one more surprise to come. Mr. Harkness approached Julia with a curious, almost sheepish smile and handed up an envelope.