Death of a Delft Blue mb-37

by Gladys Mitchell

  It was all as anachronistic, in its way, thought Laura, as was Caesar’s nightgown — not Elizabethan this time, though, but full of false although charming eighteenth-century sentiment — and yet, as she listened to the tune’s dying fall, she was filled with a sense of unease.

  We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;

  Women and bairns are heartless and wae;

  Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—

  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

  ‘Isn’t it smashing?’ said Binnie, when the tune had died. ‘I thought it would be just the thing for you, Mrs Gavin. You do like it — don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Laura replied, hardly knowing what else to say.

  ‘Did you know that Florian is going to stay with Grandmamma Binnen? It’s for his bust, and she’s delighted, I expect. He’ll be rather a relief after the two dim aunts. Opal and Ruby are rather dreadful, didn’t you think?’

  ‘They are more than dreadful,’ said Florian. ‘They are positively sinister. Opal, in particular, gives me the creeps. Fat people often do. Julius Caesar was mistaken. Lean and hungry men are to be trusted. Fat, sleek-headed ones are not reliable, no matter how well they sleep at night. What say you, Mrs Gavin?’

  ‘I have had no opportunity to form a judgment,’ said Laura shortly. She would as soon have attended a session of the Black Mass in the form of a believer as to have criticised her own relatives to comparative strangers. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her employer in earnest conversation with the proprietors of the street-organ.

  ‘An odd encounter,’ said Dame Beatrice, when they had returned to their hotel for lunch.

  ‘I don’t know which of them, Binnie or Florian, I think the more gosh-awful,’ said Laura. ‘By the way, how did the organ-grinders get hold of that tune? I noticed you were talking to them.’

  ‘They told me that it had been in their repertoire for many years.’

  Laura observed that it must have had something to do with the war. Purposely she left this reference extremely vague, but when she and Dame Beatrice were at lunch, she observed,

  ‘Did it strike you that there was more in that invitation this morning than met the eye?’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ Dame Beatrice replied.

  ‘How did you like the tune?’

  ‘The Flowers of the Forest? Your son, our dear Hamish, sings it, I remember, accompanying himself on his guitar.’

  ‘I know. He sings out of tune. Anyway, a guitar is a most unsuitable instrument for Scottish airs. Still, I suppose… Auld Lang Syne, and all that, apart… I’m just as pleased he doesn’t want to learn the bagpipes. The piano and the organ, plus this ghastly guitar, are more than enough in one family.’

  ‘I knew a young man,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘who was similarly placed to Kipling’s hero of the “choose between me and your cigar” fame. You remember the poem, perhaps? Well, in the case I am quoting, the young man was asked to choose between his young woman and his bagpipes. She said the pipes made her feel ill.’

  ‘And which did he choose?’

  ‘Unhesitatingly he chose the bagpipes. You would care to hazard a guess as to the outcome of this possibly doleful story?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He got his own way and the girl as well. She had to put up with the bagpipes because she wanted the toy.’

  ‘You speak with an authoritative note which compels my admiration and respect.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’re not the only psychologist among those present,’ said Laura, squinting modestly down her nose. ‘You should read the women’s magazines. That’s where I pick up my tips on feminine psychology, and I may say that they always work out.’

  ‘Dear me! What a mine of information I seem to have missed! Tell me more.’

  ‘No, no. You tell me what the organ-grinders said.’

  ‘Their ability to speak English was surprisingly limited, judging by my experience of most of the Netherlanders we have met, but I understood them to say that they had no idea how the tune had come to be part of their instrument’s stock-in-trade. They do not like the air. They prefer gay tunes, but some of the foreign tourists like this one, so I was told.’

  ‘Must be the Scottish tourists, I should think.’

  ‘True,’ said Dame Beatrice; but she spoke in an absent-minded manner and Laura realised that her thoughts were elsewhere. This was proved when she added, ‘Extreme wealth, in some cases, may exercise a subversive influence on its owners.’

  ‘All power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, but the power of money corrupts absolutelier than any other power, you think? commented Laura. ‘Doesn’t always work out that way, though, does it? Look at Lord Nuffield.’

  ‘Ah, but he seems to have been more interested in motor cars than in money. I cannot see him as a case in point.’

  ‘Talking of money,’ said Laura, after a pause, ‘what about Grandmother Rebekah? She seemed the most gosh-awful old girl, I thought, and crude, at that, but I noticed you didn’t agree.’

  ‘She is loyal, out-spoken, vulgar and dependable, dear child, I imagine. But Time will show. That is, if we ever meet Mrs Rose again.’

  ‘As you say. What did you make of the other grandmother?’

  ‘Mrs Colwyn-Welch? If there is such a thing as a typical Dutchwoman, I think it is she.’

  ‘No, but what did you make of her?’

  ‘I think she keeps those middle-aged daughters on too tight a rein.’

  ‘I wish I knew why the tunes on that barrel-organ included The Lament for Flodden,’ said Laura. ‘It doesn’t make sense. The French might be interested, but why the Dutch?’

  ‘Perhaps we have been warned,’ said Dame Beatrice, with mock solemnity.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Maastricht and Valkenburg

  ‘La curiosité la plus remarquable de Fauquemont est la grotte municipale.’

  Local Brochure

  « ^ »

  The province of Limburg,’ pronounced Laura, a day or two later, surveying from the terrace of their hotel a view of hills and woods, ‘does not make me think of Holland at all. Holland is flat, canalised and consists of a mixture of tulips, clogs, windmills, polders and patched trousers.’

  ‘It is obvious to me,’ said Dame Beatrice, putting down a cup which had contained the usual excellent Dutch coffee, ‘that your holiday is doing you good. What do you wish to do this afternoon?’

  ‘Well, according to the book of words supplied free gratis and for nothing by this excellent hostelry, there seems to be something at Maastricht called the Hill of St Pietersburg. It lies two miles, or thereabouts, to the south of the town, and has an enormous quarry with tunnels two hundred miles long and fifty feet high. It possesses an art gallery and some prehistoric remains in the form of fossils. Many famous names are inscribed on the walls and, in direct contradiction of the urgent appeals of our own National Trust and other bodies concerned with the preservation of ancient monuments, visitors are actually invited to add their own signatures to the names of the great. We are even informed that this testimony to the fact that we once lived, moved and had our being will be in evidence for at least a thousand years. There is only one snag about visiting these caves.’

  Dame Beatrice cackled.

  ‘I am delighted to hear it,’ she said. ‘The idea of heaven, without a hint or two of hell, would be intolerable. Describe this little rift within the lute.’

  ‘We must have a guide to take us round.’

  ‘It seems a reasonable precaution. Even the most intrepid of hikers, (why so-called?), and speleologists, might burke at the thought of two hundred miles of underground galleries and labyrinths. Let us, then, guide included, spend the afternoon in the bowels of the earth.’

  They drove to Maastricht and attempted this, but discovered that the conducted tour took only about an hour and a half. Dame Beatrice declined to add her inscription to those of Sir Walter Scott, the Duke of Alba, and Monsieur Volt
aire, or her initials to those of Napoleon Bonaparte. Laura explained to the guide, on her own behalf, that childhood inhibitions forbade her to scribble on walls, the practice being frowned upon in England, Wales and her native land of Scotland. Of Eire and Northern Ireland, she added, she could not speak. The guide expressed disappointment and surprise (in excellent English) and appeared to be politely astonished when the ladies tipped him.

  ‘Well, now,’ said Laura, when they had emerged into daylight once more, ‘where do we go from here?’

  ‘Not, at any rate, the way of four monks who perished of hunger in those galleries,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I dislike the idea (desiccated though I am) of being discovered, in the years to come, a dried-up corpse. This reminds me, although the reason for it is elusive, that we were offered no opportunity to inspect the mushrooms which, I understand, are cultivated in large numbers down there.’

  ‘We inspected the bats, though,’ said Laura. ‘Was your childhood made hideous by the thought that bats might get caught in your hair?’

  ‘No, child. Was yours?’

  ‘I didn’t bother. I always had short hair, you see. It is a tactical advantage to have short hair, I always think. Men and boys discovered that long ago. It can’t be tugged at, as pig-tails can.’

  ‘In my youth, the thing to do was to be able to sit on one’s hair. I could never accomplish it,’ confessed Dame Beatrice.

  ‘I can’t see the point of it, anyway,’ said Laura.

  ‘It annoyed one’s aunts if one’s cousins had shorter hair than one’s own, and it induced unwarranted and sinful pride in one’s mother. In my own case, my aunts were spared much heart-burning and sorrow, and my mother was decently humbled. I had a very happy childhood, take it for all in all, for my mother accepted her fate and I myself was compensated by lavish gifts of money from my uncles to make up to me for my obvious inability to emulate their daughters, who could all, without exception, sit on their hair whenever they were bidden to do so.’

  Laura laughed and then added that her son Hamish preferred the Spartans to the Athenians.

  ‘In the matter of hair?’ Dame Beatrice enquired.

  ‘Well,’ replied Laura, ‘he’s read a book at school which states that Spartan kids had their hair cropped until they reached man’s estate, when they were permitted to grow it to considerable length, but that Athenian boys wore their hair long and had it cut when they were grown-up.’

  ‘And his reason for desiring Spartan citizenship?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to grow up.’

  ‘Abortive, but interesting.’

  ‘I call it irresponsible. I dread the idea of rearing a Peter Pan. Still, there’s one grain of comfort — at least Hamish doesn’t show any ambition to be an engine-driver.’

  ‘It is as well. It seems as though there will soon be very few engine-drivers needed,’ Dame Beatrice mildly observed. ‘Engine-driving seems bound to become an overcrowded profession (if Doctor Beeching has his way with the railways) and the sensible thing would be to avoid it.’

  ‘What do you suggest Hamish should do, then?’ asked Laura, still amused.

  ‘I have often thought,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘that (so long as one was assured of a small but regular remittance from home) the pursuit of beach-combing has much to recommend it.’

  ‘Beach-combing?’ said Laura thoughtfully. ‘It must be the ideal life, if you’re gifted that way. But Hamish would be bored. He’s so horribly energetic. I can’t think why, I’m sure. I’m as lazy as Hall’s dog, and Gavin’s idea of relaxation and bliss is to sit in a deckchair and smoke a pipe while somebody else mows the lawn. Well, never mind. What were we talking about before we talked about Hamish?’

  ‘Bats and long hair, dear child.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Have we exhausted the subject? I think we must have done, if we’ve been reduced to talking about my son.’

  They drove back to Valkenburg. It was about eight miles away, and a holiday town, in a district optimistically entitled ‘the Dutch Alps.’ Dame Beatrice had been instructed on no account to leave it out of her itinerary. She and Laura, therefore, had planned to stay in Valkenburg a matter of several days. Dame Beatrice wanted to collate her lecture-notes, with a view to incorporating them in a book she had been writing, off and on, for the past six or seven years, and Laura, who had offered to help with this project, was bidden to enjoy the scenery and to walk, ride and climb.

  Laura was loath to leave her employer. They sat all morning on the terrace of the hotel. It overlooked the rocky gorge of the River Geul and from it Laura could gaze across the tree-clad valley to the mild green hills beyond the church. Dame Beatrice sat at a small table and wrote her book, pausing only for morning coffee, at which point she reiterated her command that Laura should go out and enjoy herself.

  ‘All right. I’ll go out immediately after lunch,’ Laura promised. ‘Meanwhile, I’m quite content to lounge about here and look at the view and attempt to sum up our fellow-guests.’

  No sooner had she said this than it was borne in upon her that some of these fellow-guests were old acquaintances, for out on to the terrace came Binnen, escorted by Florian and followed by Opal and Ruby.

  They saw Laura at once, and came towards her. Laura, zealous to preserve Dame Beatrice’s peace and quiet, went to meet them, greeted them with as much warmth as she could muster and led them to a table where they would be (she hoped) out of earshot of her employer. Dame Beatrice, conscious of this kindly manoeuvre, settled again to her writing. Laura collected a passing waiter and suggested cocktails. The family elected to drink Dutch gin.

  ‘So you came to our beloved Valkenburg,’ said the heavily-built Opal. ‘That is so nice. Nobody should miss it.’

  ‘Professor van Zestien told us the same thing,’ said Laura. ‘It is very beautiful here.’

  ‘You must visit the grotto,’ said Ruby, who, in contrast to her sister, was so extraordinarily thin that Laura concluded she must take after her father’s side of the family.

  ‘We saw the grotto at Maastricht,’ said Laura. ‘Is this one as good?’

  Florian said, before his aunt could answer:

  ‘I shall go there with you this afternoon and you can judge for yourself.’ He glanced across at Dame Beatrice. ‘Just the two of us,’ he added.

  ‘No, no,’ exclaimed Opal. ‘This afternoon you return to Amsterdam for your sitting. His portrait-bust,’ she explained, turning to Laura. ‘Binnie is there to be with you and encourage you,’ she added to Florian.

  ‘That can wait,’ said Florian. ‘I did not know we should meet Mrs Gavin here.’

  Laura felt certain that this was a lie, since she had heard Dame Beatrice outline her plans at the dinner in Amsterdam.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said firmly, ‘but I haven’t the slightest intention of visiting the grotto this afternoon. That also can wait.’ She gestured towards the table at which Dame Beatrice was working. ‘I may be needed, you see.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot you were in paid employment,’ said Florian, spitefully, and with his wolfish smile.

  ‘As it is paid,’ retorted Laura, ‘I feel that I must honour my obligations instead of rushing off without finding out whether my services are required. And now let’s have another drink. I think my emoluments will stand the strain. Same again for everybody?’

  Florian got up, gave his chair an irritable shove which sent it cannoning into the table, and took himself off.

  ‘Spoilt,’ said Binnen. ‘I apologise on his behalf. He does not want to have his head done.’

  ‘No, he wants it looked at,’ thought Laura, ‘and then smacked.’ But she did not express these theories aloud. She ordered a round of drinks and the talk turned on the Colwyn-Welch plans for the immediate future. The professors had been forthcoming about their family history at the lunch which Dame Beatrice had attended at the close of the Conference, but the Colwyn-Welch women were even more agreeable to discussing their home affairs.

  ‘Now that there is this bus
iness of Binnie and Bernardo,’ said Binnen, taking an appreciative sip of her gin, ‘Florian will probably leave his grandfather’s house until after the wedding. He does not like Bernardo and has no wish to see dear little Binnie married.’

  ‘To Bernardo in particular?’ asked Laura.

  ‘That, of course, but he says he does not wish to see her married at all. He thinks that, at nineteen, she is not old enough to be married.’

  ‘Our uncle van Zestien is in favour of the match,’ said Opal. ‘There is money in the Rose family. Our cousin, Maarte van Zestien, married Bernardo’s father, Sigismund Rose, and that with the full approval of both families. Diamonds, you see. The two businesses are connected.’

  ‘Diamonds are all very well,’ said Binnen, ‘but they do not grow, as bulbs do. There is money in bulbs, just as there is in diamonds, but a nicer way to earn it.’ She went on to talk of bulbs, bulb-growing and bulb marketing. When she paused, her daughter Opal said:

  ‘To me, Florian is like the flower of the hyacinth.’

  ‘Yes, a Delft Blue,’ agreed her sister. ‘That is why I would have preferred a painted portrait rather than a piece of sculpture. If we could find a good painter, I would pay for the portrait myself, if I could possibly afford it.’

  ‘No, no! A bust gives a much better likeness,’ protested Opal. ‘Besides, our mother, who is paying, prefers a bust, do you not, Mamma? But I wish to pay.’

  ‘While I live you have only what I am good enough to give you out of your father’s money,’ said Binnen. ‘After my death, you will have a fortune, both of you. If you sell my bulb-fields… as I suppose you will… you may even have quite a large fortune. I do not know what the land and goodwill may fetch, but my brother, your uncle Bernard van Zestien, will help you. Our family business was in bulbs until Bernard sold his share and went into the diamond trade, but he still understands our tulips and hyacinths and, to a lesser extent, our crocuses, daffodils and gladioli. You will go to him for advice.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mamma,’ said Ruby; but Opal merely shrugged, as though in complete disagreement with this counsel. Almost immediately after this, lunch was announced. The Colwyn-Welch family moved away and Laura waited beside Dame Beatrice while the latter finished off a paragraph.