‘Why not, for God’s sake? It isn’t exactly prehistoric.’
‘Because now you are retired from practice,’ the dean emphasized. ‘Completely retired. You do not operate. You do not see a single patient. You do not even appear inside the walls of St Swithin’s. You are absolutely retired.’
‘H’m.’
‘And anyway, the gossip alone, if it got about, would not be a nice thing for a man of the integrity, the devotion to duty, the status – and, if I may add, the arrogance, stubbornness and intolerance – of yourself.’
Sir Lancelot gave a sigh. ‘Blackmail?’
‘That is not the word which I should use. But I suppose it is,’ the dean added cheerfully.
There was a pause. ‘All right. I’ll get out. I’ll take Tottie and keep out of your hair.’
‘Very wise of you indeed, I think.’
‘You mentioned a while ago about a free world cruise–’
‘That offer is now closed,’ said the dean firmly.
‘We’ll go from honeymoon back to Wales, I suppose,’ Sir Lancelot said gloomily. ‘At least I shall be able to get some fishing.’
The dean rose. ‘Now I must be about my duties. This has been painful for me, Lancelot, very painful. I will bid you good morning. Tomorrow it will be good-bye.’
‘There’s just one thing, Dean.’
‘Yes?’
‘If you breathe one word about that affair to anyone, I really believe I shall slit your blasted throat with a bone-saw.’
The dean looked hurt. ‘Come, Lancelot. Surely you can trust my discretion? After all, we’re lifelong friends, aren’t we?’
25
Everyone in the dean’s household was up early the next day, except Sir Lancelot. The dean himself appeared in his best suit, rubbing his hands and beaming at a disruption which, on normal mornings, would have incited outbursts comparable to King Lear. He had grudgingly agreed some days before to the wedding-reception being held in his home – Sir Lancelot disliked hotels, and anyway thought it a neat way to keep down the onlookers. Miss MacNish and Josephine had been almost continually in the kitchen for forty-eight hours, and now the large dining-room was emptied of its normal furniture to contain a pair of long tables covered with stiff white cloths. One bore various succulent canapés and a small wedding cake, the other glasses for champagne. Breakfast for himself, the dean saw, would be a cup of coffee in the kitchen or nothing at all. But he didn’t care. That morning Sir Lancelot was going. For good.
‘Nothing like a wedding for setting the womenfolk in a twitter,’ he remarked to Josephine, giving the dining-room a genial glance. ‘Even though the bridegroom is of retirement age and the bride old enough to know better. What a curiously standardized form of human nourishment these little cocktail things are,’ he added, picking up a square of toast with a slice of egg and two tips of asparagus on it. ‘One gets exactly the same at receptions in New York or Buenos Aires or Melbourne or Tokyo.’ He swallowed it. ‘I must write a letter to The Times about that some day.’
‘Lionel!’ exclaimed his wife excitedly. ‘I’ve got some – oh, please don’t eat any more of those canapés, we’ve hardly enough to go round as it is – I’ve got some simply wonderful news.’
‘You’ve heard? Yes, it’s splendid, isn’t it?’
‘Then you’ve heard? And you agree?’
‘Of course I agree. I’ve been working towards that precise end for weeks.’
‘Have you? That’s funny. I rather sensed you disapproved of the whole idea.’
‘What on earth put that in your head? We shall get a little peace at last when he’s left our family circle.’
‘Of course, he’s a bit noisy sometimes. But we shall miss him dreadfully, of course.’
‘Miss him? Oh, yes! like the garbage when the dustmen empty it on Monday mornings.’
‘Lionel! What a – please don’t eat any more of those – what a way to talk about your own son.’
‘I didn’t even mention my own son,’ he told her irritably. ‘I mean Lancelot.’
‘You seem absolutely obsessed with Lancelot. Do please listen to me for a moment. They want to get married.’
‘Of course they do. What do you imagine this banquet is for?’
‘I mean George wants to marry Inga.’
‘Does he indeed? We’ll soon see about that. What’s the little fool going to live on? He’ll not have a penny from me. And he won’t get very fat on that drivel he writes for television. He’ll go on the buses, I presume. I shouldn’t think even Inga will stand for that.’
‘Why are you always so horrible about little Inga?’
‘Well, she can’t expect much. She told me her father was a match-seller in Stockholm. Almost a beggar, I suppose.’
‘I do wish you’d make allowance for the poor girl’s English. He sells his Swedish matches by the hundred million. Every day.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘And there’s another point. Inga won’t look at him unless he sticks to medicine. She’s got sense, you see. She wants him to have a nice steady job.’ Josephine laughed. ‘She’d make a wonderful doctor’s wife. She’s even antiseptic to look at, isn’t she?’
The newly-engaged pair, listening outside, felt it the moment to enter the dining-room, holding hands and looking sheepish.
‘Then I’m delighted,’ the dean decided. In his mood that morning he could have been delighted had his son announced he was going to marry Sarah Gamp. ‘Yes, you have my blessing, as they used to say in the days when children took parents into their confidence about such things. Well, well! Fancy you getting married, George. I never credited you with the initiative. Now you are taking unto yourself a wife, you must steady up, take a serious and sober view of life. There’s nothing frivolous or amusing about marriage, you know.’
‘Yes, Dad. So you say.’
‘I must confess, I have often wished you possessed some of the commonsense and social responsibility shown by your sister Muriel–’
Miss MacNish appeared in the room. ‘Doctor, three policemen have just arrived.’
‘Policemen? I didn’t send for any policemen. To control the traffic outside, I suppose. Must be Lancelot’s doing. Gross extravagance. You don’t get them free, you know, you have to pay. Tell them to go away.’
‘I did, Doctor. But they won’t.’
‘What impertinence. Say we don’t want their services, it was all a mistake. I shall write to Scotland Yard about it.’
‘They have a search warrant, Doctor.’
The dean went rigid. ‘Search warrant? But there must be some mistake…’
‘You’d better ask them in and get it over. Before Lancelot gets down,’ said Josephine grimly.
‘Yes, yes, show them in,’ said the dean, nervously picking up a triangle of smoked salmon on brown bread and swallowing it.
There were two policemen in uniform, politely removing their helmets. The other was a thick-set young man in plain clothes.
‘Afraid we’ve disrupted a party, sir,’ he said cheerfully, waving an identity card in the dean’s direction.
‘But this…this is a gross violation of the liberty of the subject.’
‘I know how you feel, sir. We won’t keep you long. I’d like a word with Miss Muriel Lychfield, of this address.’
‘My daughter? But why?’
‘I have a warrant for her arrest, sir.’
‘Oh!’ cried Josephine.
‘What is happening?’ Inga asked George nervously. ‘Will they now beat-up your father?’
Muriel at that moment came through the door with a tray of asparagus in brown-bread overcoats.
‘They’ve come to take you off to prison,’ said the dean.
She dropped the tray. She clapped her hands over her mouth. The detective drew from his raincoat pocket a small silver object shaped like an elephant. ‘This your property, miss?’ She could say nothing. He turned to the dean. ‘Or yours, sir?’
‘Never seen it befor
e in my life. I don’t even know what it is.’
‘It’s a silver sugar caster, of distinctive shape.’ The detective turned it over. ‘Quite thoughtfully pretty really. I’m rather interested in antiques. We get quite a variety through our hands, as you’d expect, one way and another.’
‘What is this all about?’ the dean demanded.
‘Daddy,’ said Muriel. ‘I’ve been a fool.’
‘Will you answer a few questions first, sir?’
‘Anything you like.’ The dean clasped his forehead. ‘My God! My knight–’
‘Yes?’
‘My – “my nightshirt”. It’s an expression. I use it sometimes.’
The detective looked at him curiously. ‘We received a complaint last night from a Lady Blaydon – are you all right, sir?’
‘Yes, yes. A little dizzy.’
‘Should I call a doctor?’
‘I am one, damn it.’
‘Sorry, sir. Just forgetting for the moment. Lady Blaydon stated that a man named Albert Duttle called at her flat yesterday afternoon on the pretext of selling antiques. When he left, this property was missing.’
‘Albert Duttle? Never heard of him.’
‘Oh, Daddy!’ said Muriel. ‘I have been a fool.’
‘But he knows your daughter, sir.’
‘Muriel! It can’t be? Surely not?’
‘Oh, Daddy! I’ve been a bloody fool.’
‘Everyone’s gone mad.’ The dean leant against the wall. Josephine put her arm round him. ‘Perhaps I’m dreaming it? Yes, I’m dreaming it. The Queen’s going to cut my head off.’
The detective looked puzzled. ‘It’s a serious offence, sir, but not as serious as that.’
‘But how did our daughter get mixed up in all this?’ asked Josephine.
‘We easily traced Duttle to a crummy little antique shop he runs. He’s one of our regulars. We found the missing property. It seems your daughter had conspired with him in stealing it.’ The detective took a manila envelope from his inside pocket. Extracting a visiting card, he handed it silently to the dean.
‘That’s my card, all right. Undeniably. But I certainly never wrote that. It isn’t my writing. It–’ He looked in alarm at Muriel.
‘Oh, Daddy! I’ve been such a bloody awful fool.’
‘Looks like a clear case,’ the detective said with satisfaction. ‘I expect we’ll have you, too, Doctor. Accessory before the fact.’
The dean started waving his arms about. ‘All right. Arrest me. Arrest us all. Imprison and disgrace the lot of us. Kick me into the gutter. Only someone tell me one thing. Why has a sensible level-headed girl like my daughter suddenly started consorting with the lowest criminals?’
‘It was Sir Lancelot,’ said Muriel. ‘He said I should help Albert in his work. I stayed away from the hospital one morning specially to ask his advice. It was the day he told George to hide naked under the Minister’s desk.’
The dean was vaguely aware of a young man pushing into the room.
‘It was my fault,’ announced the newcomer. ‘I accept all blame. It was my idea to go ahead with the plot, and I’m prepared to take the consequences.’
The dean stared. ‘You’re not Duttle. You’re Summerbee.’ A thought struck him. ‘Or do you work under an alias?’
‘I didn’t really come to confess, sir. But as the police are involved, I’m prepared to give myself up.’
‘But you’re always taking the bloody blame, damn it. What are you, boy? Some kind of masochist?’
‘About the kidnapping, sir.’
‘Kidnapping?’ The detective looked up.
‘Also, sir, I want to tell you this – the way you treat your daughter would make a Victorian novel look like Candy. And furthermore, I intend to put a stop to it by taking her off to live with me. But I’ll marry her first, if she really wants to.’
‘Terry, darling!’ They grabbed each other. ‘How could I have been so blind? I was mad, mad! Terry, how I love you!’
The dean reached out a shaking hand for an anchovy on a strip of toast, and munched it with an abstracted air. ‘I shall kill myself,’ he muttered. ‘Bingham can have the bits.’
‘Hello! The party started already? You might at least have held your horses till the ceremony was over, Dean. What have you got the house full of policemen for? If you imagine there’s valuable wedding presents to guard, I’m afraid everyone will be sadly mistaken. No breakfast, I suppose? Then I fancy I’ll settle for a glass of champagne. George, be a good fellow and open a bottle in the ice-bucket. You know how, I presume, without drowning the lot of us? I say, that’s Sergeant Morgan-Jones, isn’t it? Quite forgot you were in the plain-clothes branch. How’s the old hernia?’
‘Fine, Sir Lancelot. Never a moment’s trouble since you fixed it at St Swithin’s.’
‘Must have been about the last case before I retired. Still playing rugger?’
‘Putting on a bit of weight now, I’m afraid, sir.’
‘Damn good three-quarter you were for the Metropolitan Police. Shocking booze-up we had when you gave the St Swithin’s fifteen a hiding that season, wasn’t it? How on earth do you manage to get back from the ground these days of the breathalyser? Borrow a black maria for the evening, I suppose–’
‘Lancelot,’ croaked the dean. ‘Help me.’
‘I say, Dean, you don’t look very well. That electric blanket been playing you up, or something?’
‘Something awful has happened. I face the prospect of a criminal charge.’
‘Really? Well, that’s not a nice thing for a man of the integrity, the devotion to duty, the position – and, if I may add, the miserliness, deviousness and selfishness – of yourself.’
‘You must help me.’
‘Not much time, really. In an hour I’m getting married. Then I’m on my honeymoon and then I’m retiring to Wales. But do send me a postcard to say how the trial turns out.’
‘Lancelot, you must not leave London. Only you can save me.’
‘Damnation, man, do you want to exile me or keep us both on as lodgers? At least make up your mind.’ He took a glass of champagne from George. ‘Good morning, Grimsdyke,’ he added genially as the young doctor came in, holding Stella by the hand. ‘To what do I – or rather the dean – owe this unexpected visit?’
‘We’re getting married, sir, at the same registry office. In fact, we’re next on the bill to you. I thought it would be a bit of a laugh if we all went along together.’
‘A very pleasant idea. Have some champagne. The rest of you look as though you could do with a glass, too. Not you and your men, I suppose, Sergeant, either on duty or in training? George, you’d better open another bottle. My dear Tottie, how nice to see you. Though shouldn’t I by rights only set eyes on you at the registry office? Otherwise it’s seven years’ bad luck, or something, I believe.’
‘Lancelot.’ She ignored everyone in the room. ‘I’ve got to speak to you. In private.’
‘Then let’s step into the dean’s study next door. It’s getting horribly crowded in here, anyway. Do you mind if I bring my champagne?’
They went into the small study next door. ‘Lancelot–’
‘You look awfully smart, Tottie. Wedding-gear suits you.’
‘That’s the point, Lancelot. There isn’t going to be a wedding.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Oh, Lancelot!’ She started to cry. ‘How can I do this to you?’
‘Come, come.’ He offered his red-and-white handkerchief. ‘Tell me the trouble. Are you married already, or somesuch?’
‘Almost.’ She shook her head miserably. ‘You know when I left St Swithin’s for America? I ended up working in an expensive private clinic in Los Angeles. It was there I met Eric Cavendish, as a patient.’
‘You told me this when we all three had dinner after that students’ prank.’
‘But what I didn’t tell you was that we lived together afterwards.’
‘I see.’
�
��Until we had a row, and I went back to nursing.’
‘I see.’
‘The row was about women. Young women. Very young women. Eric has a sort of kink about them. I don’t know what the psychologists call it, a Lolita complex or something. I managed to restrain him. Only I managed to restrain him. Once he was loose from me, he got into all sorts of trouble. There’s no knowing where it might end.’
‘I see.’
They stood looking at each other.
‘Now his wife’s divorced him at last, I want to marry him, Lancelot.’
‘Forgive me for putting it this way, Tottie, but to become a sort of psychiatric nurse-cum-wardress? It doesn’t sound a great deal of fun.’
‘No, Eric’s changing. I think he only chases girls to prove his virility. Surely I could do that for him.’
‘I’m quite certain you could.’
‘And I love him. I always did. All the time, even when I was back at St Swithin’s trying to forget everything.’
‘It would be excessively churlish of me to stand in your way.’
‘Lancelot, you’re wonderful.’
‘Oh, come. An ordinary sort, really. But I do have my principles.’
‘How can I possibly repay you?’
‘Perhaps you have already?’ He smiled. ‘That was a delightful week in Le Touquet.’
She smiled too. ‘We had fun, didn’t we? Even dancing! That tune you made them play – what was it? From the musical, Guys and Dolls – I remember, “I’ve Never Been In Love Before”.’
‘A sentimental air.’
‘Lancelot – whatever happens…whatever you may think of me…please believe me when I thank you for…perhaps the most charming and most thrilling week of my whole life.’
‘I am touched.’
‘Now perhaps I’d better simply disappear. Eric has his car waiting. Neither you nor anyone in the hospital will ever set eyes on me again.’
Sir Lancelot bent over to kiss her. Then she turned and hurried out of the house.
He returned to the dining-room. ‘More champagne. Come on, George, jump to it. You’re not opening bottles like a St Swithin’s student at all.’
‘What is it, Lancelot?’ asked Josephine. ‘Some wonderful piece of news?’
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