Ampersand Papers

by Michael Innes

  Lord Skillet, as became the dignity of his father’s immediate heir, enjoyed an independent establishment in a respectable manor-house a few miles from the castle. But being a legislator (at present of the elected, but eventually to be of the hereditary sort), he had to spend a good deal of his time in London: in addition to which he had various commitments, responsibilities and attractions (some of them not to be too curiously inquired into by his parents) in other parts of the country, and indeed of the globe. Of late, however, he had been round and about the castle a good deal, and had been showing what Lord Ampersand judged to be a laudable interest in the day-to-day running of the estate. Lady Ampersand had seen to it that a bedroom, bathroom and sitting-room were in permanent readiness for him should he be minded to pernoctate at Treskinnick: this since she had remarked that Archie and his father were prone to end an evening in a somewhat convivial way. Archie was a very fast, almost a reckless driver of high-powered cars, and it was undesirable that he should be let loose even on unfrequented country roads at too late an hour.

  This being the way the Digitts lived now, it wasn’t long before Archie was apprized of his aunt Agatha’s discovery about Adrian Digitt and his circles. If it wasn’t news to him (and his mother suspected it was not), it was news to his sisters – who proved to be not favourably impressed by it when the matter was eventually debated at a family dinner table. Lady Grace was two years younger than Lord Skillet, and a little prone to be at odds with him over anything that turned up. She had now served for some years on the County Council, and been active on sundry other public bodies as well; and what she judged to be her brother’s ineffectiveness and indeed incompetence as an MP irritated her a good deal. Lady Geraldine, two years younger again, generally followed her sister’s lead, but occasionally darted ahead of it. At the moment they were both taking the line that Adrian Digitt had probably been no credit to the family.

  ‘But, Grace,’ Lady Ampersand said pacifically, ‘the young man – of course he was once a young man – certainly died more than a hundred years ago. Nobody minds having quite shocking ancestors as long ago as that. In fact, everybody has.’

  ‘There is no reason to believe him to have been shocking, mama. But it does look as if he gave most of his time to cultivating friends and acquaintances who were perhaps all very well in their way. A literary and artistic way, and so forth. But for a Digitt it was most unsuitable. Geraldine, do you agree with me?’

  ‘Yes, Grace, of course I do. It seems not even to have been just a hobby. Was this Adrian in the army? Apparently not. Then he ought to have become a clergyman. If he was all that brainy he might have been made a bishop. As it is, I don’t think we ought to start a fuss about him.’

  ‘My dear children,’ Lord Skillet said lazily, ‘you are both talking the most terrible nonsense. The point is that there might be money in the chap. Aunt Agatha is quite right there. Adrian may have been a mere dilettante himself, contributing not at all to the public life of the country, and all that. He may never have peered into a Blue-book, or made a spirited speech about agricultural wages and tied cottages.’ Archie grinned wickedly at Grace. ‘But if he tagged around with Shelley and heaven knows who then he may have left one thing and another that could be turned into hard cash tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Archie?’ Lord Ampersand, who tended to turn somnolent towards the end of a meal, had sat up abruptly. ‘Did you say tomorrow?’

  ‘C’est une façon de parler, mon père.’ Archie knew that incomprehensible scraps of foreign languages annoyed his father. ‘But there’s a big snag, you know – so big that I doubt whether we need bother our heads about Adrian Digitt. Suppose he received, and preserved, no end of letters and what have you from Shelley, Byron, Wordsworth, Peacock – the lot. There’s not the slightest reason to suppose that the stuff is here at Treskinnick. Adrian was simply some younger son’s younger son. He may never have been near this place except for an occasional week during his school holidays.’

  ‘We seem to know nothing about him,’ Geraldine said. ‘So we may make one conjecture or another. Adrian may have judged it proper to deposit what he thought of as important papers with the head of the family.’

  ‘To be put in the muniment room,’ Lady Ampersand said. ‘I suppose they had one then, just as we have one now.’

  ‘We don’t have anything of the kind.’ Lord Skillet was suddenly impatient. ‘Calling it that is a joke. It’s just a big dump of useless family papers and general junk. Not that the prospect of its containing stuff of Adrian’s is any the less likely because of that. But it’s inherently unlikely.’

  ‘We can’t know till we look, Archie dear.’ Lady Ampersand offered this wise remark as she prepared to lead her daughters back to the drawing-room. ‘And you have been looking, haven’t you? At least you’ve been up and down that dreadful staircase quite a lot.’

  ‘I’ve rummaged, Mama.’ Archie rose to open the door, but not before he had replenished his glass with port. ‘I can’t say I’ve come upon a new canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.’

  ‘No, dear – but of course you may.’ Lady Ampersand was perhaps a little at sea over the meaning of this remark. ‘And do go on talking to your father about it. It may be important. Your aunt thinks so.’

  The ladies withdrew, and Archie brought up a chair beside Lord Ampersand. Ludlow, who had been privileged to listen in on the family confabulation so far, made certain ritual passes with decanters and the cigar-box, and withdrew. Father and son remained under the observation only of a few deceased Digitts – commemorated by artists too obscure to be of regard in the sale-rooms.

  ‘Total nonsense,’ Lord Skillet said. ‘I suppose you realize that?’

  ‘I’m not clear that I do. Of course I can’t stand your confounded Aunt Agatha. Never could. Has her head screwed on the right way, all the same. Have to give her that.’ Lord Ampersand was inclined to resent his son’s assumption that his son’s was the only brain within hailing distance of the Digitt family. ‘And Geraldine had a point, you know – which is rare enough with her, God knows. About our knowing nothing about this Adrian chap. He may have lived here in the castle all his days. People do, don’t they? Look at your sisters. Never out of the place for six months together. Hold meetings of Conservative washerwomen in the billiard-room.’ Dimly aware that he was rambling, Lord Ampersand paused to collect himself. ‘Adrian may even have brought Shelley and all that crowd to batten on the place. Rest-home for them when they grew tired of drinking champagne out of ballet-girls’ dancing-slippers.’

  ‘One certainly couldn’t keep that up for long.’ Archie, as he sometimes did, gazed at his father as if he were an exhibit in a zoo. ‘But it’s true we know nothing about this Adrian. I must have a go at finding out about him.’

  ‘Much more important to have a go at those damned papers. At least they’re now all in one place. And none of those Nosey-Parker fellows coming around any more.’

  ‘That’s certainly advantageous. But what you’re suggesting, you know, would be an uncommonly time-consuming job.’ Lord Skillet paused. ‘Still, I suppose I could manage it.’

  ‘Ah!’ Lord Ampersand paused too. ‘Would you know a letter of Shelley’s if you saw it, my boy?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I mean, I’d quickly learn to.’

  ‘No doubt you have the head for it.’ Lord Ampersand chose a cigar. ‘But I think we ought to have a pro.’

  ‘A pro?’ The heir of Treskinnick stared at his father in astonishment. ‘What do you mean, a pro?’

  ‘Fellow who does that kind of thing at the varsity. Or in one of those museums or libraries. Plenty of ’em, I don’t doubt. Your mother’s idea, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I think it’s quite unnecessary – a waste of money.’ Lord Skillet paused to study his father – but not, this time, as if he were in a zoo. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it might be worth the gamble. If he turned u
p just one letter of Shelley’s that another man might miss, he’d more than earn his keep for a couple of months.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Lord Ampersand was much impressed by this equation. ‘Advertisement in Country Life, eh? Where they have the nannies and married couples and young gentlewomen who can drive cars and so on.’

  ‘That would be just the thing.’ Lord Skillet paused meditatively, and then at leisure produced an afterthought. ‘Or look here – leave it to me for a bit. I’ll inquire around – and no expense involved. I may draw a blank, of course. But I may find just the right book-worm type.’

  ‘Capital plan!’ Lord Ampersand was constitutionally averse to small cash disbursements. ‘And no heel-taps, Archie. We’ll go and tell your mother.’

  4

  Our scene shifts to Budleigh Salterton, where Miss Deborah Digitt is giving young Charles Digitt tea. It may be recalled that Charles had formed a more favourable opinion of this mature lady’s intellectuals than had his cousin Lord Skillet; nevertheless it was perhaps surprising that he had thus sought out her company again. Charles had a profession. Indeed, he had nothing but a profession, since his father, the late Lord Rupert Digitt, had very successfully cantered and galloped and jumped and raced his patrimony into the English grass and English mud well before his untimely death. Charles did have before him, of course, the prospect of becoming Marquess of Ampersand one day. But he distrusted it. He had no reason to suppose Lord Skillet either incapable of, or indisposed towards, woman. And he judged him to be just the type that marries shortly before scrambling into his death bed, and there maliciously begets an heir when actually in articulo mortis. In addition to which, the business of becoming eighth marquess would probably prove to be nothing but a dead loss in the pecuniary way. So Charles had a profession. He was quite a busy young architect: too young, indeed, to be even up and coming, so far; but clearly of the kind that expeditiously achieves that reputation. It was to the credit of his family feeling, therefore, that he had thus found time to drink Mr Jackson’s Earl Grey tea with his obscure kinswoman.

  He was discovering – what he had perhaps glimpsed at their first meeting – that Miss Digitt was the family historian. She could have given Lord Ampersand points at thumbing over Burke and Debrett. She had a family tree hanging, not modestly in a wash-place, but prominently in the hall of her unremarkable villa. Her cats, which occupied most of the chairs in her drawing-room, were clearly pedigree cats. Even her aged maid-of-all-work was distinguishably of the pedigreed sort, wielding broom or carrying coal-scuttle in what might be termed an armigerous way.

  ‘Have you heard,’ Charles asked his hostess, ‘that there’s quite a to-do at Treskinnick over family papers?’

  ‘I hear very little from Treskinnick. It makes itself known to me chiefly as a smell.’

  ‘A smell, cousin?’ (Charles had decided that this somewhat archaic mode of address would gratify Miss Digitt. He had thoughts of presently abbreviating it to ‘coz’, which had a pleasant eighteenth-century ring.) ‘I don’t quite follow you.’

  ‘Pheasants. They don’t need to be hung. They have been – quite generously, and I presume by British Rail. Fortunately the cats are fond of pheasant. For venison they don’t greatly care. But I have persuaded Jane to cultivate a taste for it.’

  ‘I see. Well, the family papers don’t smell – except, perhaps, of mystery or mystification. Or even obfuscation.’ Charles had quickly discovered that Miss Digitt liked this sort of talk. ‘There are plenty of honest-to-God papers, as you can imagine. But the papers that my uncle and aunt have taken it into their heads to be busy about might be called notional ones. Nobody has glimpsed them, so far.’

  ‘It surprises me that they should care tuppence about them, whether notional or verifiably extant. Take a cress sandwich, Charles. I have been teaching Jane to grow cress on blotting-paper. My impression of the present Lord Ampersand is that he is well-meaning but scarcely well informed. He is thereby the less embarrassing to his wife, no doubt. Knowledge of any sort would readily confuse Lady Ampersand.’

  ‘It may well be so.’ Charles found that he was enjoying Miss Digitt – the more so because she was by no means all of a piece. Hidden beneath this acrid manner was something positively skittish. Or perhaps it should be called romantic. She was capable of being quite excited by the attentions of a personable young man. He wondered whether in her youth she had proved a worthy Digitt in some amorous way. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is true that my Aunt Lucy is no blue-stocking. But the woman has a bottom of good sense to her.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ Miss Digitt had greeted this further eighteenth-century touch with a malicious chuckle faintly reminiscent of Archie Digitt, Lord Skillet. ‘But tell me more about those notional papers.’ Miss Digitt was now curiously alert.

  ‘They’re supposed to be Adrian Digitt’s papers. I expect you know about him.’

  ‘I expect I conceivably do.’ Miss Digitt’s tone was suddenly freezing. It had been a bad slip-up to suggest that there could be doubt about the point. ‘A future marquess,’ Miss Digitt continued grimly, ‘might well make himself aware of Adrian’s place in the family – and even that he was my own great-grandfather.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I apologize for being so stupid.’

  ‘What you might excusably not know is that I am Adrian Diggit’s only surviving descendant. Legitimate descendant, that is. By-blows there undoubtedly were.’

  ‘That is most interesting.’ Charles paused thoughtfully – much as if he meant what he said. ‘Your great-grandfather must have been a most attractive, as well as most distinguished person. Everybody worth talking about admired him. It’s quite unaccountable that literary history hasn’t taken a harder look at him. As a link between two generations, for one thing – rather like Landor, wouldn’t you say? But of course that’s all Greek to the people at Treskinnick. Except, perhaps, to Archie. One can never quite tell about him.’

  ‘I have heard ill of Skillet’s morals.’

  ‘Come, come, coz! We mustn’t be censorious. Haven’t you got around in your time? It’s unbelievable that you haven’t.’

  This astonishingly bold speech went down well. The spinster behind her tea equipage actually blushed. But she came back at once to the matter in hand.

  ‘If the Ampersands take no interest in literature and the arts,’ she asked, ‘why should they concern themselves over the possible survival of some of Adrian Digitt’s papers?’

  ‘They reckon there might be money in them.’

  ‘Money?’ Miss Digitt repeated the word with hauteur. ‘Dear me.’

  ‘Yes – but quite a lot of money. And it may be perfectly true. People are beginning to pay for important literary manuscripts almost what they pay for scarce works of art. And your great-grandfather hasn’t been failing to attract interest – and even bring enquirers poking around Treskinnick. Scholars mostly, so far. But if anything is really turned up there, the collectors will quickly follow. Great institutions, too. American libraries, and so forth.’

  ‘My great-grandfather will be brought into the marketplace?’

  ‘Just that – and it’s what has made the Ampersands do the very odd thing they’ve done. I haven’t told you about it yet. Not all that time ago, they were considering the whole affair a nuisance, and they shoved every paper and document they could lay their hands on into as inaccessible a place as they could think up. But now somebody has put the money-notion into their heads, and they’ve decided to hire a professional archivist – if that’s what he’s to be called – to look into the entire mass of the stuff. I suppose he’s going to be put up in the castle, God help him.’

  ‘It is certainly odd.’ Miss Digitt said this frowning; she hadn’t quite liked to hear the hospitality of Treskinnick so brusquely aspersed. ‘And just where has this large accumulation of material been concentrated?’

  ‘At
the top of the North Tower.’

  ‘The North Tower!’ Miss Digitt was almost unaccountably startled.

  ‘Yes, it’s pretty mad. Only reached up that crazy wooden staircase. But that was just the original idea, and by way of disheartening tiresome visitors. I suppose they’ll bring it all down again now, and set this mole-like character to work on it in the library.’

  ‘The plum cake was baked by a reliable woman from whom I bought it at our church bazaar. Oblige me by trying it.’ Miss Digitt paused until her visitor had done as he was told and commended her on the wisdom of her purchase. ‘Charles,’ she then said, ‘you appear to me to be a reasonably sensible man. So be good enough to tell me whether you think this all nonsense.’

  ‘It can’t be done, cousin. I simply lack the information upon which to base any useful conjecture. But perhaps you don’t.’

  ‘Would it be useful to know where my great-grandfather died?’

  ‘Most decidedly it would.’

  ‘He died at the castle, where he had been living in retirement during his last years. His uncle, the second marquess, was a kindly man, and much attached to Adrian. Unfortunately he too died at almost the same time, and there were immediate family disputes of one sort and another. The particulars have not come down to me. However, the main point is clear. Adrian closed his life peacefully at Treskinnick Castle, while still devoting himself to ordering his remains.’