Our pool had disappeared. Twelve feet of water were raging where we had lain beside it three months ago. But the meadow was at our disposal, smooth and gay and secluded – a true Horatian lawn. As I have hinted before, the oaks and the hedges about it gave it an English air, and, late in the year though it was, a lizard was sunning himself on the slates of its jolly barn.
Jill and I strolled past this, while the others were arguing where we should eat our lunch.
As we looked up at the heights—
“Shall you ever forget that day when young de Moulin got stuck?”
“Never,” said Jill. “We nearly went home that day. I suppose we didn’t really. I mean, ever since then we’ve had such a glorious time. The house and the site and those three months at Lally, and the thought that we’re going to live there… You must admit it smacks of some future life.”
“It does,” I said. “But I think that’s because we’ve walked out of the world we know. The world we know’s gone down hill. Once it was very fine, but now it’s – well, meretricious. Nothing but money counts. Love and beauty and genius – they all take second place. And manners are dying out. And we have left that world and stumbled on Arcady. Well, of course we find it heaven. Remember that picture you took – of the threshing-floor above Mose, and the three men standing there with flails in their hands?”
“Very well. It was the most perfect evening I ever saw.”
“I’ve a print of that in my note-case. I’m going to show it to them when they pull my leg at the Club.”
“‘As they did in the golden world’?”
“Well, you should know,” said I. “That’s where you belong.”
That, I think, was true. Yet those of the golden world belong wherever they go. When, exactly five days later, I found my small cousin at the top of St James’s Street, discussing Walt Disney with an Inspector of Police and looking ‘a million dollars’ and more than that, I stopped to suggest that she should join me for lunch.
“At your Club? I’d love to. This is my cousin, Inspector. Boy, Inspector Randal agrees with me. That Walt Disney should do Aesop’s Fables. And isn’t it funny, his mother was born at Brooch. And he used to go and stay there when he was a little boy.”
We spoke for a minute or two before some traffic confusion returned the Inspector to duty and cut the acquaintance short.
Having seen Jill into the Annexe, I passed through into the Club to see what letters there were. On my way through the hall, I stopped to look at the tape. As I turned away, Jonah strolled up to my side.
“Read that,” he said.
‘That’ was a telegram which had been forwarded from Pau.
Aunt Mary left Dover for Paris this Sunday afternoon.
In silence I handed it back.
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Jonah. “We couldn’t have done anything. But did you tell Shapely that we were coming home?”
“Yes,” I said. “I said we’d be back for Christmas.”
Jonah nodded.
“I thought you must have,” he said.
12
In Which Daphne Comes by Her Own,
and Paradise is Lost
Before we returned to France, Falcon dined at the Club, with Jonah and me.
After dinner we sat in the silent smoking-room.
“Shapely returned,” said Falcon, “two days ago. He’s been away exactly three weeks. That he has met Tass in that time, I have no shadow of doubt. But I can do nothing about it, but watch and pray. The Home Office is furious. One of His Majesty’s Judges wilfully and wickedly murdered, yet no arrest! But the French are adamant. Had we dreamed that they’d stick in their toes, we should have acted first and asked afterwards: but now that we’ve asked their permission, and they have refused, we cannot take that line – in case they should discover that we’re going behind their back.”
“You’re perfectly sure that Tass doesn’t write to Shapely?”
“I don’t think so,” said Falcon. “God knows what it’s costing to watch his correspondence, but he never gets a letter that hasn’t been read.”
“Accommodation address?”
Falcon shook his head.
“He’s watched incessantly.”
“Banking Account?”
“He has an account in Paris: we can’t check that.”
“What I don’t understand,” said I, “is how Shapely can count on Tass not to let him down? Of course he’s warned him on no account to write. But Tass has got his address; and a man like that might easily get fed up and write a letter which he thought was quite all right.”
“He hasn’t so far,” said Falcon. “If we could produce such a letter, the French would give way.”
“My cousin,” said Jonah, “is right. Sooner or later Shapely will have trouble with Tass. I don’t know what form it will take, but one day it will dawn upon Tass that he’s had a raw deal. And then the balloon will go up. Till then, you can do nothing – except what you’re doing now.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Falcon. He leaned back and covered his eyes. “I never saw such a case. All the cards in our hand, and we can’t play one. And Time’s against us, you know. Suppose that after a year Tass takes the bit in his teeth. And we get him – and Shapely, accessory after the fact. I’m not at all sure that a jury would send them down. Juries don’t like cold murder. And witnesses are less certain. And think of the play that defending counsel would make with the lapse of time.”
“All that you say,” said Jonah, “is painfully true. But you’re up against one of those walls that no one can climb. It’s the damnedest misfortune, Falcon…”
“I wish you could have seen the Chief, sir.”
“So do I. But I couldn’t have done any good. If I could have, I would have waited. You say he’ll be back next week?”
“I think he’s sailing on Friday.”
“Well, give him my compliments, Falcon. And my address. You never know.”
That night, when I was alone, I thought over what Falcon had said. Only one thing stood out, and that was the length of time that Shapely had spent away. Three weeks. Three days would have been sufficient, if he had gone to meet Tass. And then I perceived that Shapely had done no more than take ordinary care. He had almost been caught in September, and that had shaken him up. No more flying visits for him. A fortnight at Pau, playing golf and bridge and doing as visitors do. And one or two drives perhaps, to look at the countryside. Then, perhaps, a visit to Biarritz of three or four days. And so to Paris and England… Yes, that was how it was done. All the same, I was perfectly sure that his meeting with Tass had been anything but cordial. Lying low is a rotten business, and the standard of life by Orthez is very much lower than that of the English countryside. Shapely could give him money, but what was the use of that? You cannot spend money, when you are lying low. I felt it was a question of waiting. Sooner or later, Tass would lose patience and let the two of them in.
We reached Pau at eight in the morning – a really beautiful morning – all blue and gold. And we were all at the site before mid-day.
Great progress had been made. The whole of the ground floor was finished – the walls, I mean. And the tiles had been delivered. And so had the baths and basins and things like that. These were all stored in what we had come to call ‘the guardroom’ – that is to say, the great chamber under the house.
The stem of the T had been floored with six inches of concrete: this, of course, was resting upon the soil.
Around the stem of the T, between the house and the semi-circular wall, ran a passage four feet wide. This was floored with concrete and very slightly sloped, to carry surface water away.
“You’ve really done wonderfully, Joseph.”
Joseph bowed.
“Madame is very kind: but the weather has helped a great deal. Only two days of snow. And now they foretell a mild spring. We have much to be thankful for.”
“And the damp-course?” said I.
“
I wish that Monsieur could have seen it. It went against the grain to cover it up. Such a course has not been laid in the Basses Pyrénées. Three inches of asphalt, Monsieur. Applied all smoking hot. Not one centimetre escaped. Exactly according to the pictures in Monsieur’s book. Madame need have no concern – her house will be dry.”
“When will you start the ceiling?”
“Tomorrow morning, Monsieur. The wood and the steel are here and the tiles are to come.”
(In fact, the tiles were not tiles. They were made of clay, as are tiles, but they resembled nothing that I have ever seen. They were roughly the shape of a flat-iron, the handle of which is bent sideways, to form a crook. So they could be hung in a row on a rod of steel. That was, of course, their function. Except for the cut for the stairs, the whole of the ground floor was to be ceiled with wood. Upon this wood the ‘tiles’ would be laid in rows, until the wood was hidden beneath a great sheet of tiles. Then the steel would be laid and tied across and across: but certain rods would be run beneath the crooks of the tiles. When all was ready, thin concrete would be run in; and, once this concrete had set, those tiles would hang there for ever and nothing would make them move. Then the wood would be taken away, and the ground floor would have its ceiling, and the first floor would have its floor – water-proof, fire-proof and sound-proof – a good idea.)
“All will be ready, then, by the end of this week?”
“Before then, Monsieur. Say Friday. But when we can run in the concrete, I cannot say. That will depend on the weather. It is, of course, the platform over again. But the risk, for obvious reasons, is very much less. For one thing only, the job can be done in one day.”
That night, in our flat after dinner, we discussed for the last time certain documents. All things considered, it was likely that, if indeed they were ever discussed again, such discussion would not take place for several hundred years.
The first was a skin of parchment which I had had engrossed.
The statement it bore ran as follows:
THIS HOUSE was built in the years of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and thirty-seven and thirty-eight:—
(1) to the order and under the supervision of
Bertram Pleydell, JP,
Daphne, his wife,
Jill, Duchess of Padua, his cousin,
Jonathan Mansel, DSO, his cousin,
and Boy Pleydell, MC, his cousin and brother-in-law, all late of White Ladies in the County of Hampshire and all British subjects by birth:
(2) by Henri and Jean Lafargue, builders and contractors of Pau in the Basses Pyrénées.
Their foreman, Joseph Condé, was directly responsible for the construction. He built well and knew his mystery.
The plumber was Felix Arripe, also of Pau.
The electrician was Jean Carol, also of Pau.
The tiler was Georges Lavarini, also of Pau.
And many lesser men, especially masons, contributed to the excellence of the work.
‘Except the Lord build the house, their labour is but lost that build it.’
The second was a copy of The Times containing an account of His Majesty’s Coronation.
The third was a copy of Punch’s Almanac.
The fourth was a menu of the Savoy Hotel for New Year’s Eve.
The fifth was an advance copy of White Ladies – a dignified tribute to what had once been our home.
And the sixth was that remarkable production the catalogue of the Army and Navy stores.
I need hardly say that the last was Berry’s idea. He was, of course, perfectly right. Few things will be of more interest a thousand years hence.
When we had finished, we put them into the canister which had been specially made.
As I fitted the top—
“Where exactly will it lie?” said my sister.
“To the right of and above the front door.”
“And it’s going in tomorrow?”
“As soon as the men have gone: at a quarter past twelve. Joseph and the master mason will do the job. No one else knows anything about it. I shall take it to the garage tomorrow and under my eyes the lid will be soldered on. Joseph has some tar at the site, and, before it goes in, it will be coated with tar. I can’t think of anything else.”
“That price list will fetch them,” said Berry. “I mean, when the canister’s found, five million years hence. It’ll rank with the Rosetta Stone.”
“But they’re sure to have others,” said Daphne. “Not many, perhaps. I think it’s a brilliant idea. But some museum will have one.”
“There won’t be any museums,” said Berry. “When the world catastrophe comes, all the museums will go. Destruction will be the watchword. But this house’ll take some destroying. And no one will know that there’s anything valuable there. And so the list will survive – to illumine a happier age. Antiquarians will be transported. Fancy knowing what a sink-basket looked like before the Sphinx was designed!”
“I suppose,” said Jill, “I suppose they’ll know what it is. They may be so far advanced that they’ll think it’s a book for children. I know I used to love it when I was very small. In fact, I love it now.”
“Let them think what they like,” said Berry. “Anyway, if Christies put up a hoop belonging to William Rufus, America’d buy it for a hundred thousand pounds.”
“We might,” said Jonah, “have put in a dictionary.”
“Let them do a spot of work,” said Berry. “We mustn’t spoil the brutes. Damn it, we’re presenting them with something which is above all price. The least they can do is to set up a monument to us. Perhaps we’d better suggest it. An outsize pyramid would do – with our names in six-foot letters about the base.”
“Let us,” said Daphne, “leave it to their good taste. Besides, I should hate to think that my name was plastered up somewhere, for everybody to read.”
Berry smiled.
“It won’t matter then, darling,” he said.
I was half undressed that night when Berry came into my room.
“I have here a trifle,” he said, “which might go into that box. I don’t really want it read, until the box is opened in eighty-nine twenty-two. But you’d always be uneasy, if you didn’t know what I’d said. So read it, and shove it in. But for God’s sake keep your mouth shut. I’m not in the habit of wearing my heart on my sleeve.”
As the door closed behind him, I opened the envelope.
The words had been written by a master – on parchment ten inches by eight. Blue and gold and scarlet lighted the lovely thing. The initial letter alone must have taken two days to produce.
THE LADY OF THE HOUSE.
DAPHNE PLEYDELL would have distinguished any age. A famous beauty, she steadfastly refused to allow any picture of herself to appear in the public prints. As the hostess of White Ladies, as of her London home, she displayed an efficiency, dignity and charm seldom encountered severally, never together. Her servants worshipped her; men, old and young, were proud to sit at her feet; all women bore her goodwill. She was all things to one man – her husband. Gentle in fair weather, gallant in foul; gay, resolute; honest, wise and kind, she was for all time a model of excellence.
When I had read it through twice, I put it back in its envelope – thoughtfully. Then I opened the canister and slid the envelope in…
The next day this was immured, and its lodgment was sealed.
As Joseph had said, the ceiling was ready on Friday; and on the following Monday the concrete was run in. Mild, wet weather subscribed to the enterprise; and before the end of that week, the masons were building the walls of the floor above.
Because of the rarefied air, all masonry dried very fast. I do not mean to say that it dried too fast for its health; but a wall which in England would have taken three months to dry, would dry upon Evergreen in roughly a third of that time. This was more than convenient. Before the first floor was finished, the floor and walls of the ground floor were being tiled.
With the exception of the f
urnace-room, the floors of the stem of the T were to be wholly tiled. All white tiles would be used, with an edging of blue. And, except for the servants’ hall – and, of course, the furnace-room – all the walls of the stem of the T would be hung with glazed tiles to six feet above the floor.
“Strength through joy,” observed Berry, watching Lavarini at work.
I need hardly say that we all watched Lavarini at work. It was a fascinating spectacle. The tiles were bedded on sand and actually laid in cement. A very fine cement was washed over the area done: this filled in the joints: the surplus was washed from the tiles, before it could dry, and the tiles were then laid with saw-dust, soon to be brushed away. It seemed to us, looking on, that Lavarini worked largely by eye. Anyway, the result was perfect. I believe that you could have played billiards on any one of his floors. His walls were just as flawless. All his corners were rounded, and so was every angle, where wall met floor.
Perhaps I should have said that, before Lavarini began, the plumbers and electricians had laid their pipes.
Meanwhile the house was rising.
The weather could hardly have been more favourable. Mild, damp day was succeeding mild, damp day, and the tell-tale buckets of water never froze. Still, Joseph was taking no risks; and every night the masonry done was covered, in case of accidents.
Built of concrete blocks, the inside walls took next to no time to raise, and before the month of March had come in, all was ready for just such a ceiling as had been hung below.
So we surveyed the floor on which we should pass our nights.
We had no spare room. (‘Guest-room’ is very lovely, but ‘spare room’ is English and, therefore, ‘spare room’ will serve.) But it would have been very expensive to build an extra room, and it was not to be expected that all of us five would be together in residence all the year round. So the room of whoever was absent would serve the guest.
House That Berry Built Page 20